Have Blade Will Travel: The adventures of a traveling chef (14 page)

NB: I learned this Greek dish during a summer working as pantry boy at Basel’s, a family-owned restaurant in New Haven, Connecticut.

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For desserts I ran my favorites: Tarte Tatin, Poached Pear Roman-style (stuffed with marzipan); Cherry Cobbler; Dutch Apple Cake; Apple Crêpes, Caramel Sauce; Vin Blanc Sapphire (a white wine mousse).  I was about to prepare a Chocolate Decadence – a flourless chocolate torte – when my trusty dishwasher Janice asked me if I had ever made a mayonnaise cake.

Janice and her husband owned a local dairy farm, and worked as dishwasher during the winter months to augment her family income.  She was a terrific co-worker and I enjoyed our conversations as I prepared my dinners.  She shared her recipe for mayonnaise cake, and I have probably made it a hundred times in the years since.  It is the simplest, most down-to-earth, fail-safe chocolate cake I have ever made - not dense like Chocolate Decadence, but moist and light, which makes it the perfect chocolate sponge to augment with frosting, jam, rum syrup, whipped cream and strawberries, or just about anything one would want to add.  It remains one of my prized recipes.

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Chocolate Mayonnaise Cake
 (
Yields two- 8-inch cake rounds)

1 cup (240 mL) sugar

2 cups (480 mL) flour

2 teaspoons (10 mL) baking soda

¼ cup (60 mL) cocoa powder

¼ cup (60 mL) mayonnaise

1 cup (240 mL) hot water (100-degrees F; 50-degrees C)

1 teaspoon (3 mL) vanilla

• Preheat an oven to 350-degrees F (175-degrees C)
  
• Sift together the first four ingredients into a bowl.  Add the mayonnaise, hot water, and vanilla, and blend thoroughly.  Pour into a greased and floured baking pan, and bake 25-to-30 minutes.
  
• After cooling for 10 minutes, remove the cake from the pan, and allow to cool on a rack.  Store in air-tight container until ready to garnish.
  

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One of the simplest ways to serve this cake is to pipe out whipped, sweetened cream through a star tube, and top with fresh-grated nutmeg.  It can also be used as a base for a two-layered Black Forest Cake, in which cherries are added to the whipped cream in the center, and single cherries placed around the top outside edge of the cake.

Of course on the occasional Saturday night, I would offer Roast Prime Rib, one of the coarsest and least refined food items I know of, and misnamed as well.  The “Prime” does not refer to the grade of beef, but to the “Primal” cut of the rib, of which there are seven within a side of beef. Each"Primal cut" is further broken down into steaks and chops and assorted other smaller cuts.  If the beef industry wanted to be genuine about the use of this term, it would be called “Roast Primal Rib of Beef,” but instead they found a way to get the word “prime” in place, so that consumers think that are eating a “prime” grade of beef – which they are not.

This does not mean that the eye of the round is not a quality piece of meat to work with, even if it is choice – the second of four main grades (Prime, Choice, Select and Standard are the grades of beef sold to the public; there are four other grades, but these are used in pet food - Commercial, Utility, Cutter, Canner).  In fact, there are many very fine ways of preparing a rib-eye steak – whether pan-fried, grilled, or broiled.  One example is à la Grande-mère – Grandmother Style – in which the steak is pan-fried in butter, served with demi-glaze [brown gravy], and garnished with fried diced bacon, roasted olive-shaped potatoes and glazed pearl onions.  The Grandmother classification seems appropriate here, for this dish epitomizes a comfort food for those who include red meat as a comfort food. 

Other variations include:

à l’anglaise (English Style), fried in butter, covered with deep-fried onion rings;

à la forestière (Forest Style), denoting sautéed morels, fried diced potatoes, and small triangles of fried bacon;

à la hongroise (Hungarian Style), dusted in salt and paprika, grilled (or braised in stock), garnished with stuffed red peppers and potato balls, and accompanied by sour cream;

à la milanaise (Milan Style), served with macaroni mixed with Parmesan cheese, julienned beef tongue, mushrooms, truffles, and tomato sauce. 

Thus there are many interesting ways of serving a beef rib-steak, which is my point relative to Roast Prime Rib.  Why throw a slab of rare roast beef onto a plate when many beautiful and complex dishes can be made that are far more appetizing?  In addition, there are other dishes that can be made from the deckle – the cap of tough beef that wraps around the rib, similar to flank steak, which can be braised with exceptional results: Beef Burgundy (Bourguignonne), Beef Provençale, Beef Flamande (with Beer), Beef Dijon-style (with mustard), Ginger-and-Orange Beef (an Asian dish), and so on.

Thus, when my gastronomic mojo got revved up after an afternoon of repeatedly flying down the side of a mountain at seventy miles per hour – I used my dinner service as an outlet for all that innovative energy.  One night I ran a Chinese menu, featuring Crispy Fried Duck, a very rich [oily] creation, but quite succulent – and always appreciated.

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Crispy-Fried Duck, Sweet and Pungent Sauce
(Serves six-to-eight)

For the duck

3 quarts (3 liters) water

2 cups (480 mL) sherry

2 tablespoons (30 mL) ginger root, sliced very thin

2 cloves garlic, crushed

½ cup (120 mL) sugar

1 bunch scallion greens, roughly chopped

1 cinnamon stick

2 whole ducks

cornstarch as needed

vegetable oil as needed

For the batter

2 bottles Pilsner beer

2 cups (480 mL) flour

½ teaspoon (3 mL) paprika

½ teaspoon (3 mL) salt

½ teaspoon (3 mL) baking powder

For the dipping sauce

¼ cup (120 mL) brown sugar

½ cup (240 mL) pineapple juice

½ cup (60 mL) ketchup

1 tablespoon (15 mL) hot chili-pepper sauce

½ cup (60 mL) rice vinegar

½ teaspoon (3 mL) cornstarch dissolved in:

2 tablespoons (30 mL) dry sherry

For the duck

Place the water, sherry, ginger root, garlic, sugar, scallions, and cinnamon stick into a wok or pot, add the ducks, cover, and simmer for 1½ hours. 
Remove the ducks and set aside to cool. 
Strain the poaching liquid, and reserve for some other use.

After the duck has cooled down, pull the meat and skin from the bones (it should be roughly shredded.  Discard the bones, and press the meat and skin into a shallow pan (a half sheet pan works well) lined with parchment or wax paper.  Cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate overnight. 

For the batter

Pour one bottle of beer into a bowl, add the dry ingredients and blend well.  The batter should be the thickness of pancake batter – adjust thickness with the second bottle of beer.

Place the brown sugar, pineapple juice, ketchup, pepper sauce and rice vinegar into a sauce pan.  Bring to a boil, and adjust the flavor to taste, using the same ingredients.  Add the dissolved cornstarch, blend in, bring to a boil, and set aside.

Dip the duck pan into hot water for 15 seconds, then invert the duck onto a cutting board. The pressed duck meat should remain pressed together.  Remove the parchment or wax paper, and cut into 8 equal squares. Pour a ½-inch (1.3 cm) deep layer of oil in a heavy-gauge sauté pan, and heat to 350-degrees.  Dust the squares lightly with cornstarch, dip into the batter, allow excess batter to drip off, and pan-fry until golden brown on both sides. 
Transfer to absorbent paper, and place into a 200-degree preheated oven until ready for service.

Serve the duck squares with steamed rice, appropriate vegetable accompaniments, and the sauce.

NB: You may also wish to experiment with other dipping sauces, using soy sauce, brown sugar, grated ginger, hot chili-pepper sauce, rice vinegar, and so on.

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The rest of the ski-bums I met during that winter were an assortment of youngsters fresh out of college, middle-aged guys who couldn’t find their way to a stable life, and migrant musicians who played for lodging and supper at the late night clubs that dotted the mountains.  I always traveled with my guitar, but never got up enough nerve to bring it out and play for an audience. 

Of course the winter was not without its drama.  Rifka was one lovely waitress who collided with a tree while skiing down Mt. Snow, only to awaken in a hospital paralyzed.  She was whisked down to New York City before anyone could visit her and wish her well.

Annie was one of my food servers, and she was out on a day hike with a guy she was very keen on.  They were walking along a very narrow trail above a steep canyon, and she averted her glance for maybe two seconds, only to find the fellow gone the next.  He had slipped and fallen to his death on the rocks far below.  All of us were stunned at such tragic news.

One of the most colorful tales involved a burly fellow in denim overalls, big thick beard, and long hair tied in a pony tail – whom everyone called Bear.  He was as gregarious as the day was long, and ingratiated himself into the seasonal community.  Possessing good carpentry and electrician’s skills, he was hired by the big lodge up on Mt. Snow as their handyman for the season.  In the evening Bear would make an appearance at one or more of the local pubs, and buy endless rounds of drinks for everyone present.  I remember sitting at a table with friends, when a row of draft beers eventually appeared, trailing off into the distance.  It was the same for everyone – drink after drink after drink.  And with a large, friendly personality, you couldn’t help but love the guy.

Sometime in the late winter, word got around that Bear had vanished, and that the contents of the safe at the lodge were gone.  Eventually the state police were called in, and it was clear that he had disappeared with the cash.  I was as stunned as everyone else, and the shock among those who had invested their trust and friendship in him was palpable.  I thought about the lessons available from this turn of events – that there are people you can trust, and people who will steal you blind if you let them.  A friend once reminded me that if you have five close, trustworthy friends in a lifetime, you are probably doing pretty well.

In the Spring, the snow began to melt, and the winter season eventually came to an end.  Though the Rotolo’s would have been glad to have me remain as their chef for the summer season, I decided to move on to the next adventure.

Georgie Ruiz and his Open Road band were in New York City preparing for the next road trip, so I drove down and joined them.

Chapter 8

Of Soup and Love

Of soup and love, the first is the best.
Old Spanish proverb

Foot-loose and fancy-free was I, a wandering chef, reveling in a sense of freedom, and completely uncertain as to where I would land.  Soon, the band headed out to play a circuit of clubs and bars in suburban New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania.  An early stop was a nightclub in Altoona, Pennsylvania, in a shopping mall, and I remember the band playing their hearts out to an audience that demonstrated as much enthusiasm as a lump of coal.  And that was what the boys called them, privately – lumps of coal.

One night they asked me to jump in with a set on the double conga drums, which were set out on the floor, butted up against the stage off to one side.  I had had some experience from my teenage years in New York City, playing for small change with other street musicians in Washington Square and Central Park.  They coached me as to where to come in, and I played my set for one particular song.  At the chorus break, I threw in an extra, off-tempo bada-bang, which hit the stride so perfectly, that the band erupted with a communal “Yeah!” in loud unison, which is say I definitely had my conga chops on that night.  Sometimes, when you don’t think too much about what you are doing, the really good stuff from inside simply makes its way to the outside.

It was also clear what a tough life the road was for my musician friends, all accomplished entertainers, with families at home.  Yet here they were, playing uninspired gigs for dull people in places they would probably never visit again.  I wondered how many bands had gone out touring over the years, and never quite succeeded.

Soon spring arrived, and with it the promise of a fresh summer season and new job opportunities.  I made contact with Harriet Reilly, who had been my French Culinary Terminology instructor at the Institute, and was staying with her parents in New York City.  In April, she told me of a restaurant out in East Hampton, Long Island, in need of a chef for the summer season.  I bicycled out to Shelter Island, where Harriet was staying her good friend Jeanie, and met with Jay Labatt, the manager of the restaurant.  It was a trip of more than 100 miles, but as a dedicated, life-long bicyclist, it was a great way to begin the summer.

Jay informed me that the designated chef had suffered critical injuries in an automobile collision, and with the season six weeks away, he was in need of a competent chef, and rather quickly.  Though he was not quite sure if I was up to the challenge, my enthusiasm convinced him to give me a try.

The chef who had run the kitchen the summer previous was Charles Cheviot, a quasi-notable French chef if only for the fact that he brought his own private label Beaujolais for inclusion on the restaurant wine list.  I had no private-label wine, and I had yet to run my own kitchen, but it didn’t matter; creatively-speaking I was on fire, and I had no doubt in my ability to rise to the occasion.