Roast Beast

Even A Prison Cell Can Use A Little Martha Flair 

Every year for the last ten or so we have hosted our adopted, "chosen" Dallas family to a swell Christmas dinner.  By swell I don't mean your traditional Roasted Turkey and Giblet Gravy or Honey Baked Ham, but something more along the lines of menus you'd see in a Martha Stewart publication (at least before she was thrown in the slammer.) Depending on whose in-laws' turn it is to have "their" kids at home, our Christmas gathering is usually between 12 and 16 guests.

Whereas I despise coming home from work and throwing something together for dinner, I really love planning and creating challenging menus for special occasions.  Most of it is like food as therapy or a really aromatic hobby, but I must admit there is a small part of me that thirsts for the awed expressions and audible moans emanating from the table when I unveil the year's holiday feast.  Ducking my head, I shrug off the praise I so secretly covet, gloating inwardly.

This year I planned a marvelous, old-fashioned menu that I was going to modernize with my prodigious culinary skills and vivid imagination:  Standing Rib Roast with Horseradish Cream, Cranberry Waldorf Salad, Bacon Scalloped Potatoes, Trusty Green Bean Casserole, and a Fresh Fruit, Vanilla Pudding, and Yellow Pound Cake Christmas Trifle.  As is my custom I prepped most of it a day in advance, and to insure my timing was perfect, wrote out a detailed railroad schedule that went something like this:

12:30 Remove roast from fridge
1:15 Preheat oven to 375
1:25 Season roast with sea salt, freshly ground black pepper and garlic powder
1:30 Place roast in oven
1:31 Drink a glass of water
1:32 Remove yeasty dinner rolls from freezer to thaw and rise in a sunny window
1:36 You get the idea

Our guests arrived promptly at 4:30 which was perfect, because according to my OCD timetable I had exactly one hour of free time to socialize, pour wine, and open gifts before entering the critical last 45 minute home stretch of cooking dinner.

All was sailing along swimmingly, and right on cue, at 6:10 everything was done at the same time, announced by the simultaneous pings of three separate timers.  The potatoes were steaming cheesy goodness, the green beans crispy under home made onion strings.  The fruit salad provided a sweet and  crunchy contrast to the richness of the other dishes and the rolls were so light we had to fetch them from the air with butterfly nets.

Moooooooooo

The prime rib roast, however, was raw.  Not rare.  Raw.  $265 of gushing blood with a heartbeat.  If you picked it up and put it to your ear you could hear the distant lowing of grass-fed cattle in a newly mown field. My face turned about as red as the slab of meat in the roasting pan as I hurriedly covered everything else in foil to keep warm in the oven.  I could feel the crestfallen faces watching my back as I shoved the rib roast back in for another hour (or twelve.)

I had used a "fool proof" recipe which called for roasting the meat in the oven at a high temperature for an hour and then turning it off for three hours, with strict, even Draconian instructions:  LEAVE THE OVEN DOOR CLOSED.  DO NOT PEEK.  DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT CHECKING THE THERMOMETER OR YOU WILL BE SHOT ON SITE.  WE MEAN IT SO DON'T COP AN ATTITUDE JUST OBEY YOUR ORDERS.

During the social hour preceding the disaster, I remember remarking to someone that I had qualms about this particular approach to cooking because I rely so much on sight and smell and fork testing and this method was more like preparing a pig in a poke. "Oh don't worry," they said, "your food always comes out fantastic."

And, hours later when we finally ate it, it was.  Our guests were so hungry they thought it was the best thing they'd ever put in their mouths.  They ate every last bite of the roast, the potatoes, beans, rolls, fruit salad, and trifle.  (They also ate a box of Cheerios, some gummy bears, twenty-eight Milky Ways and half a pepperoni pizza that had been in the back of my SUV for two days.)  Thanking me profusely as they backed out the front door, they scurried out to their cars to try and make it the ten miles home before sun up.

Next Christmas I know exactly what I am going to make for our annual holiday dinner--

Reservations.

Entree Envy

I am working this week at our fabulous performing arts venue NJPAC.  It is located in the most beautiful area of downtown Newark (yes, there really is one) and boasts world class performances from the globe's most gifted performers.  I love coming here because the venue is awesome, our clients are fun and the food service team we have here is like a box of Crackerjacks--there's always a surprise or two inside.

It is also fun to travel here because of its proximity to New York City, about 22 minutes and 4 panhandlers away by PATH train.  As a matter of fact, after work today and I am heading to the Big Apple for a pre Christmas holiday weekend of theater, Fifth Avenue window shopping, and of course, surrendering to the siren call beckoning me to the foodie capital of America.

Speaking of food (yep, going there once again, Dining Dave) I had dinner with friends last night in Jersey City at a "Manhattan style" eatery called the Light Horse Tavern.  At 8:30 on a Thursday, the place was buzzy with alcohol-fueled merriment, small (and New Jersey loud) holiday gatherings, and waitpersons scurrying around the handsomely appointed room with cheerful attentiveness and snappy sass.

In our group of five, I was seated next to my friend Kathleen, a lifelong Manhattanite who recently moved to Jersey City after living the last ten years in about 25 square feet on the Upper West Side.  (It was actually less an apartment than an oversized dollhouse.) After downing some excellent Fisher Island oysters from Block Island Sound, our main courses arrived.  A couple orders of Fish and Chips, some French Onion Soup, Kathleen's Raw Bacon wrapped Individual Meatloaf, and Spaghettini with Scallops and Peas for me.  As our group surveyed the dishes in front of us, it was clear I had won the prize for ordering correctly, which I refer to as my innate menu-ography.

Imagine a generous pasta bowl of perfectly cooked spaghetti dotted with two dozen sauteed bay scallops and a large handful of freshly steamed sweet peas swimming in sinfully rich brown butter sauce.  The aroma rising off the plate was intoxicating, so at first I didn't notice how intently Kathleen was staring at my plate as she forked into her overcooked lump of meat.  I had a couple of bites of my dish--super rich and approaching utter bliss--and Kathleen asked if she could have a taste.  I like sharing food at table, so of course I assented, although I wasn't very interested in trying anyone else's selections. 

I got involved in a conversation at the other end of the table for a minute or two, and then returned my attention to my delicious dinner.  It. Was. Gone.

While my back was turned, that sneaky, aggressive northeastern gal had "tasted" every remaining morsel and was greedily sopping up what was left of the sauce with a slice of freshly baked Italian bread. Stunned, I wasn't exactly sure what to say.  As I was groping for the most polite way of calling her a food thief and a guttersnipe, she batted her beautifully made up, lying eyes and said, "I'm sorry.  Weren't you finished?"

Being the polite, Southern gentleman that I am, I resisted my initial impulse to haul off and backhand her.  I woefully stared at my empty plate (which by now she had thoughtfully returned to its place in front of me) and murmured something about already being full.  Meanwhile, the Evil One was asking the waitress to wrap up her meatloaf to take home since she "didn't have room for it."  Really.  How startling.

I did survive the night without starving due to a couple of Tic Tacs I had in my pocket and downing several glasses of water (which made the cab ride back to Newark quite uncomfortable.)  In the grand scheme of things there was no real harm done, and Kathleen probably did my waistline and my cardiac health a world of good by Hoovering what probably amounted to two cups of melted butter.

But tomorrow night at dinner after a matinee performance of the Book of Mormon, I know what my plan will be.  Wait until Kathleen and my other friends are seated, and then quietly slip out to the restaurant next door.

Cooking for Dummies

I'm a pretty darned good cook if I do say so myself.  Although I'm never going to give this guy a run for his money, I know my way around a Viking stovetop and I own not one but two micro-planers, which certainly imparts some degree of street cred.  (Kitchen cred?)

My dear departed mother was not particularly good at it. She was a fantastic mom, a really good singer, had a wicked sense of humor, and rocked superhuman parenting skills, but a cook?  Not so much.  After 25 years of throwing together meals for my family she abruptly declared she hated it and was done when I, the runt of the litter, was the only one left at home at the age of 15.  She still went to the store and made sure we had plenty of groceries, but if I wanted something to eat I had to make it myself.  This was actually a blessing because it was only then that I realized that vegetables actually tasted good when not boiled for twenty-four hours in unsalted water.

You Started It

I didn't become a good cook overnight; it  probably took more like fifteen years. In high school I was adept at triple decker tuna salad sandwiches and I could fry a mean egg without breaking its yolk.  My early twenties saw a growing mastery of meatloaf, tacos, and the occasional marinated, grilled chicken.  Then someone game me the Silver Palate cookbook, where I read that even shopping for ingredients could be part of the overall fun in creating delicious meals.  This idea intrigued me.  I started sensually caressing boxes of cereal and uninhibitedly fondling fresh produce until I was chased  out of Kroger's accompanied by some fairly nasty name calling.  I learned to be more discreet at Safeway, and the foodie inside me started to blossom.

A lot of cooking is trial and error until you start using senses other than your eyes for reading recipes.  A refined sense of smell, an inquisitive tongue, sensitive fingers, and even your ears can help you master the wonders of the culinary process.  If you listen closely you can hear it when the roasting pan is too hot and burning your garlic studded pork tenderloin with julienned root vegetables.  Honestly. You really don't have to wait for the smoke alarm.

Now that I'm accomplished at cooking fairly difficult recipes and can dutifully turn out a holiday meal when everything comes out at the same time, my friends ask me how I learned to do it.  I really don't know.  That's kind of like asking Taylor Swift how can she write such terrible songs, or why swimming pool water looks blue. Partly it's practice, it's definitely a respect for quality ingredients, but mostly it's an instinct for flavors and textures that will trippingly tap dance on one's tongue.  Unlike my mother, I truly love chopping and peeling, simmering and tasting, roasting and basting while eagerly drinking in all the intoxicating aromas (as well as a glass or two of cabernet.)  It's really fun for me, and provides another outlet for expressing my creativity besides just writing about food all the time.

I'd love to find someone who feels exactly the same way about doing the dishes.

Outside the Bubble

I think of myself as a sophisticated, urban guy, who is passionately into the Dallas dining scene.  (Your first clue might have been the title of this blog.) I'm the guy people go to for info when they want to take a date/client/friend/fatal attraction to a hip little spot that's newish and trendy.  They know that chances are, I've just been there.

I say this with some degree of self-mockery because in a restaurant crazy city like Dallas it is practically impossible to stay truly plugged in. (We have more restaurants per capita than any other city in America including New York, Chicago, and San Francisco.  We also have the most shopping.  I believe this is due to our complete lack of any topographical points of interest like mountains and beaches and rivers and forests,  so therefore we have nothing to do but eat and shop. And go to Friday night high school football games.  But I digress.)

Living two miles from downtown, the sheer density of chic dining options available to me within fifteen minutes by car (that's another thing we lack--walking) is astounding. There's been an explosion of small, chef-driven restaurants around here in recent years fashioned from reclaimed tile factories and vintage store fronts.  They're all excitingly creative and share the current fashion of the One Word Name.  (I believe when the economy returns we might become a tad less parsimonious and allow two or even three words when naming restaurants--but for now frugality rules.)

Since all of my comestible and hip factor requirements can be met in and around the city's core, I rarely venture beyond the loop unless I am driving to the airport or speeding up the tollway for large quantities of household cleaning products from Costco.  So imagine my surprise when I found myself sitting in a huge, suburban, chain restaurant last Saturday night and actually liking it.

This gigantic place was called BJ's Brewhouse and it was absolutely jammed at 8:30. The perky blonde hostess at the door smiled charmingly and said "Welcome to BJ's". I think she actually meant it. Our even perkier server (also blonde) was named Albany or Cheyenne or some other city and she was informed, efficient, and funny.  The menu had at least 248 pages with whole sections devoted to pizzas, burgers, sandwiches, salads, soups, pasta, giant stuffed potatoes, entrees, desserts, crafted beers, and funky food for kids. There was one part of the menu that was "Enlightened" (meaning more healthful and under 500 calories.) I chose from those offerings and ordered Thai Chicken Mango Salad with jicama, red bell peppers, red onions, mixed baby field greens, arugula, and bibb lettuce tossed in citrus-chili dressing and topped with a slice of avocado, mint, green onions, and sesame won ton strips.  It was astonishingly good and stupidly cheap.

My mother always said typical site-seeing tourist traps were swarming with people because they were the most interesting places to begin with.  I am going to apply my mom's logic to dining establishments and travel outside the bubble on occasion to where the masses like to gather.  I will no longer be a downtown dining snob.  I shall cease dismissing all chain restaurants as vast bastions of mediocrity. I will open my mind and my mouth and my wallet to the possibilities that cost efficient deliciousness might lie beyond the pale.

And next time someone asks me where they should go to celebrate their tenth wedding anniversary I'm going to tell them Chili's.

Life Is A Banquet, and Most Fools are Starving to Death --Auntie Mame

Recently, I was interviewed about our off-premise catering company, Food Glorious Food.  I was somewhat astonished that people knew so little about catering and/or had these vague impressions of Mexican themed buffets with bandanna napkins and tortilla chips in sombreros. So I thought today's blog post could be a recap of that discussion for those of you yearning to know the inside scoop on what it's like to be the top catering company in Dallas.

Q. How early should I start looking for a caterer and planning my event?
A. Well since you are talking to me then you have already found your caterer.  Depending on the size and scope of your event, three or four months prior is usually sufficient.  However, we have booked, planned, and produced a fabulous wedding reception in less than two weeks before. (Not recommended.)

Q. How is off-premise catering different than regular catering?

Keep Him Away from the Sterno

A. It is like the difference between peeling an apple in your back pocket with nail clippers and knocking over a glass of milk.  Regular caterers just take stuff out of the fridge and pop it in the oven and then haul it out to the ballroom.  Off-premise caterers have to prep the food in their commissary, place it on rolling stock in containers that maintain healthful temperatures, load the vans with everything required for the event (including ladles, salt and pepper shakers, blow torches, back up plans, and duct tape), drive to the destination, build a field kitchen to finish cooking and then serve the food with warmth and panache, all the while making it look easy and fun.  Off-premise teams are the Chuck Norrises of the catering world.

Q. I have found a menu in a magazine that I want at my next party. Can you do that?

A. Probably. But we think you should set up a planning meeting with one of our catering directors who make it their business to be ahead of trends.  Chances are, if you've read it in a magazine others have too, and your guests might end up attending two parties with identical food.  That’s kind of like showing up at a formal dance wearing the same dress as your sorority sister.

Q. I am gluten-intolerant. Do you offer anything I can eat?
A. We can accommodate any special dietary requests— we've catered vegan weddings, Goth engagement parties, canine soirees, you name it.  The only thing we refuse to do is remove green M & Ms at the request of demanding rock bands.  We are an equal opportunity candy provider.

Q. How far do you go?
A. We've traveled to San Antonio and Midland, Texas this year to produce exquisite events.  There are additional charges for transportation costs and hotel accommodations but we’re so worth it.


Q. Do you do tastings? 

Challah Back Boys

A. Tastings are one of those urban myths like Big Foot and New York Sewer Alligators.  We think it is more fun to invite you to visit a real event we are catering and taste their food.  (We have you come early and we do it in the kitchen--we’re not all Wedding Crashers about it or anything.) 

 Q. Do you sell alcohol in packages or by consumption?

A. We recommend packages as the best way to go.  You can budget for an exact amount instead of stressing when the final reckoning is done at the end of the party when all you really want to do is take off your shoes and go to bed with your clothes on.  Your guests have unlimited beverages for a specified amount of time, and you don’t have to chase after people who leave behind half a glass of wine to do the chicken dance yelling "Hey!  You just wasted $7 of my hard-earned cash!"

Q. Why are Mashed Potato Martini Bars hated by all top shelf caterers?
A. Number one, the year 1992 called and wants them all back.  Number two, because they are the root of all evil and must be destroyed.  It is rumored the Mayans were dining on MPMBs when they created their infamous calendar.

Q. What’s your favorite party you've ever booked?

 A. Your next one.

Q. What is the smallest party you will cater?
A. We once catered a dinner for two.  It was for a gentleman who was popping the question to his lady.  That dinner cost more than the ring.  Just sayin’.

Q. What is the largest party you have ever catered?
A. We catered an outdoor cocktail party for 10,000 one time, and we catered the “wedding of the century’ for a local socialite for 750 seated guests in a 35,000 s.f. tent.  That one was five courses, all synchronized service. 

Q. What the heck is synchronized service?
A. That’s when eight servers hand-carrying two plates each approach a table and set them on a swanky decorated table simultaneously.  We make our service teams practice for hours using empty plates to get it exactly right.  When we feel ornery we make them wear tights.

Q. What words of advice can you give to an aspiring off-premise caterer?
A. Run the other way! Seriously, it is really hard work.  But it is also creative, and magical and fun.  You can never plan too much and you should take nothing for granted.  Check lists are your friends.  Have a rain plan, a flood plan, a tornado plan and a power outage plan. Sweat the small stuff.  Carry aspirin in your backpack.  Be nice.  Don’t ever agree to Mashed Potato Martini Bars.  Drink your milk, it does a body good.

Just Say No







Black Tie Blue Print



Puttin' On The Ritz

 Last Saturday night we attended a black tie charity function that was really fun.  I know some people look forward to donning  A tuxedo, studded shirt, and shiny shoes about as much as a trip to the dentist, but I kind of like it.  It's fun getting all gussied up and seeing your friends and acquaintances decked out in their versions of finery while sipping champagne and chatting about art, commerce, and each other.

That being said, I realized amidst the revelry how much alike these gala events always are.  Being in the food business, I've worked about the same number of black tie events as I have attended, and have been on both sides of the planning table--sometimes as a caterer and sometimes as a committee member.  And here's the deal:  Every year the ball chair wants to make his or her event the most special, memorable, unique, and talked about in the history of their organization.  And every year the event is exactly the same as the one the year before.

The general outline is as follows:

1. Early VIP Reception and Photo Opps with Key Note Speaker for those who gave the most money. 
2. One Hour Cocktail Reception with (very few) passed hors d'oeuvres (just-one-bite sized so no drops in the decolletage or crumbles in the cummerbund) during a Silent Auction of art, furniture, trips, home and personal services, and designer dog beds. 
3. Many calls to dinner, usually with chimes, that become increasingly strident as the guests continue to linger and converse and refuse to sit down. 
4. Pre-set first course (Tossed Green Salad with Lavosh and some kind of novel inclusion like Pomegranate Seeds or Goat Cheese with Spiced Pecans) and the Pouring of the (donated) Wines. 
5. An Introduction of an Award Recipient by the Gala Chairs, followed by shout outs to the major donors. (See item 1). 
6. A Four-ounce Filet Mignon cooked medium, paired with either a) Chilean Sea Bass or b) Two Grilled Prawns, alongside a) Asparagus or b) Haricots Verts, with a) Potatoes Dauphinoise or b) Herbed Risotto. 
7. Some kind of Chocolate Dessert.  (For years it was Molten Lava Cake but thankfully that fad finally cooled).
8. Seemingly endless Live Auction of Luxury Items which are completely out of price range for everyone except for the 1% in the room (Item 1 redux).
9. Stirring Key Note Address.
10. Staggered Silent Auction Closing times along with Drinks and Dancing.
11. An unexpectedly drunken reveler or two misbehaving in a manner which will be woefully rued (and gleefully discussed) the next day.

Even though the list above is pretty much the boilerplate for virtually all black tie fund raisers, it is not settled upon before an entire year of agonizing, planning, multiple tastings of possible menu items (lamb, wild boar, and fish are duly presented by the caterer, pronounced delicious by the menu committee members, then rejected as too risky for such a large group) has led up to it.

Don't get me wrong, I love traditions and I enjoy going to these fancy shmancy dinners.  But it seems to me that somebody could develop a Gala App that would allow planners to simply drag icons into time slots and plan a party on their smart phone in under ten minutes.  But then none of the committees would have anything to do and the ball chair would be deemed lazy and lacking vision.  So we continue performing the identical process year after year, fervently convinced that this time, it's going to be dazzlingly different.

Isn't that what psychiatrists say is the definition of insanity?

Tricked and Treated

Pure Chocolate Evil

I feel like I should somehow retaliate against Hershey's for originating the very idea of "fun size bars" sold in huge bags for Halloween distribution to Pooh Bears, Zombies, Fairy Princesses, and Spidermen.  They look so innocuous in their wee little wrappers, slyly tempting you to have one because, honestly, how much harm can one tiny treat do to you?

The impossible challenge, my friends,  is maintaining the vow of eating just one.  My willpower of steel can withstand onslaughts by pushy waiters and well-meaning friends who unsuccessfully try to persuade me to try some dessert.  You can hand me a slice of cake at my own birthday party and I will set it down untouched when no one is looking.  I haven't eaten ice cream or cookie dough since I was in my twenties.  It is not that I don't like sweets, but I come from the Midwest where most people end up shaped like potatoes and long ago I swore I'd never be known by the nickname of Spud.

Yesterday, after working with a couple of managers on social media strategies for our restaurant Nicola's, one of them handed me a little bag of fun size treats from Hershey's.  I accepted it graciously, knowing how much my assistant Betty would enjoy it when I got back to my office.  Imagine my astonishment when I exited the freeway and saw six fun size wrappers on the car seat next to me, greedily licked clean.



Ooky and Spooky

I had a vague memory of popping a tiny Heath Bar in my mouth, followed by a somewhat grotesque, Halloween themed, bright orange Kit Kat bar.  I don't know where the rest of the candy went but I am assuming from the evidence that I must have wolfed 'em all down in the amnesiatic state of a sugar-induced coma.  If you follow this blog with any regularity you know I compulsively journal my daily ingested food (targeting 2,000 calories) and regular workouts to keep myself in check.  (Even with all that I'm considerably more Kelsey Grammer than Joe Manganiello.)  I did some research on line and then forced myself to enter the nearly 600 empty and for the most part non-memorable calories into fitday.com.  That's usually dinner and a glass of wine for me. Ugh.

Click the Link for the Recipe If You Dare

So I can't go back, only forward with a renewed sense of purpose and a sacred oath that those little bars of badness shall never pass through these lips again. Cake, pie, doughnuts, candy, and  Hershey's S'Mores Toffee Almond Bars (for real, you'll gain three pounds by just reading the recipe) are all completely verboten for now and forever more.

In the restaurant industry, it is a constant battle to keep the bulge at bay.  But I strive to do so because it is very important to me and my health that I remain "fun-sized" myself.

Twinkies



39 Ingredients, Most of Which Aren't Food

 According to Wikipedia, Hostess Brands, Inc is the largest wholesale baker and distributor of bakery products in the United States, and is the owner of the Hostess, Wonder Bread,  Nature's Pride, Dolly Madison, Butternut Breads, and Drake's brands. For many years it was based at 12 East Armour Boulevard, Kansas City, Missouri. After it emerged from bankruptcy in 2009 it moved to Irving, Texas.  It declared Chapter 11 again in 2012.



Mmmmm, Sheet Rock

This saddens me.  I grew up near the Hostess plant in Kansas City and when I was a young boy my mother would sometimes drive to their little outlet store where they sold soon-to-expire baked treats at a huge discount.  My favorites were the Hostess Cupcake (properly eaten inside out somewhat like an Oreo) and the Banana Dream (sort of a sideways Twinkie with a banana flavored "cream" filling.)  I air quote the term "cream" because I once did some research and found that the filling was actually unnaturally sweetened shortening.  Other stuff in Hostess snack cakes include sorbic acid as a preservative (it comes from natural gas), artificial colors and flavorings from petroleum, (what's with all this fuel?) and calcium sulfate, which is used in sheet rock.


Pink Slime


Despite these unexpected revelations, I have always had a soft spot for Hostess brands except for the dreaded Sno Ball; its garish pinkness really disturbed my sense of aesthetics.  But I loved fluffy, white Wonder Bread (Builds Strong Bodies Twelve Ways!) and the aroma of it baking inside the factory on Armour Road is one of the headiest memories of my youth (we never referred to it as Armour Boulevard, though -- that would have been considered high falutin' back where I come from.)

Everyone says American kids are getting fatter and fatter, and our First Lady has made childhood obesity her personal challenge to conquer.  I wonder if we got away from all these natural, organic ingredients like unrefined sugar, cream from grass-fed cows, enriched flour from pesticide-free wheat, and farm eggs hand-harvested from free range chickens and went back to ingesting man made chemicals, food coloring and Chinese vitamins, would it solve the problem?  The kids I went to grammar school with were all normal sized--maybe because we were so jacked up on minerals and gasoline we ran around in circles for hours at a time.

I know we are currently in a Farm to Table movement and this sounds like heresy, but if we initiated a nation-wide return to foods of the sixties and called it Laboratory to Table, we might just slim down our youngsters and help a venerable bakery rise out of its financial woes. 

I don't know about you, but I am really Jonesing for some unnaturally sweetened shortening right now. 

Enjoy

Last weekend we went to a restaurant that should have been named Cliche Cafe.  From arrival to departure, we were assaulted by all too common industry actions and phrases that must have originated in a Saturday Night Live skit -- but misguided restaurateurs regard as gospel.



Cabbage Rose Tattoos are De Rigueur



As my partner and I walked up to the host stand, the pretty young thing behind it (platinum blonde, diamond nose ring, black halter dress, cabbage rose shoulder tattoo) looked up blankly, then smiled and queried "two for dinner?"  As we were the only ones standing in the entry and it was 8:30 p.m., I would have thought this somewhat self-evident, but I nodded to confirm her astute observations.

Following her through the restaurant to be seated, I noticed how precariously she traveled on 6-inch stilettos. As we stepped from the front dining room through an archway to the adjacent room, she gestured at an imaginary line in the floor, glancing back at us as she alerted us to "watch our step."  I was confused because there was no threshold or change in grade, it was just walking on a flat, carpeted floor.  I stumbled a tiny bit so as to justify the warning.



Dawson Off Duty



By this time, I just knew our server was going to be a skinny hipster in black plastic eyeglasses and possibly a fedora.  (Ding ding ding!  I win $100!)  Introducing himself as Dawson, he assured us he would be "taking care of" us tonight.  This phrase is so ambiguous!  A nurse "takes care of" you, a hit man "takes care of" you, but a server in a restaurant?  Is he planning on coddling me or my eggs?





As Dawson tends to our menu distribution and preprandial beverage needs, I notice he is holding his other arm in the position I call Waiter Arm. Hold your right arm close to your body, and then bend your elbow so your wrist is almost touching your shoulder.  Now clench your hand and bend your wrist so your  palm is facing straight out.  It is a completely useless and terribly popular stance for servers.  It reminds me of a snippy French garcon in an old cartoon.

After describing the specials that "chef has prepared just for you" Dawson writes down our selections and departs, but not before declaring that he'll turn the order into the kitchen.  Huh?  Wouldn't it be more efficient to put it under a scarf in the cloak room, or stick it in the pocket of a departing guest?

When Dawson sailed out of the kitchen twenty minutes later and grandly placed our dishes in front of us, he asked if we would cut into them to make sure they were cooked properly.  This was confusing because we had ordered salad and pasta, but we did as instructed while he shined a little penlight onto our plates, helping us to ascertain correct doneness.  Gleeful that all was well, he backed away from the table with a flourish and uttered the inevitable one word departing server catch phrase.  Come on, say it with me: 

"Enjoy."

The Great American Hot Dog



Crown Roast of Wienies

 I've been thinking a lot about hot dogs recently.  It started last week when I went to see a "Kooza," a Cirque du Soleil performance that is traveling through Dallas right now.  I am always really careful about what I eat--I read labels, log daily calories and nutrition, avoid desserts--but the show was a matinee, I was at a circus, and the shrieks of excited kids and smell of stale, buttery popcorn was permeating the air so I had a hot dog. 

Since I once lived in Chicago my standard for a hot dog is fairly high.  I like the all beef kind (the ones made of cast off parts from three different animals are difficult for me to think about) hot off the grill with onions and relish and mustard and ketchup cradled in a fresh, soft bun.  What I got at Cirque was a slightly warm, red tube steak which had been slapped between two separate pieces of stale bread and wrapped in a foil pouch several days prior.  It was worse than a drive-in movie concession stand hot dog, if you can imagine that.

Speaking of drive-ins, my mom used to boil hot dogs at home and then put them in a large thermos along with some of the hot water from the sauce pan.  When it was time to eat she'd extract them with a long fork and fix them up with condiments she kept in a compartmentalized lunch box.  Her cleverness and parsimony (we were a one-income, very large family) made those dogs taste delicious.  (She also used to wrap cheese sandwiches in foil and then iron them while starching my dad's shirts--but that's another blog post.)

I probably won't be having another hot dog this year since I used my cheat card already.  But next year, when the wienie urge presents itself, I am going to pick my place and time to insure the reward is worth the risk.  When you allow yourself an indulgence, you don't want to be even slightly disappointed.  I think  those of us in the restaurant business need to remind ourselves that most of our customers are celebrating or dating or marking a personal milestone, and we need to remain mindful that every detail has to be perfect every time. 

Because frankly, anything less is no day at the circus.

Todd Gray's Watershed

I just got back from a work week in Washington DC.  I love our nation's capitol, especially when all the rats are gone.  And you know of whom I speak.

Our celebrity chef partner in Washington is Todd Gray at his namesake restaurant, Watershed.  I've worked with him and his fun wife Ellen over the past year but I never got a chance to sit down and share a glass of grape juice and some conversation with Todd before this trip.  I always think when someone has achieved the kind of fame he has--especially with his legendary restaurant Equinox-- that they might be a little too big for their chef pants.  Not Todd.  He is down to Earth, and talkative and funny.  Todd had some great stories about a recent James Beard event he participated in that was in the Hamptons.  He said it was so beautiful there and it'd be a great place to live if there weren't so many New Yorkers.  Hah.  He's a great chef and a cool dude.



Shrimp and Grits



Our restaurant, Watershed, is in an emerging neighborhood of DC, in the Northeast quadrant called NoMa (short for North of Massachusetts Avenue).  A couple of years ago angels would've feared to tread there, but now NoMa  is the hottest developing destination in town. There are literally cranes on every block replacing torn down tenements with sleek new offices and snazzy residential spaces.



It Looks Better With People On It



Chef Todd created a seafood-centric concept that's like a drive up the Eastern seabord from Florida to Maine.  Shrimp on Grits, Hushpuppies, BBQ Salmon, Skipjack Chips, Lobster Rolls, Crab Club Sandwiches--shucks, he's even got a raw bar with Oysters, Clams and Mussels.  I personally had the best Crab Cakes I've ever had the pleasure of devouring in 6 seconds.  The finest patio in DC belongs to Watershed, as evidenced by every seat being taken by 7 p.m. in perfect 72 degree weather.

Crafted cocktails are de rigueur these days, and Watershed is no exception.  We have a "cocktail of the week" program, so of course I was duty-bound to try a dozen or so Blueberry Mojitos.  Hey, it was over the course of several days.

My Adventures with a Frosted Tart



Chef Bronwen Weber


Not many people know that Frosted Art, the nationally acclaimed bakery headed by Bronwen Weber, is part of our Culinaire family.  Bronwen is an artist whose medium is cake, and her crazy talent has made her the winningest champion on the Food Network's Cake Challenge series.

When Bronwen first came to our organization she was put under my wing because frankly, nobody here knew anything about running a bakery and I am pretty good at faking stuff.  B and I felt our way around each other at first, but soon discovered we shared the same offbeat sense of humor and a similar drive for success (world domination or bust!)

I learned to appreciate the craftsmanship and artistry that goes into building a luxury cake brand, and Bronwen picked up some pointers from me on managing costs, marketing and running the business successfully.  We decided to use her name and reputation as the building block for revenue growth and quickly established Bronwen Weber and Frosted Art as synonymous phrases.

Seven Layer, Rotating Circus Cake





Since 2008 Frosted Art has grown significantly, year over year, despite being mired in a recession and then an economic recovery as slow as well,  fondant in February.  How has she done this?  By producing mind-blowing, over-the-top, delicious creations like this circus-themed cake for a local real estate icon's 100th birthday.  Yes, that's a cake.

Frosted Art used to be all about wedding cakes--the showiest, prettiest, most in demand wedding cakes in Dallas.  But now nearly half our business is comprised of specialty cakes for birthdays, corporate milestones, anniversaries and galas.


Crazy Lamp Cake





The fun part for me has been working with a gifted celebrity chef and watching her grow into a shrewd business woman.  It's like she can decorate a wedding cake with one hand and write a strategic business plan with the other (occasionally I get to lick off the frosting.)  Bronwen is famous for making great cakes, but take it from me, she herself is one smart cookie.

Destination Dining: The Mecca

      Last weekend, the legendary Mecca Restaurant opened one block from where we live in Lakewood, relocating from its prior home in North Dallas where it had proudly been serving breakfast all day for the last 74 years.  I had heard of the Mecca, of course, but never traveled across town to eat there.  I think my waistline and blood pressure would be healthier if it had stayed put.

The Old Sign At Its New Home.





      As featured on the Food Network's Diners, Drive-Ins & Dives, the Mecca's claim to fame is their "freshly baked all day" home-made cinnamon roll. As we ordered our late Sunday breakfast we added one of the cinnamon rolls.  I must have looked surprised when our waitress asked us if we wanted it before our meal, because she quickly added "most folks want to eat it first while they still have room for it."  We opted to save it for a rare breakfast dessert course.



The Roll That Ate Manhattan



     After finishing delicious home-made corned beef hash, two perfectly fried eggs, and a huge doughy biscuit with somewhat bland sausage gravy, our waitress brought out the star of the show.  We gasped at the size of it, swimming in butter on a 9-inch dinner plate. It had to be 8 inches long, 7 inches wide and 6 inches high.  The lady with a family of 4 next to me at the counter goggled at it as well and said to me under her breath, "I hope you're planning on sharing that with the rest of us."

     I cut that monster in half and placed a portion on my companion's plate.  The warm, cinnamon fragrance wafting up from the plate was intoxicating.  I muttered something about only having a couple of bites, but moments later that plate was clean.  I swallowed the last of my coffee and waddled over to the cashier.  I was having trouble focusing and I said something to her about going into a coma and she politely asked me not to do it there.  We somehow stumbled home and immediately fell into a post Thanksgiving Dinner-like sleep which lasted 2 hours.  I am not, ordinarily, a napper.

     I totalled up my  intake and logged the over 2,000 calories I had just consumed in my www.fitday.com on-line calorie counter and exercise journal.  (It takes much attention to detail to look this god-like at my advanced age.)  Clearly this meal would be my only one of the day and thankfully, I went to bed at 10 PM still full.  For purely aesthetic and longevity reasons I don't intend to make the Mecca a regular stop on my restaurant rounds.  But one day that cinnamon roll and I shall meet again.

Celebrity Chef Driven Kitchens

One of our long term growth strategies is to partner with notable chefs in key cities to stimulate interest, media coverage and customer visits to our restaurants.  This strategy has worked well for us in Minneapolis with Tim McKee at Sea Change, Ryan DePersio at NICO Kitchen + Bar at NJPAC and  Todd Gray at his namesake Watershed in WDC.

The Approaching Storm

This past weekend I had the great fortune of dining around New Orleans (mercifully spared by Hurricane  Isaac) and went to one of the most famous celebrity chef restaurants in the country, Emeril Lagasse's NOLA in the French Quarter.  NOLA has been around for years and I feared that some of the luster may have faded as Emeril's celebrity grew.  Happily, this was not the case.

NOLA's Display Kitchen

The restaurant is wonderfully decorated in a New Orleans Industrial Chic motif with an open kitchen and a dramatic glass elevator that ascends to the primary dining room.  The hostess seemed genuinely glad to see us.  Our service team (there were three of them taking care of two of us) was led by a witty, off-beat and super professional waiter who clearly loved his job-- and everything on the menu.

Starting with perfectly prepared martinis, we enjoyed the lagniappe of tiny brioche rolls that were warm from the oven and very moist, dense cornbread muffins proffered with room temperature butter in a crock.  I usually forego bread but ate one of each with noisy gusto, vowing an extra 30 minutes of cardio in the morning (and which I fulfilled!)  My next course was celery root and beets with lobster chunks, but my companion's soup of cream of Parmigiano-Reggiano and roasted garlic was so good it seemed like proper marriage material.  We finished with a nicely grilled, flavorful sheepshead fillet and Emeril's signature shrimp & grits, which were both stunning.  The ticket before tax and gratuity was under $80-- well worth that price and quite unexpected given the famous name on the marquee.

So I understand better now why our celebrity chef driven kitchens draw in more customers.  It is the talent and the passion and the show business they bring to the industry that elevates a diner's experience from simply enjoying a meal to making it a most memorable excursion into the culinary arts.

Bon Appetit!

Happy 100th Birthday, Julia! You started a food revolution almost single-handedly in the 1960's when most of our mothers thought Chef Boy-Ar-Dee was a real chef who allowed one to safely dabble in foreign cuisine.  We have come a long way since you started sharing your zeal for French cuisine and on behalf of the foodies you inspired, I thank you.

The French Chef, Julia Child

You would be so proud of Americans today.  We crave organic, non-processed food and are in the throes of an exciting Farm to Table evolution.  It would seem somewhat "back to the future" to you, but we have shed our desire for processed, packaged foods and scour farmer's markets for heirloom tomatoes and home grown corn.  We want to know where our hormone-free protein is coming from and we keep a watchful eye on sustainable seafood and resource recommendations.

The hottest restaurant concepts these days are small, chef-driven kitchens with seasonally inspired menus.  You can sense the exuberance behind the saute pan when the bounty you are relishing hails from local sources.  And though it is true your beloved French cuisine is more complicated with sauces than the dishes currently in vogue, your expert command of your kitchen and the pure enjoyment you derived from it has become part of our shared, ancestral memories. 

Merci, Madame.