Zuchini Flans with Sliced Zucchini and Salmon Cream

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Pineapple with Raspberry and Kiwi Sauces and Pineapple Sorbet

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Sauteed Eggplant and Baked Whiting in a Butter Sauce

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Tomato, Red Pepper and Olive Tart

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Pineapple Fritters with Macerated Kiwi Fruit

A trio of themes emerges from the text, these particular scenarios usually being terrific catalysts for culinary disaster: large banquets, opening night, and first jobs. One of my favorite entries (and one that would fall under the “first jobs” rubric) was by Mary Sue Milliken and Susan Feniger, chef-owners of the Border Grill and Cuidad in Los Angeles. Their tale centers upon Hollandaise sauce, which always has the potential to cause consternation, either one way or another. Other tales, meanwhile, arrive completely from left field; Gabrielle Hamilton, chef-owner of Prune in New York, tells a very human story about a blind line cook.

As can be expected, some of the chef-authors are more successful than others in drawing the reader into the chaotic world of professional cooking. Chefs are a creative lot, and I could not help but wonder, as someone who has made a living both writing and cooking, how much editing was really necessary for most of these stories. Not everyone can cook, and not everyone can write, either. However, each one of these stories is well-presented, mostly entertaining, and chock full of worst-case scenarios.

In all fairness, Ruhlman actually uses himself for an anecdote in the very chapter in which I’m mentioned, the aptly titled “Waiting for Bibimbap.” As he was trailing my Skills I class to gather information on Chef Roe, who was teaching his first-ever class at the CIA, Ruhlman had also been spending time in Cuisines of Asia with Chef Pardus (a central figure in Ruhlman’s 1999 book, “The Making of a Chef”). On his last day with Pardus, Ruhlman crashed and burned on the bibimbap station, which is a regular routine at the CIA. As long as there are classes in session, I can guarantee that someone somewhere is going down, and perhaps dragging their entire class down with them.

For the most part, however, Ruhlman’s book shifts its focus away from the CIA campus, and explores the new and ever-changing roles of today’s chef-entrepreneur. Ruhlman follows the great Thomas Keller as he plans to open New York’s Per Se, and he also follows Keller’s former protege, Grant Achatz, as he readies to open Chicago’s Alinea. Ruhlman also devotes sections of his book to Melissa Kelly, chef-owner of Primo in Maine, and he also contributes a portion to Masayoshi Takayama, the legendary sushi chef at Masa in New York City.

“The Reach of a Chef” is insightful in its scope, and it provides a thoughtful account of the American chef’s recent rise in stature. Ruhlman does an excellent job explaining how the Food Network has helped to foster this evolution, along with the recent Las Vegas phenomenon, which has allowed many of Amerca’s most famous chefs to capitalize on their celebrity.

Considering the level of expertise required to replicate one of Adrià’s dishes, I surmised that few people could actually put the recipes in “A Day at elBulli” to practical use. But then again, how many of these fancy cookbooks actually see any time in the kitchen anyhow? Most of these books tend to be cumbersome and unwieldy in size, and to spill something on a $50 book seems like a sin. To be sure, many of these restaurant-themed cookbooks are no more than coffee table books in disguise, featuring lavish, full-page layouts of exquisitely photographed food (what has commonly become known as “food porn” among many circles).

In the case of “A Day at elBulli,” however, it’s only fair to note that recipes, of which there are but 30, play just a small role within the book’s overall content, so this one was always destined for the coffee table. To wit, Adrià’s book boasts nearly 1,000 photographs, which are spread out over a whopping 600 pages. The title of the book is quite literal, as scenes from just one day in the elBulli kitchen are documented hour by hour. Considering that two million people attempt to procure a reservation at elBulli each year (with just 8,000 getting past the door), a book like “A Day at elBulli” may be the one opportunity for the average gastronome to have a peek into this unique culinary world. From this perspective, Adrià’s book may be a bit more egalitarian than it may seem.

In many instances, mentioning terroir almost smacks of elitism, as if uttering a bit of French might invoke some sort of Old World insight. But as much as I would enjoy taking the term terroir to task, there is no denying that this concept has a profound significance in relation to wine. From the American perspective, the word terroir is usually a convenient, one-word synonym for “soil and climate,” since these two factors seem to exert the greatest influence on a wine’s sense of origin. But while these two attributes are certainly key components of terroir, the actual French meaning of the word transcends these two physical elements. As Amy Trubek points out in her terrific book, “The Taste of Place,” the true nature of terroir is embedded deep within French culture itself.

Trubek begins her book from the French perspective, illustrating the ways that terroir can provide a nostalgic connection to France’s past. In this era of increased industrialization, Trubek argues that nostalgia trades at an all-time premium, and that the French take extreme pride in their culinary traditions. Trubek describes France’s idealized notion of the peasant farmer, an iconic symbol which — in 2008 — mostly exists within the French national conscience. But even though the peasant farmer has already become a quaint anachronism, France continues to embrace its agrarian roots: eating well remains a hallmark of the French identity, and as a result, terroir encompasses culinary traditions as much as it encompasses taste.

Beyond the early chapters, Trubek ultimately shifts her focus to the United States, detailing many aspects of our own culinary history. Although we do not have the time-honored culinary traditions that can match those of our French counterparts, Trubek does argue that the United States is developing its own culinary practices and ideals. “A Taste of Place” explores many facets of the American culinary landscape, including a spotlight on Bonny Doon winemaker Randall Grahm and a history of the farmer’s market in the San Francisco Ferry Plaza. After her foray into California, Trubek continues east throughout her book, highlighting chef Odessa Piper in Wisconsin, and finally ending up with a history of the Vermont Fresh Network.

As an overview, “A Taste of Place” proves extremely insightful. To her credit, Trubek only uses California as her point of introduction, quickly expanding her focus to the national level. Along the way, “A Taste of Place” fleshes out the complete meaning of terroir, placing it within a uniquely American perspective, and uncovering its many cultural implications. In doing so, Trubek explains that the notion of terroir should not simply be limited to its tangible elements, such as weather and terrain. Likewise, the reader also learns that the discussion of terroir should not simply be limited to wine.

]]> http://www.thirstyreader.com/book-review-the-taste-of-place/feed/ 0 http://www.thirstyreader.com/book-review-the-united-states-of-arugula/ http://www.thirstyreader.com/book-review-the-united-states-of-arugula/#comments Fri, 26 Sep 2008 07:42:46 +0000 Thirsty Reader http://www.thirstyreader.com/?p=75 During my first six weeks of culinary school, I spent many afternoons trolling the campus storeroom, trying to learn the differences between things like ginger and galangal or radicchio and red cabbage. The sheer inventory of the storeroom was impressive: a veritable dungeon, this area was stocked with foodstuffs ranging from the exotic to the mundane, all of which would become the raw food materials for 18 different kitchen-classrooms. As new culinary students, we were expected to visit the storeroom as part of a class called Product Knowledge — the class final would be culled from the [... read more ...]]]> During my first six weeks of culinary school, I spent many afternoons trolling the campus storeroom, trying to learn the differences between things like ginger and galangal or radicchio and red cabbage. The sheer inventory of the storeroom was impressive: a veritable dungeon, this area was stocked with foodstuffs ranging from the exotic to the mundane, all of which would become the raw food materials for 18 different kitchen-classrooms. As new culinary students, we were expected to visit the storeroom as part of a class called Product Knowledge — the class final would be culled from the storeroom’s very shelves.

One of the most challenging tasks was to identify the litany of salad greens in the walk-in: mache, shiso, watercress, mizuna, mustard, little gem, frisée, arugula. Depending on how far someone had lived from a decent farmers market, many of these items may have been completely foreign to incoming students. Fortunately for me, I did have the benefit of growing up in California, so I at least had some basic familiarity with arugula and frisée. Some of the other greens, however, were much more recondite.

After I finished chef school — just 21 months later — I hastened my retreat to the Napa Valley, where the produce became even more dynamic. I took a job at Auberge du Soleil, whose easy-going kitchen manager seemed to order the produce with free-wheeling abandon: we would have every type of heirloom tomato, every type of wild mushroom, every type of whatever was seasonal. That year, the hotel was making a killing on private banquets, and this highly-profitable income fueled a generous food budget for the entire restaurant.

In keeping with trends, Auberge embraced microgreens, those barely-sprouted versions of plants like arugula, spinach and beets (just to name a few). I had seen microgreens maybe once or twice in chef school, where they were presented mostly as a curiosity (in a small, plastic clamshell container, no less). In contrast, microgreens were the de riguer risotto garnish at Auberge du Soleil, where we carefully snipped them from large nursery flats every afternoon just before service.

Looking back, it occurred to me that in its basic, fully mature form, arugula had fast become the new iceberg lettuce: somewhat quaint in its ubiquity, an all-too-common garnish for a grilled chicken-breast sandwich. Yet, I can clearly remember a time when, not too long ago, arugula had plenty of novelty and cache, even here in California. Servers always used to describe arugula as “peppery” to those who inquired about it — these days, no one even has to ask anymore, do they?

In “The United States of Arugula,” David Kamp happens to use this leafy green as his metaphor, documenting America’s remarkable gastronomic shift over the last 70 years. The book explores our sociology to a large extent, drawing clear connections between our increased industrialization and our tendency to relegate eating as a necessity more than a pleasure. “The United States of Arugula” pinpoints where we had gone wrong and what ultimately inspired our steps in the right direction.

Kamp begins his food history at the very beginning, when pizza and sushi were still relative unknowns, long before they earned “comfort food” status here in America. The book follows the early days on the East Coast, when the “Big Three” of American cuisine — James Beard, Juila Child and Craig Claiborne — became the nation’s taste-makers. Naturally, during the latter half of the book, the focus shifts to the West Coast, with a detailed and frank history of Alice Waters and the many Chez Panisse alumni.

“The United States of Arugula” is resplendent with entertaining footnotes, and Kamp has clearly researched his topic thoroughly. Originally published in 2006, the book touches upon the recent rise of the Food Network, as well as the recent trend of celebrity chefs opening outposts in Las Vegas. In addition to exploring the relationship between chefs, critics and the media, “The United States of Arugula” also details the rise of the American specialty store, such as Dean & Deluca and Whole Foods Market.

In many ways, “The United States of Arugula” is yin to the yang of Eric Schlosser’s “Fast Food Nation” — while the latter book reveals how everything in American cuisine seems to have imploded, the former book illustrates those things that have actually gone well (though on a much smaller scale). In short, “The United States of Arugula” is an extremely informative text and a tremendously insightful food history. Kamp brings all of the characters together in a comprehensive narrative that remains both lucid and humorous.

]]> http://www.thirstyreader.com/book-review-the-united-states-of-arugula/feed/ 0 http://www.thirstyreader.com/book-review-heat/ http://www.thirstyreader.com/book-review-heat/#comments Tue, 16 Sep 2008 22:08:20 +0000 Thirsty Reader http://www.thirstyreader.com/?p=70 If I was ever granted the opportunity to teach a food-writing class, I would certainly assign Anthony Bourdain’s “Kitchen Confidential” and Bill Buford’s “Heat” as required texts. These are two books that simply beg to be compared and contrasted. On the surface, both books rely upon engaging narratives, and they both do an outstanding job describing the chaos that can often take place within a professional kitchen. Yet, at the same time, each book offers its own unique perspective of the restaurant industry. At their very core, the two books reveal divergent views regarding professional cooking.

If I was ever granted the opportunity to teach a food-writing class, I would certainly assign Anthony Bourdain’s “Kitchen Confidential” and Bill Buford’s “Heat” as required texts. These are two books that simply beg to be compared and contrasted. On the surface, both books rely upon engaging narratives, and they both do an outstanding job describing the chaos that can often take place within a professional kitchen. Yet, at the same time, each book offers its own unique perspective of the restaurant industry. At their very core, the two books reveal divergent views regarding professional cooking.

The differences between the books seem to stem from the authors themselves. Anthony Bourdain, after all, is a cook’s cook (even though he has certainly earned the title of “chef” over the years). Bourdain was drawn into the business at an early age, and as he points out in “Kitchen Confidential,” he was a chef long before it ever became fashionable. Buford, on the other hand, entered the business as a curious outsider, long after America’s food Renaissance was well underway. In essence, the primary difference between Buford and the average foodie is that Buford had the audacity and the gumption to experience life beyond the dining room.

While “Kitchen Confidential” often reads as an ode to professional cooking, “Heat” is more of a travelogue which begins in the kitchen. Clearly, Buford is not the type of individual who craves the adrenaline of dinner service, although he does seem to appreciate it at times. As a result, Buford’s time spent “slaving” at Babbo — Mario Batali’s West Village eatery — ultimately leads him on a quest to various regions throughout Italy. But despite his travels overseas, Buford readily admits that he has no designs of actually becoming a chef. And herein lies the true difference between a cook and a foodie: both can appreciate food, but a cook cannot resign himself to be a spectator.

As his narrative unfolds, Buford begins to concern himself with the notions of origin and authenticity. His approach to food is therefore more scholarly than instinctive. Buford’s initial interest in working at Babbo, he reveals, was merely to place himself one step closer to the core of great cuisine. Naturally, with Italian food as his focus, New York City can only serve as Buford’s launching point, and subsequently, his experiences in Italy eventually become the centerpiece of the narrative. Fortunately for the reader, the characters whom Buford encounters overseas are often stranger and more entertaining than those who toil in New York City kitchens.

As I had mentioned in my September 11 entry, no book shall ever capture life in the professional kitchen with more accuracy than “Kitchen Confidential.” Bourdain’s memoir was written by a cook, for a cook. With “Kitchen Confidential,” the reader gets to live the kitchen life vicariously (and from a comfortable distance). With “Heat,” the value of the book is much different, and its scope is much more broad. Buford’s book draws connections between the past and the present, and his journey provides the structure for a mesmerizing, first-hand lesson in gastronomy.

There’s a creative element to cooking that ultimately draws people into the restaurant business. It is definitely what prompted me to change careers years ago (that, and some post-dotcom bitterness). I suppose that creative satisfaction may be the only justification for the long hours and the low pay that cooks typically endure. Fortunately, despite living paycheck to paycheck, cooks can never really go hungry, since food is their medium. This is one of the few saving graces of a business with very few perks.

Despite cooking’s many drawbacks, its inherent rewards do exist, although they are often fueled by anxiety and stress. It takes a unique individual to thrive within this type of environment, and I am certain that most people simply lack the capacity to cook professionally. Even so, many of the people who do work in kitchens are somewhat difficult to grasp, while others seem perfectly normal. Cooking means working alongside both types, and often wondering where exactly you fit in. I’ve heard some profoundly dysfunctional people say that they didn’t feel normal until they started working in kitchens. This is a telling observation, to say the least.

Looking back upon my own experience in the business, I have to say that “Kitchen Confidential” remains a stunningly accurate portrayal of restaurant life. It’s all in there, explained in lurid detail, with many insightful passages ringing true throughout the text. I am fairly certain that no book will ever document the life of a cook with as much proficiency, since Bourdain’s perspective proves to be pitch-perfect. At a time when America’s gastronomical interests were growing profoundly, “Kitchen Confidential” set the record straight, removing much of the perceived romance from the profession.

In many ways, “The Nasty Bits” reads like a loosely constructed sequel to “Kitchen Confidential,” with many of the same themes emerging throughout. What I found most revealing was the fact that Bourdain’s life has not become any more sane since leaving the kitchen. Now that he has become a celebrity, his travel schedule seems grueling, and it appears to offer him very little time to enjoy the exotic locations he visits for his television series. For better or worse, Bourdain has traded one hectic lifestyle for another, which makes perfect sense: it seems to suit his slightly masochistic nature.

Aside from some of the gruesome details surounding his life as a television personality, Bourdain also includes many food-specific essays within “The Nasty Bits,” which should appeal to all of the folks who helped to make “Kitchen Confidential” a best-seller. Bourdain’s narrative voice is as unique as ever, and his writing contains an engaging cadence which is distinctly reminiscent of his television voice-overs. Although “The Nasty Bits” lacks the continuity and the focus of “Kitchen Confidential,” it never purports to be anything more than a simple collection of essays. For that, “The Nasty Bits” succeeds on its own merits, and is definitely worth a cursory read.