The Cake Incident

Screaming, irate chefs and unseemly temper tantrums are nothing new to the professional kitchen. But have you ever seen someone get really mad at a cake?    

Raphael was an all-around lovely guy. Even-tempered, good-humored, helpful, polite, loyal, hard-working. He was Employee of the Month, Man of the Year, certified gold member of the Clean Plate Club - you name the award, he was the most deserving recipient. His job was probably the most important - and the least interesting -  in the kitchen. He baked off all the layer cakes. On Thursdays, when the primary weekend bake happened, he baked hundreds of cake layers. He would make giant vats of batters in different flavors - chocolate, yellow, almond, banana, carrot. Then, he would weigh the amount of batter that went into each pan. Because there were so many different sized pans, each one had an exact ounce amount of batter that would produce the perfect cake layer. Those amounts had been painstakingly, mathematically figured out by Raphael. He had it down to a math and a science.    

But something was amiss with the chocolate cakes. For weeks, the layers had been coming out sunken in the middle. Now, this may seem trivial to you. But let's just say you're getting married. You've always dreamed of having a chocolate cake with chocolate mousse filling and fresh raspberries (each preferably hand-picked just for you, on your wedding day). You plunk down $1000 for the cake. This is the beginning of the rest of your life. You've color-coordinated the bridesmaids' dresses with the groomsmen's ties. You've had the place cards hand-lettered to look like your Gaelic ancestors may have written them. You want a cake that Martha Stewart would bless, and perhaps even feature in her next issue of Martha Stewart Weddings. You don't want a cake with a big pothole in the middle. 

Raphael tried everything. He adjusted the amount of baking powder. Reduced the number of eggs. Used shortening instead of butter (it was a sad day in the kitchen when that happened, but since it didn't fix the problem, he went back to butter). Nothing worked. 

And then one day, Raphael snapped. 

He was pulling a large sheet pan out of the oven, and when he saw the cakes - and the sunken middles - he threw the entire hot sheet pan on the floor. The resonant THWAP! immediately brought the rest of us out of our deeply tired, overworked trances. We stared at him. He stared at the cake pans on the floor. And then he did the most unlikely thing I've ever seen a grown-up do. 

He started stomping on the cakes. Jumping up and down like a petulant child, his face filled with crazed glee. Those impaired chocolate cakes were being annhilated by his heavy black kitchen shoes. But in the midst of this cake rant, as he came down one more time on the sheet pan, his weight caused the pan to slide. Unfortunately, he went with it, skimming across the floor. The whole mess culminated in a clanging crash as the pan, and his body, hit the side of the walk-in refrigerator. 

He stayed down a minute, laying in hot cake crumbs. He then stood up, brushed himself off and left the room. A few minutes later, he reappeared. 

"I'm sorry, everyone," he said solemnly, obviously embarrassed for losing control. He cleaned up the mess and went back to work. 

After some investigative work, and a call to Rose Levy Berenbaum, the author of The Cake Bible, Raphael finally fixed the problem. We never spoke of "The Cake Incident." But I'm now much more careful around cakes because I know how much they can really piss you off. 

I've got another puzzle for you

My first job in the kitchen was at a well-regarded pastry shop in Chicago. I got there at 5:30 in the morning, and worked most days until 4:30 or 5:00 in the afternoon. There was no lunch break. The only time I sat down was on the toilet, to pee. It was physically the most brutal year and a half I've ever had. During the holiday season, we worked 16 hour days, filling hundreds of pie shells, making literally thousands of tiny little tarts for office parties and holiday events. One of my jobs was to roll and finish buche de noels, which are rolled cakes decorated to look like Yule Logs. I'm not even going to tell you how many meringue mushrooms I made (because I never counted, but it was A LOT). I was beginning to think I was superhuman. And then one morning, something else crossed my mind. 

I'm an oompah loompah.  

My tiny co-workers scurried about the kitchen in their white t-shirts and black and white checked pantaloons (that frankly don't do anyone any favors in the flattering department). Some were carrying bags of flour around. Others were scooping and weighing sugar or breaking eggs. At that epiphanous moment, I knew: once I stepped into the kitchen, I would be summoned by Gene Wilder's tiny pan flute. He would ask me to take Violet Beauregarde to the juicing room, and see if Augustus Gloop had made it out of the tube alive. Perhaps we would all stop and break into song, some sort of cautionary tale about bad parenting. Then we would continue on with the day's tasks, all us happy little workers.

I left soon after that, to find a job where I could be Gene Wilder and have my own Oompah Loompahs. Although that, too, has its share of cautionary tales. 

One of those meals

Lobster rolls are my proof that there is a God. And Pearl Oyster Bar has a direct line right to Him. Their lobster rolls are exactly as they should be: succulent hunks of lobster dressed with a simple tarragon mayonnaise, maybe even Hellman's (I totally approve). The bun is a homemade, lightly toasted hot dog bun, judiciously buttered. And they serve salty shoestring fries - a big mound of them - on the side. I also admire the few little snipped chives on the plate. Self-restraint is very appealing. 

If I'm going on one food pilgrimage, it's to Pearl. It's on one of those ridiculously charming side streets in the Village that makes you want to move to New York immediately. And I would wait in line forever, which is a distinct possibility at this place. It's teeny tiny. When you finally make it inside, you may end up sitting at the counter facing the wall, as opposed to the other counter that also faces a wall, just a more attractive one. It's a little disconcerting to stare at the wall while you're eating the greatest lobster roll of your life. You'd like to look at the generous ocean that gave you such a delicious, brave, selfless lobster. But you got the wall. C'est la vie. 

I'm sure there must be other stuff on the menu. But why bother. This is the Charlton Heston of lobster rolls (in his Moses days). Big, hunky, sorta sexy but deep down, still a Momma's boy. This is the one you marry. 

Amuse

An amuse geule is a tasty little something the chef sends out before the appetizer, to be enjoyed with an aperitif. It is of his choosing, this amuse, and I think of it as something that amuses the palate, although the direct translation is "animal's mouth." Figures. The French are always trying to fuck with us in some way. 

Saveur Magazine just came out with its restaurant issue, and on page 12, voila! Les amuses. They use the other common name, amuse bouche. The different amuse they picture - from a variety of fancy restaurants - are much more elaborate (and over-wrought in this non-foodie's opinion) than the ones we sent out at the "fancy" restaurant where I worked. 

The lowly job of the amuse maker went to a different cook every day and you could always tell which cook had the job by the effort that went into making it. If it was Johnathan, you'd get the leftover lentils from the night before, pureed with some butter and slapped in a little crock to spread on bread. You got the feeling that his whole life was a series of half-assed shortcuts. If Stuart had the task, he would spend hours tediously creating new flavor and texture combinations. He was the over-achiever of the kitchen, but it paid off because a few years later, he was named one of "Food and Wine"'s Best New Chefs of the Year. 

In that spirit, I'm going to start a regular entry called "Amuse." It will be a little tidbit, idea, or anecdote that I find amusing. Hopefully you will, too. 

Today's amuse: Project X: the Stuffalo. Some bloggers in Philadelphia were quite taken with the idea of Stuffed Crust Pizza from Pizza Hut. It's hard not to be. And they also adored buffalo wings. So, the logic goes, why not marry the two and create an offspring? The Stuffalo was born (see disgusting photo above). Pizza crust stuffed with buffalo wings. I think they even left the bones in. 

Waiting for a Hot Dog

It's 10:30 in the morning and I'm making myself a hot dog. My favorite way, the Franksville way, is a boiled hot dog on a poppyseed bun with melted cheese (think processed cheese food, like Velveeta) and chopped onions. I like the kind of onions that have lost their mojo from sitting around, aerating too long (think onions at a ball park concession stand). It's an acquired taste. 

I probably have hot dogs on the brain because last Saturday, I went to Hot Doug's with my friend, Bob, my daughter, Chloe, and Bob's absurdly large Irish Wolfhound, Georgia, and all we did was wait in line.  For over an hour. For a hot dog. (see all the other obsessed hot dog stalkers in line with us, above) The crazy thing was, we never even made it inside the door. We were still at least 20 people back when we threw in the towel, after standing an hour and ten minutes with a small child and a large dog who kept sticking her curious, well-meaning nose into the butt of a crotchety guy standing in front of us. Chloe had a playdate and we had to get going. 

To be fair, the line wasn't just for hot dogs. It was also for duck fat fries. And the myriad exotic encased meats that Doug, of Hot Doug's, has to offer. I just checked today's specials online and if I went right now, I could get a Thai Chicken Sausage with Sriracha Mustard and Sesame-Seaweed Salad. Or a Spinach and Feta Gyros Sausage with Tapenade Mayonnaise and Kasseri Cheese. I love it that Doug doesn't mix his metaphors. If you're going to be Thai, be Thai! If you're going to be Greek, be Greek! Too many chefs want to cross too many borders and bring too many cuisines together like they're cooking at the United Nations.  

But if I went today, I couldn't get the duck fat fries. They're a Friday and Saturday only proposition. So I will be going back, just not on a Saturday. I've made food pilgrimages before. And after giving it a great deal of thought, I've decided that waiting for hours for a one-of-a-kind, inventive, incredibly delicious item is totally within my comfort zone. It's waiting at a place like Red Lobster that I have a problem with. 

Dinner out of a can

When my husband goes to Sam's Club by himself, he'll bring home things like the family size Picnic Condiment pack - two 48 oz. squeeze bottles each of ketchup, yellow mustard, and relish. Why? Because someday, his logic goes, we might have a really big barbecue. Like, all of Northwestern University - all 25,000 people - might come over. Not that I'm immune to hypnotic purchasing trances. Last time I was at Sam's, I bought a 24 pack of V-8 juice. I don't even like V-8 juice. So it sat, languishing in my basement, for months and months.  

Then I found this recipe. Figures it's from Nancy Silverton. She's my idol. Has been for years. She's a pastry chef in LA, but that's like saying Michael Jordan was a basketball player in Chicago. I don't want to sound too puppy love-ish here, but I would clean her toilets if she asked. Anyway, here it is: what you might be having for dinner tomorrow night. 

Spaghettini with Tuna and V-8 Sauce

Adapted from "A Twist of the Wrist" by Nancy Silverton

1/2 small onion, finely chopped

1 celery stalk, finely chopped

1 garlic clove, minced

Pinch of chile flakes(optional)

Olive oil

1 cup V-8 juice

1 red bell pepper, roasted, peeled and cut into pieces (this is my addition)

1 can tuna packed in olive oil (I get mine from Whole Foods - the Cento brand), drained

Spaghettini or spaghetti for however many you're serving (I use a box for four people)

Boil the water for the pasta. While the pasta is cooking, saute the onion, celery and garlic in a generous Tbs. of olive oil until translucent, about 5 minutes. Add the pepper flakes, if using, and V-8 juice. Bring just to a boil, then let cool a bit. Put the sauce and red bell pepper pieces into a blender (a food processor is ok, too). Blend well. Taste, and season with salt and pepper if necessary. Toss the drained, cooked pasta with the sauce, then flake the tuna over the pasta and toss again. Nancy adds coarsely chopped olives and capers, and I would do that, too, but then my children would end up having cereal for dinner. A sprinkling of chopped parsley would be great, too. 

This serves 4 people with medium appetites. The sauce, once made, can be refrigerated for several days. Add the tuna right before serving. 

Meet the staff

When you're at a restaurant, do you ever wonder who's making your food? Who's sauteeing your fish and dressing your salad and squeezing that curly-Q of chocolate sauce on to your dessert plate?  

It's Julian. 

Julian was the baddest ass I have ever come across in the kitchen. He was like a Richard Roundtree badass motherfucker, and when he walked into the room, you cowered. Even the chef cowered, and he was his own kind of hairy, uneducated badass who made people cower, and occasionally cry, but that's another story.  In a kitchen of gamblers, drunks, and thieves, Julian was the baddest of them all.

He was a physical specimen the way NFL receivers are specimens: tall, lean, and built like an anvil. He was a bald-headed, pink-skinned black man, and he had a kitchen pedigree like no one else in the kitchen: stints at Jean Georges in New York, and Chez Panisse in Berkeley, both like the supermodels of the restaurant world. Which gave him the cred to walk in, and take over. Make the place his. Which he did, by adding his own personal culinary touches to all of the chef's dishes, especially the sauces. I always wondered how the chef took that. Probably by cowering. 

After his first night of service, while we were all cleaning our stations, we heard mad grunting coming from the basement. That was where the staff locker room was, as well as the refrigerated walk-ins. It was a scary kind of grunting, like maybe Dennis Hopper was down there with his oxygen mask from "Blue Velvet."  One of us summoned up the courage to walk over to the top of the stairs. The rest of us followed, all in our dirty white coats and checked pants. We all looked down.

At the bottom of the stairs was Julian, doing push-ups, grunting violently, like a wounded werewolf. At the end of a 12 hour shift. We would soon learn that this is how he ended all his shifts: with 100 crazy motherfucker push-ups. Then he would put on his coat and leave without saying a word, and I'm pretty sure his night would not end there. 

A few months later, there were rumblings that he had lied about everything. He never cooked at Jean Georges. He never attended Berkeley (like he told me one afternoon in my pastry kitchen when we were alone, and I picked up my chef's knife just in case). And then he started to get disgruntled - nothing was up to snuff.  The vegetables weren't fresh enough, the meat was second rate. Then one night, he dropped hot bordelaise sauce on his foot. The burn forced him to stay home for a few days, and then a few more, and then suddenly, he just stopped coming to work. 

I saw Julian once after that, crossing the street one afternoon near the restaurant. He looked bound, keyed up. He didn't see me. He was probably cooking somewhere else by then, telling them he had worked at Restaurant Daniel and Alain Ducasse in New York and that he had gone to Harvard. And I bet they cowered.