I recently found out that my high school was going to be shuttering its doors next year, after over 30 years in it's current location Don Bosco will be no more. I don't know what to think about that, so here I am typing about it. So bare with me while I work through this.
I loved high school, especially in the last few years when it seemed that we were kings of the world, or at least the school. Things seemed to align just so in the last few years of our time in purgatory, the right combination of beer, music and hormones. Starting with a legendary trip to Quebec and ending with the equally legendary graduation and prom week celebrations. It had nothing to do with school work and learning for our future, it was about the bonds of friendship in that time. It was a grand time in my life and I loved it. The school played the backdrop to our lives. We had to be there and we had to work to ensure we moved on in life. Some easier than others. My school work suffered mightily in those last two years and it can be directly related to getting my license and having a social life. Oh, and introducing the alphabet into math. I wrote in my final year book that my biggest pet peeve was going through 5 years of math and not finding "x". I barely passed some courses but I didn't care, it was about the gang.
Don Bosco is a Catholic high school, so yes I wore a blazer, sometimes, shirt and tie and dressed the part of a private school flunky. It also meant that religion played a part in every day life at school. Morning prayers, monthly masses, religion classes and deviant priests walking the halls. And I say that as a fact as opposed to personal belief. There were some issues to be sure. Woven into this cornucopia of hormones, rebellion and education was a rag tag group of friends, 16 guys and gals that commandeered a back hallway and lived our lives by our own set of rules and codes. Like any group dynamic we had leaders, followers and stoners. A fierce loyalty had developed between most of us and as time went by an almost legendary mythology grew around us and our exploits.
In the beginning we were never invited to parties, which mattered not because we would show up anyway. Garbage bags full of ice and beer were dragged down to the basement where we would congregate around the water heater or washing machine and immersed ourselves into our own world. We didn't give a shit about what the "cool" kids were doing, we were doing our thing. Topics ranging from wrestling to religion. From the hot new girl in history class to politics and the art of sacrifice. We swore, drank and had a good time. We never caused trouble, we just wanted a place to sip some beer and shoot the shit. Unfortunately, alcohol being what it is means that someone is going to say something to someone at some point. The preps as a group didn't like us and we didn't care much for them, the whole Greaser vs Soc thing from The Outsiders. But wait, there were more, the Ginos, the metal heads, the jocks...as a group, none were liked. But you could like individual members just fine. There were fights occasionally and some choice words were said but I don't imagine it was any different any where else.
Devils music played too loudly, impromptu handball games, skipping class, roaming the halls out of boredom and a desire to foment rebellion. I could write 50 posts on individual events that I still remember and cherish. The Spoons playing at the school, Mr Martin's 50th birthday with a case of Labatt 50, battle of the bands 1.0 and 2.0, my locker....50 may be conservative.
After a while we noticed a shift in attitude from the general school population with regards to us. We started to become liked. Truth be told, individually we were mostly liked but now the "group" was getting some love. People didn't threaten to call the cops on us for showing up at the door uninvited. They allowed us to roam freely through the house. It was kind of funny and then someone actually invited us to a party and that was just weird. It felt like this person, who I happened to know, wanted to build her credibility by inviting us...we never went...hahaha.
High school was about that social life that we led. The drinking, the risk taking, the bonds of friendship that mostly disappeared after we graduated...that was what we lived for. We had our share of turbulence but mostly it worked because we didn't compete with each other. We did us and managed to do us within the loose confines of our bunch of hooligans. Bit by bit there was some erosion which generally followed when group members became more than friends...actually, thinking back that caused a lot of trouble for us and for me. But that's for another day...maybe. Good times...haha
So now the school is closing and it seems there is going to be a reunion of some sort next year. I might just go, again, not so much for the school as for the people. Most I have lost track of but it would still be good to see them again and see the people that I have stayed in contact with. Sharing stories and seeing where life has taken people. Another milestone to mark in this thing called life. And who knows, perhaps friendships can be renewed. Wouldn't that be something.
Hmmmmmmmm
D
Tuesday, 26 July 2016
Monday, 25 July 2016
Fearless
I am relatively recent Facebooker, having joined back up in October I think. My first stint a few years back pissed me off and I only really went on to make my ex happy. It'll be great, you can catch up with old friends. Really, because i was hermit like before that and so hard to get a hold of? The straw that broke the proverbial camels back was a waitress at work posting every time she did something new. I went to the store today. I just fed the cat. I had a bowel movement. And then the final final straw, a very religious sort of person and she wrote, "I don't need food or water, the breath of God will sustain me" Oy vey!!! Really, then get your grubby hands out of the fry bowl for the 18th time tonight and no you can't have a caesar salad...let God feed you. I deleted my profile the next morning but not without having a little inadvertent fun. I posted a note saying I was leaving Facebook and if anyone needed or wanted to chat, they could find me easily enough. That note supposedly started a chain of reply all type messages with people wondering what was wrong....hahaha.
This time around I went on line of my own accord and specifically for family stuff. Having said that I have come to enjoy some of what I do and see on Facebook now and have become a regular shit disturber in my own way. I ignore and delete people that I don't want to hear about or espouse views that make me want to reach for Lucille...just saying. I'm much more calm these days...hahaha
Get to the point stupid!
Yes I know I'm getting there. As you all know FB is full of positive life affirming pictures, videos, self help phrases and the like. And cats. One of the ones I have come across recently is to live life fearlessly. I like that sentiment as I'm sure many do. It feeds the hidden rebel in us all. Points us towards an ideal that we would like to live up to. Give the naysayers the finger and do your thing, be you. Or be the guy that jumps out of the plane. Or...well, anything really. At first glance, it seems pretty clear that the phrase seems to embody taking yourself out of your comfort zone. If you're comfortable on the ground, then climb that mountain and bungee jump off that bridge. Live dammit...live!!!
Taking yourself out of your comfort zone is a good thing to do. A lot. I do whenever I can and I love the learning about myself and life that happens when I do. It's a coupling of my naivete, wonder and desire to see and do as much as I can. Now, I wish I could do the big things now...move to Greece for three months, live over a bakery and assimilate into the culture...but I can't. Not yet. But I dream about it and plan for it when I can make things a reality. That's the easy stuff in my book, the low hanging fruit.
If you've read any of my posts you do know that I have essentially not given a crap about what people have thought of me or what I do for quite a long time. Not everyone can and that trepidation is hard to overcome, we essentially live in fear of the what if. And that can't be a good thing, we are letting fear rule our lives, whether we realise it or not. Fear of failure, of ridicule, of exposure, of hurt.....of many things, prevent us from doing or feeling so many things.Read back to my Epictetus post and know that you have to come to a place in your life where you won't let fear of anything rule your life. It's hard of course but I truly believe that you miss out on too much to acquiesce to that fear.
So repeat after me:
I won't be afraid to step out that door into some new experience
I won't be afraid to fail
I won't be afraid to learn
I won't be afraid to fall in love
I won't be afraid to be loved
Live life abundantly and fearlessly. Those are the words I want my kids to know. That and be kind.
Oh, and The Blues Brother classic - "It's 106 miles to Chicago, we got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark... and we're wearing sunglasses."
Ciao
D
Friday, 22 July 2016
Back From Away
Having safely returned from a road trip to Ontario with some of my brood I am slowly working my way back into reality. Work reality, home reality, East Coast reality...just reality ok. We had a good time visiting and doing touristy things. Stinking hot though, pause for thought if I was to ever consider moving back to the big smoke...that and traffic.
Having said that there are some real upsides to the big city. The plethora of restaurants, the culture, the museums and the sheer number of things to do are exceptional. Another thing I really enjoyed was the neighbourhoods. Driving through Bloor West Village on a busy Friday afternoon while heading to the ROM rekindled a certain nostalgia for the neighbourhood fruit stand beside the bakery beside the butcher or deli. Sure, these days you have to insert a Starbucks and MacDonald's into the mix but there remains a certain charm that you don't really get here in Halifax. Closest I can think of is the Hydrostone area. The difference seems to be the fact that the shops bordering the main street are fortified on either side by homes. Lots of homes on neatly rowed streets, with lots of kids running around, retired folk watching over the neighbourhood (who needs an alarm system when you have nonna on the job) People live there. All kinds of people. Proud Portuguese flag wavers (Euro2016 of course), Korean neighbourhoods with corresponding signs for the population. It really is a cornucopia of culture, bound together with food and family and traditions. I kind of miss that. It seems the teeming population is face forward there while here in Halifax, you have pockets of people wandering around but not in the same way. They don't have their bags full of fruit from Guido's or some sliced cured meats from Paulo's. Yes, we have Ratinaud here, which is excellent, but it seems to be a niche and therefore an expensive way to get your fix of pate and proscuitto. It's different.
And when we moved on to Old Quebec City I fell in love again. A long past love affair rekindled. My God how I love that place. Yes I know, visiting is not the same as living there but just let me have my fantasy will you. Steep, narrow cobblestone streets simply exuding old world charm. Cafes, bistros and artisan shops...I had the biggest grin on my face and could not contain my pure glee at being back in the quarter. My kids certainly think I am certifiable after my jubilant response. Nine hours of driving could not deter me from sending a few precious hours behind that magnificent walled city. Dining al fresco, riding the funicular, strolling around the Chateau Frontenac...yes please, can I have some more. I related to my kids how when you come to this magical city in the winter you feel like you're in a snow globe. I know my soul belongs in Europe but the grand dame would fill in pretty good I think.....le sigh
Well, perhaps I should do some work.
Ciao
D
Having said that there are some real upsides to the big city. The plethora of restaurants, the culture, the museums and the sheer number of things to do are exceptional. Another thing I really enjoyed was the neighbourhoods. Driving through Bloor West Village on a busy Friday afternoon while heading to the ROM rekindled a certain nostalgia for the neighbourhood fruit stand beside the bakery beside the butcher or deli. Sure, these days you have to insert a Starbucks and MacDonald's into the mix but there remains a certain charm that you don't really get here in Halifax. Closest I can think of is the Hydrostone area. The difference seems to be the fact that the shops bordering the main street are fortified on either side by homes. Lots of homes on neatly rowed streets, with lots of kids running around, retired folk watching over the neighbourhood (who needs an alarm system when you have nonna on the job) People live there. All kinds of people. Proud Portuguese flag wavers (Euro2016 of course), Korean neighbourhoods with corresponding signs for the population. It really is a cornucopia of culture, bound together with food and family and traditions. I kind of miss that. It seems the teeming population is face forward there while here in Halifax, you have pockets of people wandering around but not in the same way. They don't have their bags full of fruit from Guido's or some sliced cured meats from Paulo's. Yes, we have Ratinaud here, which is excellent, but it seems to be a niche and therefore an expensive way to get your fix of pate and proscuitto. It's different.
And when we moved on to Old Quebec City I fell in love again. A long past love affair rekindled. My God how I love that place. Yes I know, visiting is not the same as living there but just let me have my fantasy will you. Steep, narrow cobblestone streets simply exuding old world charm. Cafes, bistros and artisan shops...I had the biggest grin on my face and could not contain my pure glee at being back in the quarter. My kids certainly think I am certifiable after my jubilant response. Nine hours of driving could not deter me from sending a few precious hours behind that magnificent walled city. Dining al fresco, riding the funicular, strolling around the Chateau Frontenac...yes please, can I have some more. I related to my kids how when you come to this magical city in the winter you feel like you're in a snow globe. I know my soul belongs in Europe but the grand dame would fill in pretty good I think.....le sigh
Well, perhaps I should do some work.
Ciao
D
Thursday, 7 July 2016
Dear Mr Policeman
Dear Mr Policeman,
This is going to be difficult to put into words that represent what I am thinking but maybe, just maybe...stop shooting black people in such horrendous numbers would be a good place to start. Two shootings that I am aware of this week and I saw somewhere at least 114 this year alone. Everyone with a conscience should know about the race problem in America. Not just being racists but how the system is dealing with the problem as a whole. And before we Canadians slap ourselves on the back, we're racist too and we have our systematic problems as well. This is not a uniquely American problem but certainly in America you're taking a chance with actually making it home alive from a traffic stop or trying to sell a cd or two on the side of the road. What the fuck America?
I can't help but circle back to the whole gun debate. A cop knows that there is a good chance anyone he is pulling over has a gun on their person. Mostly legal. And I get that there are stats out there that would make anyone wary of approaching, well, anyone really. It seems America is simply an angry place and reaction with resistance or violence can seem reasonable...so how fucked up is that? So we have the police always on edge and never knowing if this is the time that a punk pulls out a real glock. Blacks and Latinos knowing they are going to be roughed up because they are black or Latino. Recipe for carnage my friends. And sadly, I get it from both sides. Being a policeman is thankless and dangerous. Being black means you have a target on your back a lot of the time. It's a sad reality. So what do we do?
Well, for one, stop being so quick to the trigger. There are multiple things to address here; training, attitude, relations with a community, engagement and so on and they really need to be worked on simultaneously. Open your hearts and minds to your community and maybe we won't need to read about another victim of police brutality. And while were at it, everyone needs to take a good hard long look in the mirror. Blacks, whites, Latinos and everyone else, be honest...are we doing the best we can for our children? Am I a positive role model or am I part of the problem. No one ever takes responsibility for themselves...it is always someone else's fault. They're to blame for our lot in life. Stop that shit....everyone just needs to stop. Instead of pulling a trigger, open your hand in embrace. Open your ears and your heart. What is left but to talk. Figure it out and get moving because if we don't...the civil unrest heading your way is going to make Trump a very happy man while blood and tears flow in the streets.
Start talking
This is going to be difficult to put into words that represent what I am thinking but maybe, just maybe...stop shooting black people in such horrendous numbers would be a good place to start. Two shootings that I am aware of this week and I saw somewhere at least 114 this year alone. Everyone with a conscience should know about the race problem in America. Not just being racists but how the system is dealing with the problem as a whole. And before we Canadians slap ourselves on the back, we're racist too and we have our systematic problems as well. This is not a uniquely American problem but certainly in America you're taking a chance with actually making it home alive from a traffic stop or trying to sell a cd or two on the side of the road. What the fuck America?
I can't help but circle back to the whole gun debate. A cop knows that there is a good chance anyone he is pulling over has a gun on their person. Mostly legal. And I get that there are stats out there that would make anyone wary of approaching, well, anyone really. It seems America is simply an angry place and reaction with resistance or violence can seem reasonable...so how fucked up is that? So we have the police always on edge and never knowing if this is the time that a punk pulls out a real glock. Blacks and Latinos knowing they are going to be roughed up because they are black or Latino. Recipe for carnage my friends. And sadly, I get it from both sides. Being a policeman is thankless and dangerous. Being black means you have a target on your back a lot of the time. It's a sad reality. So what do we do?
Well, for one, stop being so quick to the trigger. There are multiple things to address here; training, attitude, relations with a community, engagement and so on and they really need to be worked on simultaneously. Open your hearts and minds to your community and maybe we won't need to read about another victim of police brutality. And while were at it, everyone needs to take a good hard long look in the mirror. Blacks, whites, Latinos and everyone else, be honest...are we doing the best we can for our children? Am I a positive role model or am I part of the problem. No one ever takes responsibility for themselves...it is always someone else's fault. They're to blame for our lot in life. Stop that shit....everyone just needs to stop. Instead of pulling a trigger, open your hand in embrace. Open your ears and your heart. What is left but to talk. Figure it out and get moving because if we don't...the civil unrest heading your way is going to make Trump a very happy man while blood and tears flow in the streets.
Start talking
Wednesday, 6 July 2016
Fire and fun
If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. I've tried but can't seem to escape...maybe I'm not wholeheartedly trying to I guess. It is comfortable for me to be sure and I am decent at what I do but I'm not sure if I could ever truly fit in at a "normal" job. What would I do? Could I use the same language and mannerisms that are now part of my chef persona? Could I give the "look" and not have HR hauling me in to discuss alternative communication techniques? Really? Would you like to take your non mechanised erasable transcription tool and push it in your ear for me? Maybe I should stay put....
I can't imagine what kind of life it would be without the sometimes raucous cacophony of man and machine....as I sit here typing this is what I can hear. A cart rumbled by with plates and glassware on it that need to be put in their proper place. A crap song from the 80's...I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight, is on the radio. I can hear the vent system humming away. Someone is scrambling up eggs on the flat top and the spatula is doing it's dance across the steel. Someone I don't like is speaking with borrowed words from the Brits in an attempt to make her sound smarter than she will ever be...it's lovely, brilliant and so on. And while I can't hear it I know there is the ever present flame. Fire is the thing in our world. No fire no food. It is the medium by which a very large percentage of our work is based around. Raw beef + seasoning + heat = delicious steak. The cooks world is so intertwined with fire that for the most part none of us are even remotely phased by the appearance of flames at unexpected times. I was demonstrating a dish to some cooks once and my side towel caught on fire without me noticing it, I got two cooks looking at me and in dead pan tone they come to my rescue; look at me, point at my towel and say you're on fire chef. We don't get that freaked out. I had a BBQ blowout in my face once and it was funny. I lived, so what if I need new eyebrows.
When I owned the B & B in Lunenburg I spent a lot of time working...a lot. So my time with my kids was sporadic and opportunistic during the busy season. A stolen kiss here, a quick book read there and, well you get the idea. I liked having them sit up on my work station trying to keep quiet while I made breakfast for the guests and would feed them pancakes or french toast. God those were fun times. It was habit at night that the kids would come in to give me a kiss goodnight while I was in the middle of service. On one such occasion my oldest daughter, who would have been around four at the time and fiercely independent, came in by herself to wish me a goodnight and get a hug. As she rounded the corner and caught sight of me her arms instinctively started going up in the universal symbol for pick me up now buddy. That's as far as she got though, because you see I was in the middle of sauteing something and as is the norm when flame and fat meet a flame or two had shot up into the air. Her reaction is still laugh inducing, as loud as she could have mustered she yelled "Daddy!!! FIRE!!!!" and ran out of the kitchen slamming the heavy door behind her as she head back into our residence. Beautiful. Watching her run off in her onesie like a bat out of hell was hilarious. I remember a few guests commenting about it later on thinking it was cute. It was.
Another not so cute story about the power of fire comes to you courtesy of a friend of mine Peter. We we're working at a golf club outside of Toronto, doing a BBQ for 144 moronic members. We disliked this group of pretentious cheapskates a lot, but there was one old fuck we really hated. He was rude and disgusting with staff and people in general. Always had a quip designed to put you on edge and repeated them ad nauseum, such as when asked how he would like his steak prepared - "rip it's horns off, wipe it's ass and make sure it still can moo". Rare it is. So, the end of season BBQ is upon us and as usual Peter and I are on the deck baking over a charcoal fire zipping through T-Bone steaks. Way down the line you can hear Mr Jones being his usual ass hole like self. Peter had had enough. Watch this he says. He took a pair of tongs and stuck the ends into the embers of the charcoal to sit for a few minutes. As the dink got closer he got more abusive, don't burn my steak boys - you know how I like it. Oh we know so shut the fuck up already. And then we have the moment of truth. "hello Mr Jones, how are you today" says Peter as a way of throwing him off the impending trouble. "I'm great, shot a 75 so can I get a bigger steak" was the reply from the Tilley Hat wearing mother clucker. "Sure, I have one right here, rare as can be" and than Peter took the steak with the tongs that were embedded in the hot coals and did the old flip the steak and burn your thumbs off routine. Never heard of it? By applying a quarter turn of your right hand you flip the steak onto the plate and subsequently the edge of he tongs can brush up against the thumb of the plate holder. It was probably three or four seconds of pure symphonic pleasure. The sizzle of steaks and chattering golfers interrupted with a loud yelp as the tongs hit this bastards thumbs, his plate and steak went flying into the air and off the deck. A microsecond of quiet followed by apologies and laughter. He was, obviously supremely pissed but that's as far as it ever went.
See, fire can be fun.
Ciao
D
I can't imagine what kind of life it would be without the sometimes raucous cacophony of man and machine....as I sit here typing this is what I can hear. A cart rumbled by with plates and glassware on it that need to be put in their proper place. A crap song from the 80's...I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight, is on the radio. I can hear the vent system humming away. Someone is scrambling up eggs on the flat top and the spatula is doing it's dance across the steel. Someone I don't like is speaking with borrowed words from the Brits in an attempt to make her sound smarter than she will ever be...it's lovely, brilliant and so on. And while I can't hear it I know there is the ever present flame. Fire is the thing in our world. No fire no food. It is the medium by which a very large percentage of our work is based around. Raw beef + seasoning + heat = delicious steak. The cooks world is so intertwined with fire that for the most part none of us are even remotely phased by the appearance of flames at unexpected times. I was demonstrating a dish to some cooks once and my side towel caught on fire without me noticing it, I got two cooks looking at me and in dead pan tone they come to my rescue; look at me, point at my towel and say you're on fire chef. We don't get that freaked out. I had a BBQ blowout in my face once and it was funny. I lived, so what if I need new eyebrows.
When I owned the B & B in Lunenburg I spent a lot of time working...a lot. So my time with my kids was sporadic and opportunistic during the busy season. A stolen kiss here, a quick book read there and, well you get the idea. I liked having them sit up on my work station trying to keep quiet while I made breakfast for the guests and would feed them pancakes or french toast. God those were fun times. It was habit at night that the kids would come in to give me a kiss goodnight while I was in the middle of service. On one such occasion my oldest daughter, who would have been around four at the time and fiercely independent, came in by herself to wish me a goodnight and get a hug. As she rounded the corner and caught sight of me her arms instinctively started going up in the universal symbol for pick me up now buddy. That's as far as she got though, because you see I was in the middle of sauteing something and as is the norm when flame and fat meet a flame or two had shot up into the air. Her reaction is still laugh inducing, as loud as she could have mustered she yelled "Daddy!!! FIRE!!!!" and ran out of the kitchen slamming the heavy door behind her as she head back into our residence. Beautiful. Watching her run off in her onesie like a bat out of hell was hilarious. I remember a few guests commenting about it later on thinking it was cute. It was.
Another not so cute story about the power of fire comes to you courtesy of a friend of mine Peter. We we're working at a golf club outside of Toronto, doing a BBQ for 144 moronic members. We disliked this group of pretentious cheapskates a lot, but there was one old fuck we really hated. He was rude and disgusting with staff and people in general. Always had a quip designed to put you on edge and repeated them ad nauseum, such as when asked how he would like his steak prepared - "rip it's horns off, wipe it's ass and make sure it still can moo". Rare it is. So, the end of season BBQ is upon us and as usual Peter and I are on the deck baking over a charcoal fire zipping through T-Bone steaks. Way down the line you can hear Mr Jones being his usual ass hole like self. Peter had had enough. Watch this he says. He took a pair of tongs and stuck the ends into the embers of the charcoal to sit for a few minutes. As the dink got closer he got more abusive, don't burn my steak boys - you know how I like it. Oh we know so shut the fuck up already. And then we have the moment of truth. "hello Mr Jones, how are you today" says Peter as a way of throwing him off the impending trouble. "I'm great, shot a 75 so can I get a bigger steak" was the reply from the Tilley Hat wearing mother clucker. "Sure, I have one right here, rare as can be" and than Peter took the steak with the tongs that were embedded in the hot coals and did the old flip the steak and burn your thumbs off routine. Never heard of it? By applying a quarter turn of your right hand you flip the steak onto the plate and subsequently the edge of he tongs can brush up against the thumb of the plate holder. It was probably three or four seconds of pure symphonic pleasure. The sizzle of steaks and chattering golfers interrupted with a loud yelp as the tongs hit this bastards thumbs, his plate and steak went flying into the air and off the deck. A microsecond of quiet followed by apologies and laughter. He was, obviously supremely pissed but that's as far as it ever went.
See, fire can be fun.
Ciao
D
Tuesday, 5 July 2016
La foie gras
Do you like foie gras? Be honest, don't tell me what you think I might want to hear. I love it of course. For me, it is decadence personified and when I get the chance to feature it on a special menu I know I will get a little feast for myself and the adventurous members of my team...yum, yum.
I have sampled it as a pâté, a torchon, cured, pan sautéed, mousse and as a component of a dish. Each unique preparation method brings about a series of different responses from yours truly...all of them involve sighing and wine. Just saying. I can almost be greedy about the organ too. If people are looking to order my creation I hope they appreciate what they are getting. Not just the cost, which is exorbitant, but the effort that goes into bringing that piece of fatty heaven to you. If they don't or worse turn up their nose to the very idea of eating liver, I don't want to let them near it....it's mine, all mine. Bring some bread and a crusty baguette and I will share...gladly. But those other people...uhm GFY
I believe it was the millennium. That hyped non event known as Y2K, where we bought generators for the impending power outages and a certain percentage of the population was sure it was rapture time. Get a grip. So, being a crazy chef and entrepreneur we put out a nice spread for New Years Eve that night. An early seating for the people that wanted to be in bed before 10:00 or had other plans and a later seating for those that wished to be bringing in the new year with my food in front of them surrounded bu freinds. In my humble opinion, I out did myself that night. Both seatings were executed flawlessly and kudos and cash rolled in. On the menu was an appetiser of pan seared foie gras with port, black eyed peas vinaigrette and a Riesling drizzle. Yum ,yum. Now, I knew for sure that the foie gras wasn't going to be my big seller that night and I was quite ok with that. Because I knew that I would get to eat the foie gras over the next few days....indeed, I think Scott came over the next morning and we had some for breakfast. Yum, yum.
When searing the foie gras it becomes your centre of the universe while it is cooking away. Turn your back for a second too long and you have a hot melted pool of duck fat for your effort as said foie gras melts away. You have to focus. And you have to think about the plate composition. The foie is fatty, very fatty. You need something sharp or acidic to cut against that a bit....in comes the bean salad. Which also provides a texture contrast to the velvety smoothness of the the liver. A third flavour profile comes from the wine. A reduced syrup with some added sugar to help with the body of the sauce to perk up your taste buds as you take that first bite. Yum, yum. Bring it all together for a delicious and harmonious dish...which I'm not sharing if you're not worthy. True story - when I was younger I would say things like they don't deserve this kind of food when I was particularly pleased with my creation. I know right....smart ass
So my ode to foie gras brings me to the next morning, sitting over a hot skillet sopping up fatty remnants of the seared foie gras with some excellent french baguette, a glass of wine and wondering why the world didn't blow up or my toaster for that fact. My trifecta of perfection - good food, good wine and good friends. Yum, yum.
Ciao
D
I have sampled it as a pâté, a torchon, cured, pan sautéed, mousse and as a component of a dish. Each unique preparation method brings about a series of different responses from yours truly...all of them involve sighing and wine. Just saying. I can almost be greedy about the organ too. If people are looking to order my creation I hope they appreciate what they are getting. Not just the cost, which is exorbitant, but the effort that goes into bringing that piece of fatty heaven to you. If they don't or worse turn up their nose to the very idea of eating liver, I don't want to let them near it....it's mine, all mine. Bring some bread and a crusty baguette and I will share...gladly. But those other people...uhm GFY
I believe it was the millennium. That hyped non event known as Y2K, where we bought generators for the impending power outages and a certain percentage of the population was sure it was rapture time. Get a grip. So, being a crazy chef and entrepreneur we put out a nice spread for New Years Eve that night. An early seating for the people that wanted to be in bed before 10:00 or had other plans and a later seating for those that wished to be bringing in the new year with my food in front of them surrounded bu freinds. In my humble opinion, I out did myself that night. Both seatings were executed flawlessly and kudos and cash rolled in. On the menu was an appetiser of pan seared foie gras with port, black eyed peas vinaigrette and a Riesling drizzle. Yum ,yum. Now, I knew for sure that the foie gras wasn't going to be my big seller that night and I was quite ok with that. Because I knew that I would get to eat the foie gras over the next few days....indeed, I think Scott came over the next morning and we had some for breakfast. Yum, yum.
When searing the foie gras it becomes your centre of the universe while it is cooking away. Turn your back for a second too long and you have a hot melted pool of duck fat for your effort as said foie gras melts away. You have to focus. And you have to think about the plate composition. The foie is fatty, very fatty. You need something sharp or acidic to cut against that a bit....in comes the bean salad. Which also provides a texture contrast to the velvety smoothness of the the liver. A third flavour profile comes from the wine. A reduced syrup with some added sugar to help with the body of the sauce to perk up your taste buds as you take that first bite. Yum, yum. Bring it all together for a delicious and harmonious dish...which I'm not sharing if you're not worthy. True story - when I was younger I would say things like they don't deserve this kind of food when I was particularly pleased with my creation. I know right....smart ass
So my ode to foie gras brings me to the next morning, sitting over a hot skillet sopping up fatty remnants of the seared foie gras with some excellent french baguette, a glass of wine and wondering why the world didn't blow up or my toaster for that fact. My trifecta of perfection - good food, good wine and good friends. Yum, yum.
Ciao
D
Monday, 4 July 2016
Rudy Tarquin
One may gather from reading some of the posts I have put up here that there is a certain amount of, shall we say, tomfoolery that happens in my world. Oh yes Virginia, we do like to fool around when we can...from quests for the lobster gun and cans of steam to freezing clothing and getting people to eat cardboard...it is about amusing ourselves. Time being a commodity we like to waste ours...when we can.
One summer at the B & B I got an email from Rudy Tarquin. A simple inquiry into room availability, later to be known as the hook. Someone was looking for 4 nights in our suite...you betcha we have space. Off my reply went and I went about my day. In a time before smart phones and synced items, I checked my emails two or three times a day just to stay on top of things while doing the other 118 things that required my attention. Email number two was also quite simple, did we offer a multiple night discount or a seniors discount. Again, quick reply and please feel free to give us a call if we can be of any assistance. Good night Nellie.
The next day the carnage started to unfold. In no particular order since this was ten years or so ago, I received via emails these kind of questions over the next few days. Well worded and thoughtfully structured:
Would there be someone to help with luggage to the third floor?
Would this person be able to help with an oxygen tank as my wife needs this apparatus to breathe at night?
How thick are your walls, my wife has a rather loud phlegm clearing exercise she does every night and we wouldn't want to disturb other guests?
What's the closest synagogue to your establishment?
As each inquiry came in my answers got a little shorter and my response time grew exponentially...I'm now no longer interested in your money or you. I smell trouble if this guest manages to live long enough to darken my door step. And each day I would show Scott these ridiculous emails, sharing a laugh at the sheer lunacy of these Jersey folks. As an aside, when we first opened the B & B I was chatting with a fellow innkeeper and they passed along some observations, one being that if you had an issue at your property it was almost certainly going to be a guest from the Garden State. They weren't wrong.
So on it went for a few days until I guess my sloth like lack of response drove Mr Tarquin to send a vitriolic email condemning me for my anti Semitic tendencies, lack of business acumen and simple stupidity for being in the hospitality business. And as I read through the email with blood boiling it was signed off at the bottom....fuck off see you at 5:00. God damn Scott reading emails over my shoulder trying to keep a straight face as we made fun of the absurdity he had wrote. Well crafted and well done.
I took it to the next level by redirecting Sir Rudy onto a another fellow innkeeper but hitting his buttons even more effectively. He was a sommelier at the time so we wanted to know everything about wine...like could they carry Pennsylvania wines for us. And so on. And while I was content with two and three sentence answers this fellow would write pages of stuff. And when I would pop in on him the next morning running errands he would print things off to show them to me. He killed a small forest to show the world Rudy Tarquin. I kept him on the string for close to two weeks as opposed to the 5 days Scott had me going.
My revenge on Scott was simplistic yet beautiful in it's opportunism. I had a habit of popping in on guests in the dining room to see how their meal was. A bit of small talk and back to the kitchen...Paul Bocuse calls it touching the tables. Call it ego stroking if you want but the guests certainly appreciated it. One evening with only a couple of tables in I stopped at table four to ask how things were. They proceeded to tell me that they were in town to do some genealogical work at the museum. Really? Wow...you know, you should talk to Scott about this. He loves genealogy (he hates it). His mother has gotten into it lately and he has joined her and they have been spending so much time together doing genealogy, not sure how you do genealogy but there you have it. They have bonded so much doing this (no they didn't, he hates genealogy with a passion reserved for RV's and ABBA). Wow...that's awesome they exclaim. I'll mention it to him when I go back to the kitchen. In through the doors, Scott, table four wants to see you buddy. I laughed and I laughed...45 minutes he was stuck with these people...hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha "well played" is all he said when he finally extricated himself. My payback was more instantaneous and direct for my Tarquinism....said innkeeper pantsed(??) me as I was leaving his place. In the middle of the day at the busiest intersection of town - haha All is fair in the world of practical jokes.
So beware the Tarquin, you never know when he or his ilk may reappear.
Ciao
D
One summer at the B & B I got an email from Rudy Tarquin. A simple inquiry into room availability, later to be known as the hook. Someone was looking for 4 nights in our suite...you betcha we have space. Off my reply went and I went about my day. In a time before smart phones and synced items, I checked my emails two or three times a day just to stay on top of things while doing the other 118 things that required my attention. Email number two was also quite simple, did we offer a multiple night discount or a seniors discount. Again, quick reply and please feel free to give us a call if we can be of any assistance. Good night Nellie.
The next day the carnage started to unfold. In no particular order since this was ten years or so ago, I received via emails these kind of questions over the next few days. Well worded and thoughtfully structured:
Would there be someone to help with luggage to the third floor?
Would this person be able to help with an oxygen tank as my wife needs this apparatus to breathe at night?
How thick are your walls, my wife has a rather loud phlegm clearing exercise she does every night and we wouldn't want to disturb other guests?
What's the closest synagogue to your establishment?
As each inquiry came in my answers got a little shorter and my response time grew exponentially...I'm now no longer interested in your money or you. I smell trouble if this guest manages to live long enough to darken my door step. And each day I would show Scott these ridiculous emails, sharing a laugh at the sheer lunacy of these Jersey folks. As an aside, when we first opened the B & B I was chatting with a fellow innkeeper and they passed along some observations, one being that if you had an issue at your property it was almost certainly going to be a guest from the Garden State. They weren't wrong.
So on it went for a few days until I guess my sloth like lack of response drove Mr Tarquin to send a vitriolic email condemning me for my anti Semitic tendencies, lack of business acumen and simple stupidity for being in the hospitality business. And as I read through the email with blood boiling it was signed off at the bottom....fuck off see you at 5:00. God damn Scott reading emails over my shoulder trying to keep a straight face as we made fun of the absurdity he had wrote. Well crafted and well done.
I took it to the next level by redirecting Sir Rudy onto a another fellow innkeeper but hitting his buttons even more effectively. He was a sommelier at the time so we wanted to know everything about wine...like could they carry Pennsylvania wines for us. And so on. And while I was content with two and three sentence answers this fellow would write pages of stuff. And when I would pop in on him the next morning running errands he would print things off to show them to me. He killed a small forest to show the world Rudy Tarquin. I kept him on the string for close to two weeks as opposed to the 5 days Scott had me going.
My revenge on Scott was simplistic yet beautiful in it's opportunism. I had a habit of popping in on guests in the dining room to see how their meal was. A bit of small talk and back to the kitchen...Paul Bocuse calls it touching the tables. Call it ego stroking if you want but the guests certainly appreciated it. One evening with only a couple of tables in I stopped at table four to ask how things were. They proceeded to tell me that they were in town to do some genealogical work at the museum. Really? Wow...you know, you should talk to Scott about this. He loves genealogy (he hates it). His mother has gotten into it lately and he has joined her and they have been spending so much time together doing genealogy, not sure how you do genealogy but there you have it. They have bonded so much doing this (no they didn't, he hates genealogy with a passion reserved for RV's and ABBA). Wow...that's awesome they exclaim. I'll mention it to him when I go back to the kitchen. In through the doors, Scott, table four wants to see you buddy. I laughed and I laughed...45 minutes he was stuck with these people...hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha "well played" is all he said when he finally extricated himself. My payback was more instantaneous and direct for my Tarquinism....said innkeeper pantsed(??) me as I was leaving his place. In the middle of the day at the busiest intersection of town - haha All is fair in the world of practical jokes.
So beware the Tarquin, you never know when he or his ilk may reappear.
Ciao
D
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