As a child watching the “Enjolie” perfume ad, I came to understand the phrase “I can bring home the bacon” to refer to a person’s earning potential.  But the reality is far more interesting. 

In the twelfth century, a church in the English town of Dunmow promised a side of bacon to any married man who could swear before the congregation and God that he had not quarreled with his wife for a year and a day.  A husband who could “bring home the bacon” was held in high esteem not because of the farthings he earned, but because of his patience in dealing with the day-to-day of a marital union.  Or possibly he brought home the bacon because he wasn’t a twit and as a consequence didn’t piss the missus off all year long.

At any rate, I think it is an awfully cute phrase origin, and my trip down memory lane has allowed me to come to terms with the impact ’70s cosmetic advertisements had on my notions about “having it all”.  Thanks, Revlon, for making me an overacheiver.

In the culinary world, a stage (pronounced like the second syllable of “garage”) is an unpaid period of work given in exchange for the opportunity to learn new techniques and gain experience at the side of a chef of greater experience.  It is a more sophisticated sounding name for an “internship” and although no more familiar to the uninitiated than “externship”, better because it is unique to the food service industry.  

When I walked into the prep kitchen at Prune this morning for my first shift, I was suited up in white pants (terrible, I’ve never worn a shade lighter than charcoal on my bottom in the past) and a diswasher shirt (if given the option, I’ll take short sleeve snap front over voluminous chef jacket any day).

I was immediately given a recipe for pickled tomatoes and left to do my thing.  Over the course of the day I made a few side dishes, cleaned a lot of herbs, had the width of my bias-cut scallions constructively criticized, organized the walk-in refrigerator, chatted with the sous about running, bras, running bras and whether Vermont’s Champlain Valley is superior to Massachusetts’ Pioneer Valley (unquestionably), and located the working spice grinder when it was not in its place.

Before I left got my schedule for the month, learned I’m expected to trail the line starting next week so that I can work the grill station during dinner the week after, and ate some eggplant parm for lunch.

A room full of smart women cooking soulful food, listening to Caetano Veloso.  It was sort of love. 

As I learned in Nick Paumgarten’s article about commuting, the distance between where you sleep, where you work and where you shop can pretty accurately determine your sense of community and level of social connectedness and as a result, your happiness.  Smaller triangles formed between these three points = greater happiness.  

I begin my externship at Prune on Monday; it is right around the corner from my apartment.  I am also consulting from my apartment, with occasional forays into my client’s office, a 20 minute walk away.  So I’ve been consciously celebrating my diminishing triangle (and increasing happiness) by shopping in my neighborhood, extending the notion of shopping to include stuffing my face with local delicacies.

Photo by Cap’n Design

Last night I attacked Katz’s Deli.  I had a luscious pastrami on rye with extra half-sours and pickled tomatoes and lots of mustard.  Honestly, the best bite at Katz’s is the first, the slice the sandwich maker gives you as he cuts an obscene quantity of meat to assemble your meal, but I had no problem finishing the balance (though I do tend to pick out the meat towards the end; to me, the rye is just a vehicle).  I was pleasantly surprised by the quality of the big fat fries, fluffy inside without shortchanging the crunch.  And being at heart a traditionalist, I washed it down with Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray soda.  Ooof.

This morning I rolled with the high-octane jewish treats and stopped into Russ and Daughters.  I spent a solid 10 minutes admiring the smoked chubbs and jewelescent salmons, realized it was impractical to get one of everything, debated having chopped liver for breakfast, and settled on a poppy seed bagel with whitefish salad.  It was creamy and sweet and lightly smoky and I didn’t regret forgoing horseradish cream cheese.

Because I live close, and I work close, and if I want to have the corned beef tonight and horseradish schmear tomorrow morning, I can do that.

A rainy walk led me to Suba last night, where I had an unplanned and entirely lovely meal. 

Bruni reviewed Suba recently, and goes into detail about the resurrection of this formerly struggling restaurant, the main dining room with its moat of water, and a number of the Spanish-inspired dishes. 

Rather than adopt his recommendations, I put myself in the hands of the kitchen and ordered the tasting menu, a very reasonable $45 affair.  Disclosure: I knew that my friend was cooking that night, and that the treats would be tasty.  I wanted to eat what he wanted to send us.

The best things he sent were rare lamb meatballs, a salad with squid and subtly pickled watermelons, and firm rice with sepia and lemons and sea urchin.

But the standout of the meal was Huevo y Anguila, a brightly yolked egg poached in olive oil served on top of an apple-glazed eel bedded in rich crushed potatoes.  It was a seriously sexy dish, glistening and wiggling when set down, relaxing into itself when cut.  I adore poached eggs, and the way the yolk draped the soft eel and coarsely textured potatoes was an elevation of a humble favorite.

For dessert I had a cheese plate, and particularly relished the pungent montenebro on raisin bread that had been sliced thin, toasted and salted. 

Wine finished, check paid, I left having had an entirely spontaneous meal that transported me far from the Lower East Side.  Although this is a city of marvelous cheap eats, much of what is elegant is hyped and costly, doesn’t always deliver the delicious, and often requires planning.  Walking into Suba restored my faith in eating by the seat of my pants.

That’s true love and homegrown tomatoes.

For the three summers I tried to grow tomatoes at a friend’s house upstate and due to drought one year, massive flooding the next two and lack of sunshine perennially, each year was left with a crop of green guys and nothing ripe come October. I began to think that I had a black thumb; although I’d gardened successfully in the past, I couldn’t make anything grow up there (thought I did get quite good at making pickled green cherry tomatoes, good for a martini; let me know if you want some, I’ve still got around 15 quarts).

But this year is different. I made do with my urban garden, setting patio tomatoes out on the fire escape. So far only one piece of fruit has ripened, but more are turning orange and we have plenty of time before the first NYC frost.

Although I love a tomato-and-Hellman’s mayo sandwich, and I hope to use a few of the others in some gazpacho, the first was eaten plain, with only some sea salt to balance out the acidity and bring out the juice. It was delicious, smelled like earth, and was over far too quickly.

Not too jellied, well-proportioned with meat, looking like a Mondrian stained glass window in glowing hues of pink, tasting as something made with intention, spice and care should, and consumed by the bold with pleasure, the Fromage de Tête turned out well.

Our graduation buffet turned out well, too.  I was glad to have my dearest there with me.

I’m simmering lots of thoughts about what the school experience meant, and what I was taught about discipline and humility especially during the last hours of prep before the buffet when I was alternately dressed down and relied upon by Chef E.  

I tend towards the self-critical and reflective; it’ll take me a few days to work out exactly why I felt so in control and out of control as it all ended.  Suffice it for now to say that I was relieved to have this stage over, despite my nerdy desire to always be in an environment so attuned to learning.

But mainly, I’m proud of the pig head.

School is almost over.  We are holding our graduation buffet Thursday evening and Chef E. has us all spazzed out about whether we will be prepared.  Is this a leadership strategy?  True fear that we will not be able to properly present food to our loving friends and family?  Hard to tell.

My final written exam (sausages, forcemeats and terrines) is in the morning.  I’ve been completely out to lunch in class lately, so I’m not sure I’ll get a perfect score and this is a problem.  After the exam, buffet prep: putting duck confit on to cure and making ice cream and peeking at the headcheese and frenching some rack of lamb and…

And then running to my new project management gig (I couldn’t hack poverty wages any longer, and I’ll be clocking plenty of restaurant hours at Prune starting in a couple of weeks) and then going to the restaurant to wait tables (I couldn’t just walk out on the job without giving a couple of weeks notice)…

Anyways, as a study aid, I thought I’d tell you about the old 5-4-3 emulsion that brings us such encased treats as hot dogs.  What happens in a 5-4-3 emulsion is this:

5 parts chilled, cubed meat and 3 parts ice are added to a food processor (ice on top!) and processed until the temperature drops to 30 degrees.  At that point,  4 parts chilled, cubed fat are added and processed until the temperature raises to 40 degrees.  When the temp climbs to 45 degrees, dry milk is added as a binder, along with spices.  This is then processed to 58 degrees.  What you are left with is a sanitary glop fit to be stuffed into narrow casings, steamed and slathered with mustard and eaten on a roll. 

I’m so sad that school is ending, and so excited about whatever comes next, and worried that I won’t live up to all I’ve set out to do, and self-knowing enough to be a little confident that I’ll make it work.  Still, life would be easier if there were some simple 5-4-3 rules to follow around how to be a happy grown up.

I’m a girl who enjoys eating animal flesh, but I’m open to meat-free.  I’m no stranger to macrobiotic foods.  I ate vegan for a while.  In a place like New York it is easy to find tasty vegetarian options.

When a friend suggested that we go to Candle Cafe for dinner, I figured I was in for a better-than-mediocre meal.  He had really talked the joint up and likes to eat, so I knew it would be decent, but I was also prepared for the reality of it to be a little less delicious than what he described.

But.  Candle Cafe is an exceptionally good restaurant.  It smells nice, it has green bona fides, and the food is lovely.  The paratha served with their smoky, rich mezze plate was impossibly rich despite the absence of ghee, and the babaganoush was the nicest I’ve had outside of someone’s home.  And the chili rubbed seitan did in fact live up to - nay surpass - the hype.

I’ve always really liked the texture of seitan, which is the glutinous paste left when all the starch is washed away from wheat dough.  I grant you that ”wheat paste” does not sound nice, but it has a fleshy, lean mouthfeel that is a pleasure to chew.  Seitan is the center of the universe of mock meat food - tofurkey, etc.  Left alone it doesn’t really taste of anything, and doused in tamari it is sort of acrid and salty.  (I know this from eating it at the Health Food Bar at Sarah Lawrence.)  But in Candle’s capable hands, served atop a bed of arugula and tart pickled onions, seitan is a canvas for rich, nutty, gently spicy flavor.

Seriously, this was one of the better dinners I’ve eaten for less than $100.  So what I’m saying is that despite living in the East Village with easy access to macro/vegan joints such as Souen, Angelica, Kate’s, Caravan, and Counter (listed in order of preference), I would actually get on a train and go up to the godforsaken UES to eat at Candle Cafe a second time.  The least you can do is swing by the next time you go to the Met.

In Cordoba they have a variation of gazpacho that is enriched with extra bread and egg yolk.  It is called “salmorejo” or “ardoria”, is garnished with eggs and ham, and is a wedding feast to regular gazpacho’s sunday dinner. 

Although its taste is pure mellow sunshine and summer evening, it is fairly heavy.  Having only prosciutto di Parma on hand, I opted to go with the hard boiled eggs alone as topping - it seems disrespectful to use Italian salumi on this classic Spanish soup.  Next time I can get my hands on jamón serrano I’ll make it again, serve it with a bitter green salad, and follow it up with a siesta.

The recipe for salmorejo aka ardoria aka the gluton’s gazpacho is here.

Whatever name you give it, the headcheese is underway! 

Yesterday’s storm almost kept us from receiving our shipment of pig trotters, tongue and head.  But the materials came in at the last minute and I had prepared my brine in hopeful anticipation, so in they went for an overnight soak.

So ladylike!

Our classroom was the center of ICE Chef-Instructor attention this morning as I simmered the brined parts.  Two chefs asked to borrow the cooked head to show to their classes, and I have to admit that I felt like the most popular cheerleader on the squad when our resident charcuterie expert, a burly man with a severe glare, popped his head in to tell me that he was impressed with my initiative. 

I would worry that posting a gross-out photo of the simmered head might corrupt the notion of something truly lovely like headcheese (or as we’ve agreed to call it in class,  fromage de tête), but most people already find the notion of eating head completely taboo, and those that don’t may be fascinated by the way the simmering process changes the tissue composition.  So here is before:

And after:

Note the increased floppiness of the ears.  If you were wondering, yes, simmering the meat does result in the teeth being wiggly. 

I’ll finish the terrine by trimming the meat and packing it is the gelatin-rich simmering liquid tomorrow morning.