Bizarro Food Network

Something is rotten in the state of the Food Network.

Of course, that's to be expected. For once, though, the rot is a metaphorical one, and not Sandra Lee's latest culinary abortion.

This is the channel that replaced Sara Moulton with a second daily dose of Rachael Ray and cut Molto Mario to free up airtime for Semi-Homemade Cooking. This is the channel that ran a supposed culinary competition in which the contestants grilled steak and poured nacho cheese onto store-bought tortilla chips, then made the bold-faced lie that it was "all about the food." This is the channel that brought us "BAM!", "Yumm-o!", and "EVOO," and realized that, unlike ambition, mediocrity wouldn't slip through the Cheeto-stained fingers of its target demographic, the despised "home cook."

Apparently, though, there exists a melancholy executive. A man or woman who, on a late, moonless night on the battlements above the Food Network cubicles, was visited by the vengeful spectre of Julia Child, and has chosen to suffer the slings and arrows of Bob and Suz.
There is no other explanation for The Next Iron Chef, which premieres a week from today and, miraculously, looks watchable. And I don't just mean watchable in the sense of The Next Food Network Star, a cynically honest behind-the-scenes look which demanded attention as would a train wreck. For the first time in a long while, it looks like there may be a Food Network show that is really about the food (and, of course, overwrought Japan-inspired spectacle, a must in our post-Godzilla culinary world).

First, as host, we have Alton Brown, whose likability and geek appeal have somehow managed to save him from the Coalition replacing him with a large-breasted "personality" like Ingrid Hoffman. The judges look good, too. We have Bon Appetit editor Andrew Knowlton, restaurateur Donatella Arpaia, and, best of all, classically trained author and blogger Michael Ruhlman. Not only did he help write The French Laundry Cookbook, but he's also a Bourdain associate and all around ne'er-do-well.

Of course, none of this matters if the contestants suck. Apparently, though, Food Network still has enough clout--or offers enough publicity--to draw some serious talent and, in a novel twist, has elected to choose contestants who can actually cook. My jaw dropped when I read the list. After the network's history of abusing real chefs, it's a stable far better than the network deserves.

There's Gavin Kaysen, formerly of the Michelin-starred L'Escargot in London, now of El Bizcocho (I'm there in a few months when the temperature here is twenty below -- my sister lives in San Diego).

Aarón Sanchez of Paladar and Centrico in New York, son of Mexican culinary authority Zarela Martinez.

Michael Symon of Lola in Cleveland. A Beard nominee who's been featured in Gourmet, Bon Appetit, Food & Wine, and Saveur.

There's John Besh of Restaurant August, a CIA graduate who's been praised by Gourmet, Food & Wine, and the Zagat guide. 2006 Beard Award for Best Chef of the Southeast.

Jill Davie, another CIA grad -- Charlie Trotter's and Tru in Chicago, Josie in LA.

Chris Cosentino, alum of Red Sage and Chez Panisse.

There's Traci fucking des Jardins. San Francisco Magazine's "Chef of the Year." Food & Wine "Best New Chef." Two Beard Awards. Rubicon. Jardinière. She's headed kitchens in restaurants that Sandra Lee couldn't pronounce if they were printed on the back of a flavoring packet.

(Okay, so I've never heard of Morou Ouattara, but in this company I'll give the guy the benefit of the doubt.)



Will Food Network manage to screw this up, too? Will we be allowed to actually watch our intrepid heroes cook? Will the Shakespearean finale result in a pile of corpses, the result of Guy Fieri's tater tots and Sandra Lee's supposed Steak Diane?

Heck, they might even draw a few foodies. After all, they had the sense to wait until the conclusion of Top Chef.

3rd Floor Agriculture

One of my favorite times in the day is that moment when I leave my kitchen, venture across the living room, and, imaging myself an urban, Midwestern Jerry Traunfeld, pick fresh herbs from the pots and planters on my balcony. The satisfaction comes on two levels: first, the sense of a job well done, of the disproportionate rewards for a bit of watering and attention, and second, the immediate gratification that is gluttony, the smells and tastes (because a nibble of fresh tarragon is practically a requirement) available now, in my own home, without a trip to the market.

Because of this burgeoning urban-agrarianism, my balcony doesn't feature the luxuries that my neighbors enjoy: instead of chairs, I have Green Zebras. In more feverish moments, I like to fancy myself a sort of latter day gentleman farmer, albeit one who can take a five minute walk to Restaurant Magnus or L'Etoile. Reading the Times over the weekend, this article played to my delusions.

Apparently I've been missing out on the great urban chicken craze of 2007. Like the backyard herb garden, the chicken coop seems to provide a stream of homegrown sustenance for minimal effort. Like herbs, fresher eggs are generally superior. Those rare eggs with a clearly visible chalazae, prominent taste, and that white whose consistency is just perfect? That could be breakfast every day. Those chickens who have lived and exercised long enough to taste like chicken--real chicken--instead of the bland grocery store variety? There's dinner. Coq au vin with real, adult rooster and real rooster's blood? That, my friends, is eating.

Better yet, this isn't, apparently, just for our suburban compatriots with their fancy "yards." Pet chickens can be raised just like parrots, but earn their keep by providing an endless stream of omelette and frittata. And they don't talk back when you're ready to eat them.

Too good to be true? I was a little skeptical at first, but I've confirmed it. Like various theories of alien pyramid pumps and a full range of disturbing German and Japanese pornography, it was on the internet.

Ever wonder if Bantam hens have a better disposition than other chickens? If a chicken tractor requires a regular house and pen, too? How to quiet your crowing rooster? Neither have I, but these are all covered as Frequently Asked Questions over at http://www.thecitychicken.com.

Of course, this is Madison, not New York City. There's plenty of space nearby to raise chickens without resorting to my balcony. But an early morning trip across town is a lot less pleasant than a robed stroll across the living room. Until I hear otherwise from my landlord, I'm on the market for 4'x4' coops.

Tasting Notes: 2004 Big Easy Syrah by Fess Parker

This past weekend provided me with the opportunity to finally visit the Kennedy Manor Dining Room and Bar, across from the Edgewater Hotel at the corner of Wisconsin Avenue and Langdon Street. While there, I had the chance to taste a very nice Syrah, the 2004 "Big Easy" by Santa Barbara's Fess Parker Winery.

It's not just a clever name. This wine is easy to drink, with big flavors and a formidable 16.1% alcohol content. Maybe it's not a coincidence that Fess Parker played Davy Crockett in the 1950's television series: the full, smoky, berry flavors seem befitting a legendary frontiersman (or at least one who drank wine instead of rye or the entire Mississippi River).

The nose of this dark ruby Syrah is smoky, with pronounced blueberry, blackberry, and plum. Beneath the fruit, one notices spice and a bit of chocolate, as well as a subtle but unmistakable hint of ethanol. These notes are altogether pleasant, but not particularly remarkable.

The real star here is taste. This is a sumptuous, jammy wine, medium-heavy bodied with the plum and berry again taking center stage. Also present are pepper, oak, spice, and cherry, and the finish is slightly tannic. Somewhat surprisingly given their boldness, the flavors come together very smoothly, and are prominent enough not to be overwhelmed by the high alcohol content.

Altogether, this is a very nice bottle that should please a range of palates. I haven't tasted such a bold Syrah in quite some time, and the big, homey flavors will likely appeal to more casual drinkers. Still, there's enough lush elegance here to win over wine enthusiasts, and its vibrant execution should please fans of the grape.

Recommended.
The retail price is about $35.

Champagne, Caviar, and Pancakes (Two Different Ones)

God from the mount of Sinai, whose grey top
Shall tremble, he descending, will himself
In thunder and loud trumpets' sound
Ordain it caviar
-Paradise Lost



At least I think that's what Milton wrote.

In the haute cuisine pantheon, and much more so in general perception, the image caviar evokes is one of wealth and opulence that no other food can match. 400 lb railroad barons in top hats and three-piece suits cavort with Romanov tsaristas, British super spies, and Hercule Poirot. Between exchanging Fabergé eggs and solving murders on the Trans-Siberian Railway, they down the legendary roe with gold-inlaid nacre spoons. Or something like that.

With a friend moving to Belarus this week, and a tin of generously given Osetra just waiting to be eaten (thanks Dave!), last night seemed a perfect opportunity to indulge my McDuckian appetites. Now, I've had Osetra before, as a garnish with seafood dishes, and on a tiny blin as part of an amuse, but I've never done a traditional caviar service with mountains of blini, separated hard-cooked egg, finely diced onions, and sour cream. We bought some nice bubbly (I wanted vodka as well, but in a nightmarish turn more appropriate to Gogol, my friend and her Belorussian husband apparently don't care for the stuff) and prepared to make some blini.

Sure, we've all heard the stories from cookbooks and expats: blini are ordinary, everyday fare, and they're really not very different from pancakes, or from the liquid batter treats cooked on flat surfaces the world over.

Bullshit. I knew the truth. To me, and I imagine to most Americans, blini are supposed to be an exotic specialty, a rumored delicacy from beyond the iron curtain, something befitting the mythical glory of fish eggs, to be enjoyed only by Party insiders and occasional Westerners made rich through the treasonous sale of nuclear technology. Surely there was some exotic craft to their construction, a state secret that, if exposed would be the bane of Parisian crêperies and American Waffle Houses alike. The Reich's Spätzle hadn't stood a chance, but I would be ready.

I prepared by making the humble pancake. Flour, baking powder, salt. Milk, egg, and maybe a little sugar. It was simple, but I felt I needed to be prepared for what awaited me...

The blini came together in a flurry of movements befitting a Strangelove-esque symphony. Like Baryshnikov and Kolpakova, flour danced with salt! Like Peter Sellers and Peter Sellers, milk and egg played off of each other in a harmony of insane flavors! Sugar was still optional.

Okay, so there was some yeast in the process, but what the hell? The taste and texture was slightly different, but was a pancake with yeast the best the one-time Evil Empire had to offer? It saddened me to admit it, but fifty years in a fallout shelter capped off by an emergence into a post-nuclear wasteland where the secrets were mine and mine alone wouldn't have been worth it. (The mutant cows and cool clothing might have made it worth while, of course--but I digress.) At the end, the blini were good, but, in that most American of blunders, I had turned them into something they weren't--and for the record, the crêpe is still my pan-cooked batter of choice.

What, then, of the caviar? The quality was immediately apparent, with that smooth, salty, buttery flavor that aficionados love. Served on the toasty blini, the condiments brought out a range of contrasts in texture and flavor, and it was interesting to try them in varied combination. The sour cream, I thought, was the best counterpoint, its thick, sour, creaminess, playing off of the crisp saltiness of the eggs. The wine complimented both, and I loved the interplay of the roe, cream, and our rich, sweet asti. Crème fraîche may have worked even better.

The truth, though, is that I preferred the caviar as I had had it before. With its strong, distinct flavors, I preferred it as a sparkling, elegant accent rather than a star unto itself. Alone and unaccompanied, the Osetra seemed to me too much a bludgeon of flavor, no matter how refined, but with condiments, it seemed a lily painted with ingredients less interesting than itself. As a crisp, salty, nuanced compliment to another finished dish, I think caviar achieves its acme.

Then again, maybe we just needed some Russian Standard.

Doing God's Work

Like most of us, you probably know one.

They walk our fair city like Janette Scott, looking like the rest of us, for the most part, frequenting our coffee shops, our markets, and our restaurants. Oh, there are signs, to be sure. The coffee is fair trade, the produce invariably organic, and the time spent perusing the menu just a little too short--and does that slight frame belie an amino acid deficiency? But here in Madison, bastion of social justice and home to myriad subcultures, these telltale warnings often go unnoticed. Like pod people, they lurk unseen beneath the thin veneer of society.

I speak, of course, of the vegetarians.

Vegetarians are a peculiar species, largely alien to most foodies, and they come in several prominent varieties. There are the sad, misguided, "healthy" vegetarians, though experience shows that this is more and more often a weak secondary justification for some other cause. Never mind that anorexia will lower your cholesterol, too; that doesn't mean it's a good idea. Let's be blunt here: animal products are nutritionally the best there are. Yes, eating several pounds of bacon on a daily basis will kill you (and is the way I hope to finally shuffle off), but back in reality, our species survived by adapting to eat the ones that didn't. Vegans in this camp are far worse. Just because it's possible to make it through a day without falling over dead doesn't mean that it's advisable, and raising children this way is a risky proposition at best. Give your kids some damn chicken, people.

And if you're a crazy New Zealand vegan who believes that the rest of us are "literally made up from the bodies of others," then I have nothing but contempt for your asinine thoughts and fundamental misunderstanding of, well, everything. (Their abuse of the word "literally" is an issue for another day.) Whence come the nutrients for their carrots, I wonder?

The only vegetarians really worth considering, I think, are those who do it for moral reasons. It's true that for most of these, their vegetarianism is a college lark, a brief spark of nonconformist morality that permits entry into a patchouli-scented clique before they move to the suburbs and pursue careers in computer programming or banking. That said, there exists in this group an intelligent, conscientious core that cares more about ethical than juvenile posturing. And they're right to pose these questions. Tradition, the fact that we as a species and as a culture have eaten meat for the entirety of our existence, does not absolve us of at least weighing the morality of our actions. Sure, there are various ethical and philosophical arguments, of course, and they fill volumes. What are our responsibilities to other lives, to other species, to our ecosystems? But, when it comes down to it, the question is basic: is it justifiable to kill another living being for pure pleasure?

One could argue that the cultural significance of food outweighs any moral qualms, that the benefits it brings to human society outweigh any harm done to . There is the simple pleasure of preparing the same chicken soup that has been in the family for generations, and the unifying excitement of a foray into the traditional dish of another culture, shared with a friend who has imported a preparation of pig snouts or chicken feet from her home country. These are noble reasons, and they do matter. But ultimately they aren't the truth.

One could argue that cows and chickens exist today in meaningful numbers only because of human agriculture, and if that means a whole lot of them live boring lives and get eaten, then so be it--is a goverment sponsored cow preserve somewhere in Kansas really a preferable alternative? Would the chickens really, really have better lives struggling for food in the wild, eventually dying of disease or being torn apart by a different predator? I don't think so, but that argument isn't the truth, either.

The truth is that I have no qualms about boiling an overgrown water cockroach for something so delicious as homard à l'Américaine, and then serving it to my friends. I feel no guilt tearing a mindless bivalve from its shell and slurping down its sublime, briny perfection, not for anyone else, but out of pure, animal selfishness. The truth is, as animals, I afford us the same luxury that I afford the rest of them. The tiger may not be burdened by morality, but it gets to enjoy its meal all the same. So why deny ourselves that same primal pleasure? Frankly, we're going to appreciate it more. We might even use truffles.

That said, vegetarianism for the right reasons is, I think, worthy of respect, if only for the small, moral core that seeks to elevate humanity above its savage tendencies, and I've often said that this city deserves a decent vegetarian restaurant. We need a Green Zebra, an affirmative destination to wash away the adolescent rebellion we've seen in horrendous entries like Peacemeal, a Frankenstein's monster sewn together by people who clearly cared more about their politics than they did their food . But because I'm a heartless creature, a slave to my appetites and perplexed by those who aren't, I'd be remiss not share a web comic that I read this morning, one that I think will resonate with my fellow carnivorous Madisonians.


Of course, we selfish, predatory humans are not, contrary to popular belief, the only ones with a sense of humor.

This morning, within an hour of reading the above comic, an errant vegetarian friend now living in New York state sent me this photograph. It comes from the Rochester Public Market, a magical place where shoppers can also purchase faux Prada handbags, samurai swords of dubious quality, and incense redolent with the heady aromas of "Pleasures" or "Pussy."

The goat's probably delicious, to be sure, but I think the picture speaks for itself.

Dave, next trip to the Irony Cafe is on me.

Heart of Darkness

Milwaukee. Shit.

It should have been an easy mission. Hell, there was even a registry. I was to go to a gourmet store, buy a few silicone mats, maybe a pie dish, and my good friend and his new wife would be set for a happy life of baking together. I accepted the mission. What the hell else was I going to do?

Of course, once you set foot in a gourmet store, the bullshit piles up so fast you need wings to stay above it. "Everyone needs a great knife," I justified to myself, ignoring the bakeware I was carrying for the bride. "Besides, even if someone else has the same idea, they'll be able to cook together."

As I approached the cutlery display, the Valkyries gathered to the swelling of strings and my gung-ho plan began to take form. "I'll start them off with a Wüsthof paring knife"--I loved my Wüsthofs, back at home, back in civilization--"and then, when they see how much of a difference it makes, they'll be able to get a serious chef's knife." The Wagner rose to a crescendo as the clerk handed me the blade, and I prepared to turn back.

Then I saw it: the distinctive Damascus pattern, the ebony Pikka handle, the prohibitive price. A Japanese blade. A Shun. I had spoken to some who had gone up the river before me, turning from safer waters to their Globals, wild-eyed men who waded into prep undaunted by slippery metal handles. I had used several santokus, tools that my foreigner's hands were never able to properly master. But I recently had the opportunity to use an eight-inch Shun chef's, and while that blade was smaller than I preferred, the handle suited my pinch grip well, and I could feel how much lighter and sharper it was compared to my European armament. As I continued upriver, my mission faded into the display of half-hallucinated fireworks.


Never get out of the boat. Absolutely God damn right. Unless you were going all the way.

I bought the ten-inch.

They will tell me that I have gone totally insane, and that my methods are unsound. The boys back in Solingen will say that I've gone native. But still I construct my own Empire: chickens are broken down more quickly and finely diced onions are effortless. I produce chiffonades, duxelles and other relics recovered from the former colonists.

I watch a snail crawl along its razor edge. Crawling, slithering--and surviving. That's my dream. That's my nightmare. I reach for shallots and Vouvray.

But what would be next? A deba? A chukabocho? Would the madness end?

The horror. The horror.

One Night Stand

I’m not the first to compare food with sex, and I won’t be the last, but the comparison has become a cliché for a reason. At their best, both arouse the five senses and the animal center of our brain, eventually leaving us happily exhausted—and perhaps in search of a cigarette— but always craving more.

Like most people in Madison who care about food, I bravely crawl out of bed on Saturday mornings, fighting through Friday nights of too little sleep and too much beer, for my regular fling at the Capitol Square. After hitting the snooze for the fourth time, I’m hopefully still early enough to beat the rush of strollers and undergrads. This week I’m not; I’ll have to walk around them. Shallots and the now ubiquitous heirloom tomatoes are in season, and I’m running low on the former while my Green Zebra plant isn’t liking the new balcony as much as the old one. And there are, of course, the recurrent pleasures of the market: another taste of Hook’s 12-year, (an excellent, strong cheddar that is the equivalent of a culinary kneecapping), the continued search to determine which vendor produces the best of whatever cut of pork I’m looking for that week, the inevitably failed attempt to resist Katie’s superlative pastry—the best I’ve had outside of Paris— and Tim’s flawless macchiato at Café Soleil. Before the morning is out, I’ll have plans for a beet and chevre pizza, and I’ll be carrying an impulsively purchased rabbit, no clear design in mind, but mumbling incoherently about the virtues of braising.

When the tryst is done, I head home relatively satisfied, with a familiar smile that says “until next time, dear.” But this week betrayal is already in my heart. As if by a painted, bar time harlot in a tube top and go-go boots, I’ve been beckoned. I know what’s going to happen, and I go anyway.

I want to like Taste of Madison. I really do. Yet it’s hard to take seriously a food festival that features such varied culinary low points as Little Caesar’s, Red Lobster, and the confusingly named Carlos O’Kelly’s. Arriving from State Street, the mind boggles to process a purportedly Mexican restaurant proudly flying, alongside the Mexican and American flags, six two-foot, inflatable Tabasco bottles. We all know these places exist, of course, but do we as a city want to honor them in the same space where, only hours before, an artisan cheesemaker lamented that she would love to sell her goat’s milk, but that government regulations meant that it wasn’t legally viable?

There are, thankfully, exceptions. Bluefies’ jerk chicken nachos reflect their white-washed corporate origins, and their cheese sauce is questionable, but the chicken is properly cooked and seasoned, adding a mild but pleasant bite in place of the standard jalapeños. (I pass on their cookie dough egg rolls, a dessert that never should have made it to the concept stage in the first place.) Café Costa Rica’s crisp patacones (unripe plantains mashed into small cakes and deep fried) are easily my favorite dish of the day. Served by the cook, they contrast nicely with the restaurant’s rich red beans, and fresh cilantro lightens the dish without feeling like the tacked-on addition it often becomes. I’ll be finding my way to their Butler Street location soon. While it’s geographically just down the street, their soulful, authentic food is worlds apart from the celebrated mediocrity that is most of our city’s dubious gastronomic gala.

In the end, as I make my walk home in the harsh light of day, I feel a little dirtier. No, I don’t regret what I’ve done. But thinking of rabbit, patacones, and novelty hot sauce balloons, I can’t shake the feeling that we can do better.