Pear Chutney

1 Cup pear, brunois (very small dice)
¼ Cup murin Japanese rice wine
1 Tablespoon sugar
1 Tablespoon chopped shallots
1 Tablespoon mustard oil
1 Teaspoon mustard seed

Heat Mustard oil and toast the seeds until begin to pop. Take off heat and cove until stop popping. Add shallots and cook until soft. Add pear, rice wine and salt and pepper. Cook down until pear is tender and wine is cooked off. Adjust seasoning if necessary.

Only in NY (I hope)

I'm sitting in the Apple Store on 5th Avenue and have just seen a lady wearing an outfit of train wreck proportions. Close your eyes and imagine this (Good luck reading and closing your eyes at the same time). Short and stout pear-shaped woman in her fifties . . . yellow blond spiked mohawk with black shaved hair on the sides and back . . . starkly painted eyebrows, heavy dark lipstick . . . black, glossy stretch (and lemme tell ya, they were stretching) tights . . . navy blue wrap around cable knit sweater revealing a huge bust . . . leopard print fur and black clogs. To complete the picture, she was scratching her butt in front of me. Don't you all want to move to New York?

As a side note, I just passed Da Coach, a.k.a. Mike Ditka, on the street, replete with brown leather jacket with the collar up.

My Three Favorite Words

It’s not like I’ve ever had favorite words in the past, or even thought about such trivial things . . . I definitely didn’t search for these gems. And it’s not that they sound eloquent or mysterious, rousing inquiry as to their meaning. They’re my favorite three words because, when I hear them, a cool wave of relief and accomplishment spills over me and washes away all my tension and anxiety. We’re all in. Those three simple words, for me, mark the coming of the end. I’ve done it. I’ve survived yet another dinner service. I can see the finish line of yet another marathon day. Another day in the kitchen filled with a myriad of stresses and emotions coming to a close, and the satisfaction of giving our guests such a memorable dining experience.

What I'm cooking today . . . .

CHILI
1 Poblano Pepper
1 Italian Pepper
1 Serano Chile
4 small dried chipotle peppers
1 lb. ground beef
1 medium white onion, diced
1 15oz can black beans
1 15oz can red beans
4 T whole cumin
1 T celery seed
4 T whole coriander
1 28oz can whole plum tomatoes
1 28oz can plain tomato sauce
1 bottle beer

Blacken poblano pepper with the flame on your gas stove. Once completely blackened, place in a bowl and cover with plastic wrap for 10 minutes. Remove from bowl and rub off the char. Cut into small pieces. Cut the italian and serano peppers into small pieces. Soak the chipotle peppers in hot water until soft. Take out the seeds and cut into small pieces. In a large pot, cook the ground beef. Set aside in a bowl. In the same pot, sweat the onion and peppers in oil. Once transparent, add the meat back in. Drain and rinse the beans and add to the pot. Roughly chop the whole tomatoes and add to pot along with the remaining liquid, plus the can of tomato sauce. Bring to a low simmer. Toast the cumin, celery seed and coriander and grind in a spice or coffee grinder. Add to chili. Season with salt and pepper. Add beer and cook at a low simmer for 1 hour. Serve with your favorite cheese and sour cream. Makes roughly 2 quarts.

I love my paring knife.

The Morning After

Sunday. The beginning of my weekend. The morning after. Saturday night always embodies a long, hard dinner service. Last night was no exception. The number on the books ominously hung on the expediter's station. We all saw it, we all secretly feared it. It motivated us to work harder, faster, lest we not have our mise en place ready before those words, "4 canape, table 12", signifying the start of dinner, broke the intense calm. The following 6 adrenaline-filled hours would be stressfull, that goes without saying. Those dreaded words came early last night, and I was still assembling my new lobster salad. If I didn't hurry, I was going to be in the shits faster than I could say garde manger. The salad was only three days old, the kinks still being worked out. My rythm still yet to be discovered. I was running out of asparagus and the lobster salad mix. More canapes were being sent. Shit! Call in the backup. First order in, trumpet salads, not me. I was fervently applying asparagus tips to the outside of my lobster. Must move faster. Second order in, 2 terrines, not me. Thank you, God! By the time my orders came in, I was clear of the worst. I had 18 salads made, enough for the first push.

Sunday. The beginning of my weekend. The morning after. Coffee in hand. No stress.

Another Saturday Night

This being my first "Blogger" post, I feel it should be one of length and substance. However, given that I need to leave for the restaurant in an hour, I shall just say this. Tonight should be filled with feeding bridge and tunnel people loads of chicken and tuna tartare . . . aren't you jealous?