They say my generation has a problem. We grew up with reality TV and thus are all expecting to be discovered for our multitude of "talents" without really having to work for it. Our overwhelming sense of entitlement is shameful at best and yet, not wholly unwarranted.
With little more than my dimples to thank, I have been offered a paid internship with a food consulting company. (Just kidding, I'd like to think my articulated and overwhelming passion for all things food has a little something to do with it as well.) Once an airline food provider, Flying Food Group is now responsible for the take away refrigerated items at Starbucks. The refreshing parfaits? Thank Flying Food. The tuna sandwich that employs the protective moisture barrier of lettuce? Flying Food is the genius behind that too. My role there will be assisting the research and development chef as he comes up with innovative ideas and rolls out new products. Creative meets kitchen, just my cup of tea.
I'll be honest. I wasn't really "discovered". I have Katie's aunt Nancy to thank for this. Even more so than discovery it appears that connections make the world go round. I'm incredibly grateful to have made this one. The twist to all of this tasty d-lite (East Coasters, you like that?) is that I will be starting on April 23rd...in Seattle. Some of you know that I live in San Francisco. Which, while also beginning with the letter 'S' is not actually the same city. Sure enough I will be moving out of my amazing apartment, away from my amazing roommates and many good friends, towards what I hope will be an incredible learning experience that will confirm that this insanity about food is justified.
I imagine I'll keep writing here; although chances are it won't be quite the outlet it has been. I hear Seattle has a pretty vibrant food scene and if any of you have great ideas about what you would like to find at a Starbucks walk-up counter, you just comment away and I'll pass it onto the R&D guru.
Thanks for your support thus far. If you are in Seattle and in need of a restaurant recommendation, give me until May 10th to get the lay of the land, then holler. If you are from Seattle or in Seattle now and know a thing or two, do tell my friend, do tell.
On adulthood and authenticity
My day began at 6:00am as I approached SFO to engage in one of the most trademarked signs of adult activity: the commuter flight. Recently I've been thinking a lot about my own conceptions of adulthood. My twenty fifth birthday is upon me. The quarter century is a landmark; others have said that at twenty five they finally realized that their actions had consequences. So perhaps it's fitting that on the near eve of this significant transition, I attempted to live out a personal dream. Other food writers have covered this topic before. It has been mind opening for many of them: ordering the chef's menu at a reputable Japanese restaurant.
The New Otani is located in Little Tokyo, on a block with very little else (it is possible that the hotel itself makes up the bulk of this neighborhood). I was eating with two co-workers, one of whom was my dining partner a few weeks ago when I had my first taste of Toro. The hotel has a reputation for authenticity and their garden level restaurant Thousand Cranes expressed just that.
I visited Japan as a thirteen year old and it was one of the more memorable trips I've ever taken. I dodged the Aum Shinrikyo subway bombers, had my suitcase rescued from a landslide, and sat on my first self-warming toilet seat. Japan was a land of innovation and possibility. But even more than these quirks was the impression left by its food and its ambiance: elegant and austere.
When I walked into Thousand Cranes I was immediately transported back to my memories of that country. A simple blond wood paneled ceiling reflected amber light around the room in clean lines. Floor to ceiling windows looked out on a zen-like garden. Shallow pools contained by rolling blue tiles, waterfalls, and magenta bougainvillea. Three private tatami rooms framed the open dining area and were filled with groups of shoeless dinners, legs oragamied around a low table. The dining room was being attended to by older women shuffling about in traditional kimonos. The room was occupied by diners with one identifying characteristic: they were all Japanese and that's all they were speaking.
My romantic vision of how this night of nights would play out involves being lead by the hand to a table and told in a soothing way I would be taken care of. To say the least that's not how it went down. We grappled with the menu and I found myself feeling overwhelmed and homesick in the same way you feel when your tired brain is inundated with the unfamiliar. In its rarity it was refreshing.
Our waitress was distinguished in an elderly way and her English was limited. Each question we asked got an answer that was mostly unintelligible but delivered with such a soft politeness it was forgivable. But it quickly became clear that this was a place where it helped to seem knowledgeable, and not ask questions if it could be helped. When I ordered the tasting menu it was actually a moment of defeat. I didn't feel capable of deciding for myself but also was acutely aware that this was the kind of place that treated non-Japanese as just that. Not to mention that is was Monday and you know what they say about eating sushi on Mondays...
The chef's menu provided eleven dishes in total. And for purposes of length I'm simply going to list them in the order they appeared:
The first tray was brought out with four small dishes. One was a cucumber salad with seaweed, salmon roe, and miso dressing. Resting in that same dish was a rectangle of steamed egg in tri-colored Neapolitan formation: pink, white, and yellow. Another was a custardy square of tofu with a small dab of wasabi in a warm ginger broth. Another one had buttery dayboat scallops with mushrooms. And the last was two single bite teriyaki structures: one with mushroom and chicken and the other with eggplant and chicken. When that tray cleared a small soup bowl filled with a clear clam soup appeared. This was briny and studded with oysters, a clam shell, an enlarged tapioca ball, and sprigs of tender watercress. Following it was sashimi: yellowtail, tuna, and halibut. Then a single two ounce piece of mackerel, flash fried in a splash of soy sauce. Then five single pieces of tempura: asparagus, red pepper, white fish, almond crusted shrimp, and an unidentified colorful cluster which with my best guess I'll offer a blend of white fish, seaweed, mushrooms, and red pepper (but I'll emphasize that that is a guess). When that dish was cleared, four glistening pieces of nagiri arrived, two of halibut and the others of tuna. Lastly another small soup bowl with thin soba noodles, a dark salty broth and sprinkled with dainty light green scallions. The meal ended with green tea ice cream and a single pirouette cookie resting upright in the scoop.
In spite of this being my dream, it wasn't that amazing. The wasabi, although sweeter and grainier than most, didn't seem earth shatteringly fresh. The yellowtail was the hands down stand-out and the cucumber salad was exceptionally interesting. The rest was sort of so-so. Much of it seemed lukewarm, even if it wasn't. We can blame it on a case of Sushi Mondays or that we were stupid white folks, or that the restaurant was having an off-night a theory that is strengthened by what occurred during our meal at a neighboring table....
Across the restaurant idling in a sea of suited business men sat five women spanning three generations. Two were elderly, one was middle aged, and two were probably late twenties. They were an average looking bunch dressed plainly. I hadn't noticed them until I realized that one of them was throwing up into a plastic bag at the table. The Japanese are an understated group and the mere fact that this woman could manage to throw up at the table and not come off as disgusting or offensive was mind boggling. I hate throwing up, I always have. I get upset when other people do it. Vomit has no place anywhere-- let alone in public, let alone in a restaurant, let alone at a table. This woman achieved all three and I continued eating, while watching her. It was a true first. Other people might have guessed that she had food poisoning. Or that she was drunk. Or that she was bulimic. I would wager that none of these were true. I think it was a fluke. And I'll leave it at that.
Needless to say, on the eve of my twenty fifth birthday, I am not prepared to check this experience off the "dreams I have" list. Which perhaps also keeps me from gaining one more notch on the old belt of adulthood. I'm not sure that I'd recommend the place. In spite of the oddness of the experience, it felt real and I really appreciated that. But I want the food to be better and unless I can convey myself as belonging in such an authentic environment, I'm not sure I'll get my wish.
The New Otani is located in Little Tokyo, on a block with very little else (it is possible that the hotel itself makes up the bulk of this neighborhood). I was eating with two co-workers, one of whom was my dining partner a few weeks ago when I had my first taste of Toro. The hotel has a reputation for authenticity and their garden level restaurant Thousand Cranes expressed just that.
I visited Japan as a thirteen year old and it was one of the more memorable trips I've ever taken. I dodged the Aum Shinrikyo subway bombers, had my suitcase rescued from a landslide, and sat on my first self-warming toilet seat. Japan was a land of innovation and possibility. But even more than these quirks was the impression left by its food and its ambiance: elegant and austere.
When I walked into Thousand Cranes I was immediately transported back to my memories of that country. A simple blond wood paneled ceiling reflected amber light around the room in clean lines. Floor to ceiling windows looked out on a zen-like garden. Shallow pools contained by rolling blue tiles, waterfalls, and magenta bougainvillea. Three private tatami rooms framed the open dining area and were filled with groups of shoeless dinners, legs oragamied around a low table. The dining room was being attended to by older women shuffling about in traditional kimonos. The room was occupied by diners with one identifying characteristic: they were all Japanese and that's all they were speaking.
My romantic vision of how this night of nights would play out involves being lead by the hand to a table and told in a soothing way I would be taken care of. To say the least that's not how it went down. We grappled with the menu and I found myself feeling overwhelmed and homesick in the same way you feel when your tired brain is inundated with the unfamiliar. In its rarity it was refreshing.
Our waitress was distinguished in an elderly way and her English was limited. Each question we asked got an answer that was mostly unintelligible but delivered with such a soft politeness it was forgivable. But it quickly became clear that this was a place where it helped to seem knowledgeable, and not ask questions if it could be helped. When I ordered the tasting menu it was actually a moment of defeat. I didn't feel capable of deciding for myself but also was acutely aware that this was the kind of place that treated non-Japanese as just that. Not to mention that is was Monday and you know what they say about eating sushi on Mondays...
The chef's menu provided eleven dishes in total. And for purposes of length I'm simply going to list them in the order they appeared:
The first tray was brought out with four small dishes. One was a cucumber salad with seaweed, salmon roe, and miso dressing. Resting in that same dish was a rectangle of steamed egg in tri-colored Neapolitan formation: pink, white, and yellow. Another was a custardy square of tofu with a small dab of wasabi in a warm ginger broth. Another one had buttery dayboat scallops with mushrooms. And the last was two single bite teriyaki structures: one with mushroom and chicken and the other with eggplant and chicken. When that tray cleared a small soup bowl filled with a clear clam soup appeared. This was briny and studded with oysters, a clam shell, an enlarged tapioca ball, and sprigs of tender watercress. Following it was sashimi: yellowtail, tuna, and halibut. Then a single two ounce piece of mackerel, flash fried in a splash of soy sauce. Then five single pieces of tempura: asparagus, red pepper, white fish, almond crusted shrimp, and an unidentified colorful cluster which with my best guess I'll offer a blend of white fish, seaweed, mushrooms, and red pepper (but I'll emphasize that that is a guess). When that dish was cleared, four glistening pieces of nagiri arrived, two of halibut and the others of tuna. Lastly another small soup bowl with thin soba noodles, a dark salty broth and sprinkled with dainty light green scallions. The meal ended with green tea ice cream and a single pirouette cookie resting upright in the scoop.
In spite of this being my dream, it wasn't that amazing. The wasabi, although sweeter and grainier than most, didn't seem earth shatteringly fresh. The yellowtail was the hands down stand-out and the cucumber salad was exceptionally interesting. The rest was sort of so-so. Much of it seemed lukewarm, even if it wasn't. We can blame it on a case of Sushi Mondays or that we were stupid white folks, or that the restaurant was having an off-night a theory that is strengthened by what occurred during our meal at a neighboring table....
Across the restaurant idling in a sea of suited business men sat five women spanning three generations. Two were elderly, one was middle aged, and two were probably late twenties. They were an average looking bunch dressed plainly. I hadn't noticed them until I realized that one of them was throwing up into a plastic bag at the table. The Japanese are an understated group and the mere fact that this woman could manage to throw up at the table and not come off as disgusting or offensive was mind boggling. I hate throwing up, I always have. I get upset when other people do it. Vomit has no place anywhere-- let alone in public, let alone in a restaurant, let alone at a table. This woman achieved all three and I continued eating, while watching her. It was a true first. Other people might have guessed that she had food poisoning. Or that she was drunk. Or that she was bulimic. I would wager that none of these were true. I think it was a fluke. And I'll leave it at that.
Needless to say, on the eve of my twenty fifth birthday, I am not prepared to check this experience off the "dreams I have" list. Which perhaps also keeps me from gaining one more notch on the old belt of adulthood. I'm not sure that I'd recommend the place. In spite of the oddness of the experience, it felt real and I really appreciated that. But I want the food to be better and unless I can convey myself as belonging in such an authentic environment, I'm not sure I'll get my wish.
From Trans Fats to Gumbo
A few days ago I began writing a quasi-academic post about natural foods inspired by tropical trail mix I purchased in the airport in Phoenix and an article by Michael Pollen that my mother sent me. I've been wrestling with it for a little while now, searching for the point I'm trying to make.
One aspect is that for the most part I am pro-organic and pro-natural foods. I find non-organic eggs particularly appalling. This is chiefly due to one unfortunate moment when I was cracking a couple and ended up with five yolks and two whites-- you do the math there. Needless to say, henceforth we became an organic egg household.
Another aspect is that I'm trying to wrap my head around the trans fat aversion movement. New York's recent trans fat ban begs the question: how does one monitor such a thing? Will there be a Trans Fat Czar? And what will the change really mean? Reminding us of the sketch on Conan O'Brian where men were lounging in a trans fat speakeasy. Furthermore, I make a delicious biscuit, but I know their success has everything to do with the vegetable shortening I use. So I find myself at a crossroads...
But really, this post isn't about the natural foods movement at all. It's about the meal I ate last night at Elite Cafe because I also just had my leftovers for lunch and the lapse in time did not affect them in the slightest. De-licious.
Interestingly enough, the evening began with a terrible cocktail. I ordered a Hendrix and tonic, which tends to be my go-to. If you aren't familiar, you really should take a second to inform yourself. Hendrix is cucumber infused. It's got a clean, crisp taste. When served properly, the traditional lime is replaced by a few slices of cucumber set adrift to play pinball with the ice in the glass. The bartender poured Hendrix, I know that, I made him show me the bottle. The lime was a little, shall we say, out of date but that did not excuse the pervasive flavor of-- I don't even know-- I think the tonic must have been bad. The barkeep added an extra splash of Hendrix after I made a salty face and that helped the situation slightly. But the overall mood was light and the night was warm and breezy, so the memory of that bad cocktail was soon lost.
When I find myself on repeat visits to restaurants I usually make an attempt to vary my ordering pattern. But I have to say, the seafood gumbo at Elite is so unbelievably good there just isn't any way NOT to order it. I think they must know that though because they actually have three sizes you can order. I ordered the middle size which will easily feed two people and which is why I had the total pleasure of eating it last night and today. The gumbo is studded with every scum eating bivalve in the tidepools. Scallops, oysters, clams, mussels, shrimp...I don't even know. It's all in there, it's all awesome. The gumbo is in a rich dark brown broth which isn't too briny, impressive given that it's made with fish stock and has tons of little sea critters playing tag inside. And then there are red and green peppers along for the ride and of course the requisite rice.
Elite is famous for its biscuits. I'm being a snob, it's a totally fine biscuit, but it's not light and fluffy. It's more dense, a little sweeter and eh--just not my personal biscuit ideal. The thing is, the woman that makes biscuits there launched her own biscuit business. So in this particular case I think I may have gotten a bad biscuit on my first visit or I'm just going against the grain.
We drank a bottle of Frog's Leap Zinfandel with our meal. I'm a fan of Frog's Leap and for a California Zin it wasn't too jammy and had good structure. It went swimmingly with the gumbo. And there some deviled eggs. You can order them in the three, six, or nine range I believe. I'm not a huge deviled egg person. I think these would be considered great on the deviled egg scale. They certainly were pleasant to look at. The little fluted yolks were finely dusted with paprika.
Dessert hit the spot. Apple crisp with cinnamon ice cream. I just really loved baked treats. I LOVE apple crisp. Unless you have no hands and don't know salt from sugar, apple crisp is hard to wreck. The cinnamon ice cream (which I'd like to think was made in-house, although it probably wasn't) was subtle. Definitely not dominated by the cinnamon. It tasted like vanilla and was overpowered by the crisp but I could see little flecks in it, so I doubt they were lying.
I hear Elite has a good brunch. Never have been but in light of the notice I recently gave to my job, it looks like I will have a lot more time on my hands very shortly. I'll let you know if I go.
One aspect is that for the most part I am pro-organic and pro-natural foods. I find non-organic eggs particularly appalling. This is chiefly due to one unfortunate moment when I was cracking a couple and ended up with five yolks and two whites-- you do the math there. Needless to say, henceforth we became an organic egg household.
Another aspect is that I'm trying to wrap my head around the trans fat aversion movement. New York's recent trans fat ban begs the question: how does one monitor such a thing? Will there be a Trans Fat Czar? And what will the change really mean? Reminding us of the sketch on Conan O'Brian where men were lounging in a trans fat speakeasy. Furthermore, I make a delicious biscuit, but I know their success has everything to do with the vegetable shortening I use. So I find myself at a crossroads...
But really, this post isn't about the natural foods movement at all. It's about the meal I ate last night at Elite Cafe because I also just had my leftovers for lunch and the lapse in time did not affect them in the slightest. De-licious.
Interestingly enough, the evening began with a terrible cocktail. I ordered a Hendrix and tonic, which tends to be my go-to. If you aren't familiar, you really should take a second to inform yourself. Hendrix is cucumber infused. It's got a clean, crisp taste. When served properly, the traditional lime is replaced by a few slices of cucumber set adrift to play pinball with the ice in the glass. The bartender poured Hendrix, I know that, I made him show me the bottle. The lime was a little, shall we say, out of date but that did not excuse the pervasive flavor of-- I don't even know-- I think the tonic must have been bad. The barkeep added an extra splash of Hendrix after I made a salty face and that helped the situation slightly. But the overall mood was light and the night was warm and breezy, so the memory of that bad cocktail was soon lost.
When I find myself on repeat visits to restaurants I usually make an attempt to vary my ordering pattern. But I have to say, the seafood gumbo at Elite is so unbelievably good there just isn't any way NOT to order it. I think they must know that though because they actually have three sizes you can order. I ordered the middle size which will easily feed two people and which is why I had the total pleasure of eating it last night and today. The gumbo is studded with every scum eating bivalve in the tidepools. Scallops, oysters, clams, mussels, shrimp...I don't even know. It's all in there, it's all awesome. The gumbo is in a rich dark brown broth which isn't too briny, impressive given that it's made with fish stock and has tons of little sea critters playing tag inside. And then there are red and green peppers along for the ride and of course the requisite rice.
Elite is famous for its biscuits. I'm being a snob, it's a totally fine biscuit, but it's not light and fluffy. It's more dense, a little sweeter and eh--just not my personal biscuit ideal. The thing is, the woman that makes biscuits there launched her own biscuit business. So in this particular case I think I may have gotten a bad biscuit on my first visit or I'm just going against the grain.
We drank a bottle of Frog's Leap Zinfandel with our meal. I'm a fan of Frog's Leap and for a California Zin it wasn't too jammy and had good structure. It went swimmingly with the gumbo. And there some deviled eggs. You can order them in the three, six, or nine range I believe. I'm not a huge deviled egg person. I think these would be considered great on the deviled egg scale. They certainly were pleasant to look at. The little fluted yolks were finely dusted with paprika.
Dessert hit the spot. Apple crisp with cinnamon ice cream. I just really loved baked treats. I LOVE apple crisp. Unless you have no hands and don't know salt from sugar, apple crisp is hard to wreck. The cinnamon ice cream (which I'd like to think was made in-house, although it probably wasn't) was subtle. Definitely not dominated by the cinnamon. It tasted like vanilla and was overpowered by the crisp but I could see little flecks in it, so I doubt they were lying.
I hear Elite has a good brunch. Never have been but in light of the notice I recently gave to my job, it looks like I will have a lot more time on my hands very shortly. I'll let you know if I go.
Bonita Applebaum or My Beautiful Bum in the Big Apple
I've been in New York, I just got home. I was preparing to do a week in food review. It was going to be a mundane list of meals and the places I ate them. I started writing it a few days ago-- still in the midst of my journey-- and realized it was not the least bit dynamic. I'm not trying to punish you with an index written in lukewarm language. Thus, this is a story of what happened on Monday.
Late in the morning I rallied myself off the couch and into many many layers--as New York has demonstrated that it has no rational weather patterns--and walked two frigid blocks, through the vestibule, and into that incredible tunnel of culinary inspiration that is Chelsea Market. The home of such delights as Bowery Kitchen Supply, Sarabeth bakery, and some other little store with specialty gourmet things (like chocolate fig balls: maybe a little counter intuitive but highly charming) made most impressive by its abundant samples laying about. At noonish I slyly snacked on cracked pieces of thin crispy cheese wafers, a chocolate oattie something (hybrid oatmeal cookie biscuit) and half of a cocoa truffle. We'll call that breakfast.
I walked in and out of every single store getting the lay of the land and when I got to the end of the tunnel, happened upon the entrance to the Food Network Studio. Not sure why I walked in. I walked up to the counter and the woman said "Hi" and I sort of froze because I realized I had no purpose standing right in front of her.
"Hi. I....uh...I'm just visiting. So this is the studio, huh? Is anything being recorded today?" "Emeril is taping now on the 6th floor, he's taping again at 4:00. If you want to come back at 3:00 I can check if there are any stand bye tickets."
"How much are tickets?" "They're free." (Let's pause for a moment and recognize that I know nothing about TV but really NOTHING about TV involving studio audiences. She looked at me like I'd just asked if people use umbrellas in the snow-- which I did ask a friend before my trip. My friend made me feel like I grew up blindfolded in a sunny meadow and so did this woman.) "Oh, um, okay thanks." Let me be clear here, I don't care about Emeril. I think he's kind of creepy. I don't watch his show, it annoys me that he says"Bam!" all the time and if Doc and the rest of the band weren't so hip, I really wouldn't care at all. I walked out of the studio and my thoughts returned to the first real meal of the day.
After much indecisive meandering, I walked into Lobster Place and settled on a small Cajun Crab soup that was simmering in a row of sailor style castiron crock pots boasting scallop and corn chowder, lobster bisque, and New England clam chowder. I went to get in line pondering how else I might augment the soup and found myself taunted by a glistening seaweed salad. At some point I'd like to do research as to how these seaweed salads that appear to be made fresh in enlightened grocery stores around the country all manage to look and taste identical. Three types of seaweed in a shimmering tangle studded with a sprinkle of sesame seeds and those perfect little flecks of red chilies. I used to have a textural aversion to seaweed salad, but it's grown on me. We won't mention the obvious thing here which is that Cajun Crab soup and Seaweed Salad have minimal ethnic overlap (cheers to fusion cuisine).
I settled at one of the tables lining the market's main artery and laid out my picnic in front of me. It was a large table and pretty soon some guys who appeared to work for the building sat down. There was much Spanish banter, I was reading and eating and not paying much mind. But then this random Caribbean guy in a nice suit sat down and without any words pulled a box out of a small brown paper bag. Out of the box popped the obvious: a flossy Rolex watch. Mr. Caribbean showed it to one of the guys sitting with me. Here's what's going on in my head: "This is New York, shady business abounds in this city. I wonder if this is a black market for watches...weird." Then I just blatantly stared at the exchange because I grew up blindfolded in a sunny meadow and have no social graces. Guy handed the watch back, then the two start chatting. Turned out it wasn't a watch deal. Mr. Caribbean said to Guy: "I have two VIP tickets to the 4:00 taping of Emeril, you want to go?" Guy: "I'm working." Cue meaningful eye contact by Assassin because I am the queen of poignant timing. Mr. Caribbean looks at me: "Oh, do you want them?" Me: "Uh, I mean, I dunno. What exactly is going on?" (I've learned it pays to look bashful rather than desperate-- why I'm not applying to grad school to get a Masters Degree in Hustle and Freebies I cannot say.)
Let's cut to the important part: Gao and I end up in the second row in the center of those cocktail tables for two that line the front side of Emeril's counter. I'll tell you right now, the only real VIP area on the set are the granite counter tops positioned on the sides and behind the counter. Those folks get it all; those tables tend to be reserved for guests on the show or executive producers. We were sitting in the JV VIP area but regardless. Little secrets to let you in on: the audience is primed before the show by a quasi comedian. I found her more amusing than Emeril whose candor made me, rather unfortunately, picture him in an "intimate" situation making pillow talk. "Aw, yeah babe." The audience is encouraged to "go crazy" when a woman waves a black and white stick but for the most part the audience goes crazy without prompting. "And then we'll add the garlic" (Audience applauds fervently.) On commercial breaks, the band doesn't usually continue to play. Instead, the studio bumps mainstream rap and R&B at a level way too loud for its largely middle-aged, mostly non-native New Yorker crowd. If you are in the second row of tables, you shouldn't expect to get anything. And if, per chance, you do get food you can't eat it until the break is over. This means it's likely lukewarm when you take your first bite. And Emeril actually cooks very little on his show. Most of it goes on in the test kitchen which, when you are waiting around in the VIP holding area, you are forbidden from going near. Another lesser known fact is that Emeril really likes kids (for reasons that escape me completely) and he invites them up during breaks and gives them ice cream that he keeps stocked in a large fridge on the stage. The little brats next to me were snacking on those pre-packaged M&M ice cream cones and Gao and I were just sitting, trying to send telepathic messages to the stage hands to give us tasty snacks being prepared by the man himself. After much cutesy smiling and a little face time from the camera man (who actually knelt beside us with a huge camera inches from our faces and whispered "Focus on Emeril, look interested, stay focused, gooood") we were awarded one of the two plates that ever made it to the second row of VIP tables. It was Rigatoni with a mushroom Gorgonzola sauce studded with chunks of beef. I'll be honest, it was alright but didn't change my life and naturally I just picked my way around the beef. Here's the weirdest part of the food situation. The stage hands continually remind the audience that it is unlikely they will be getting food but if by chance they do get it, they should share with their neighbors. Am I wrong in thinking that's pretty gross? The people in front of us got one of the first dishes and after taking a few bites offered us the plate. These people looked nice and clean enough but I couldn't help myself, I didn't want to share spaghetti with two random folks in front of me. When Gao and I got our plate we took a couple bites and then offered it to the family on our left, trying to play by the rules, but thinking they would have a similar reaction-- nope, they took it. Different strokes for different folks.
Ultimately, we were in the studio for about three hours total; it was a fairly unforgettable experience. That's what I love about New York. On any given street corner you are as likely to see Parker Posey or Mo Rocha as you are a woman with a little dog in a designer sweater. And if you are in the right place at the right time, making doe eyes at Mr. Caribbean, you might just find yourself eating rigatoni from Emeril's hand.
Late in the morning I rallied myself off the couch and into many many layers--as New York has demonstrated that it has no rational weather patterns--and walked two frigid blocks, through the vestibule, and into that incredible tunnel of culinary inspiration that is Chelsea Market. The home of such delights as Bowery Kitchen Supply, Sarabeth bakery, and some other little store with specialty gourmet things (like chocolate fig balls: maybe a little counter intuitive but highly charming) made most impressive by its abundant samples laying about. At noonish I slyly snacked on cracked pieces of thin crispy cheese wafers, a chocolate oattie something (hybrid oatmeal cookie biscuit) and half of a cocoa truffle. We'll call that breakfast.
I walked in and out of every single store getting the lay of the land and when I got to the end of the tunnel, happened upon the entrance to the Food Network Studio. Not sure why I walked in. I walked up to the counter and the woman said "Hi" and I sort of froze because I realized I had no purpose standing right in front of her.
"Hi. I....uh...I'm just visiting. So this is the studio, huh? Is anything being recorded today?" "Emeril is taping now on the 6th floor, he's taping again at 4:00. If you want to come back at 3:00 I can check if there are any stand bye tickets."
"How much are tickets?" "They're free." (Let's pause for a moment and recognize that I know nothing about TV but really NOTHING about TV involving studio audiences. She looked at me like I'd just asked if people use umbrellas in the snow-- which I did ask a friend before my trip. My friend made me feel like I grew up blindfolded in a sunny meadow and so did this woman.) "Oh, um, okay thanks." Let me be clear here, I don't care about Emeril. I think he's kind of creepy. I don't watch his show, it annoys me that he says"Bam!" all the time and if Doc and the rest of the band weren't so hip, I really wouldn't care at all. I walked out of the studio and my thoughts returned to the first real meal of the day.
After much indecisive meandering, I walked into Lobster Place and settled on a small Cajun Crab soup that was simmering in a row of sailor style castiron crock pots boasting scallop and corn chowder, lobster bisque, and New England clam chowder. I went to get in line pondering how else I might augment the soup and found myself taunted by a glistening seaweed salad. At some point I'd like to do research as to how these seaweed salads that appear to be made fresh in enlightened grocery stores around the country all manage to look and taste identical. Three types of seaweed in a shimmering tangle studded with a sprinkle of sesame seeds and those perfect little flecks of red chilies. I used to have a textural aversion to seaweed salad, but it's grown on me. We won't mention the obvious thing here which is that Cajun Crab soup and Seaweed Salad have minimal ethnic overlap (cheers to fusion cuisine).
I settled at one of the tables lining the market's main artery and laid out my picnic in front of me. It was a large table and pretty soon some guys who appeared to work for the building sat down. There was much Spanish banter, I was reading and eating and not paying much mind. But then this random Caribbean guy in a nice suit sat down and without any words pulled a box out of a small brown paper bag. Out of the box popped the obvious: a flossy Rolex watch. Mr. Caribbean showed it to one of the guys sitting with me. Here's what's going on in my head: "This is New York, shady business abounds in this city. I wonder if this is a black market for watches...weird." Then I just blatantly stared at the exchange because I grew up blindfolded in a sunny meadow and have no social graces. Guy handed the watch back, then the two start chatting. Turned out it wasn't a watch deal. Mr. Caribbean said to Guy: "I have two VIP tickets to the 4:00 taping of Emeril, you want to go?" Guy: "I'm working." Cue meaningful eye contact by Assassin because I am the queen of poignant timing. Mr. Caribbean looks at me: "Oh, do you want them?" Me: "Uh, I mean, I dunno. What exactly is going on?" (I've learned it pays to look bashful rather than desperate-- why I'm not applying to grad school to get a Masters Degree in Hustle and Freebies I cannot say.)
Let's cut to the important part: Gao and I end up in the second row in the center of those cocktail tables for two that line the front side of Emeril's counter. I'll tell you right now, the only real VIP area on the set are the granite counter tops positioned on the sides and behind the counter. Those folks get it all; those tables tend to be reserved for guests on the show or executive producers. We were sitting in the JV VIP area but regardless. Little secrets to let you in on: the audience is primed before the show by a quasi comedian. I found her more amusing than Emeril whose candor made me, rather unfortunately, picture him in an "intimate" situation making pillow talk. "Aw, yeah babe." The audience is encouraged to "go crazy" when a woman waves a black and white stick but for the most part the audience goes crazy without prompting. "And then we'll add the garlic" (Audience applauds fervently.) On commercial breaks, the band doesn't usually continue to play. Instead, the studio bumps mainstream rap and R&B at a level way too loud for its largely middle-aged, mostly non-native New Yorker crowd. If you are in the second row of tables, you shouldn't expect to get anything. And if, per chance, you do get food you can't eat it until the break is over. This means it's likely lukewarm when you take your first bite. And Emeril actually cooks very little on his show. Most of it goes on in the test kitchen which, when you are waiting around in the VIP holding area, you are forbidden from going near. Another lesser known fact is that Emeril really likes kids (for reasons that escape me completely) and he invites them up during breaks and gives them ice cream that he keeps stocked in a large fridge on the stage. The little brats next to me were snacking on those pre-packaged M&M ice cream cones and Gao and I were just sitting, trying to send telepathic messages to the stage hands to give us tasty snacks being prepared by the man himself. After much cutesy smiling and a little face time from the camera man (who actually knelt beside us with a huge camera inches from our faces and whispered "Focus on Emeril, look interested, stay focused, gooood") we were awarded one of the two plates that ever made it to the second row of VIP tables. It was Rigatoni with a mushroom Gorgonzola sauce studded with chunks of beef. I'll be honest, it was alright but didn't change my life and naturally I just picked my way around the beef. Here's the weirdest part of the food situation. The stage hands continually remind the audience that it is unlikely they will be getting food but if by chance they do get it, they should share with their neighbors. Am I wrong in thinking that's pretty gross? The people in front of us got one of the first dishes and after taking a few bites offered us the plate. These people looked nice and clean enough but I couldn't help myself, I didn't want to share spaghetti with two random folks in front of me. When Gao and I got our plate we took a couple bites and then offered it to the family on our left, trying to play by the rules, but thinking they would have a similar reaction-- nope, they took it. Different strokes for different folks.
Ultimately, we were in the studio for about three hours total; it was a fairly unforgettable experience. That's what I love about New York. On any given street corner you are as likely to see Parker Posey or Mo Rocha as you are a woman with a little dog in a designer sweater. And if you are in the right place at the right time, making doe eyes at Mr. Caribbean, you might just find yourself eating rigatoni from Emeril's hand.
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