Cracked Corn and Fuzzy, Part I

Cracked Corn and Fuzzy, Part I

The French Connection 

Sitting in the Charles de Gaulle airport for 6 hours after not sleeping for twenty four I felt a bit more like a character out of Casablanca waiting for a flight to freedom then Henry Miller escaping the stagnation of America. Slightly nauseous from the extensive odor of perfume both sold and worn we managed to find a safe haven at an airport brasserie at which to enjoy a pint and a croissant.

My first croissant in France.

This was to be a momentous occasion and at first I thought perhaps a croissant from an airport would be a strumpet of the craft. In actuality, it was quite good, buttery, and flaky. Thus so far it has been one of the better croissants I have had. Or perhaps I was just deranged from jet fuel.

I am sitting in a villa in Bouc Bel Aire currently, no croissants at hand, by a pool, under the Provencal sun. This is where the French want to live. This is where you want to live. From a meteorological standpoint, the weather is perfect, warm sun and light breeze. Bouc Bel Aire is situated nearly equidistant between Aix de Provence and Marseilles, a sleepy bedroom community for those who work in either of the two. Our hosts, Pascal and Marianne, work respectively in both towns. Pascal works for the aviation department while Marianne works as a swimming instructor for the city. Being both public jobs they make a decent living with many benefits that come of working for the state in France. Marianne is fairly shocked by the fact that Americans may or may not get vacation and at most it is only two weeks.

Aix and Marseilles are very different cities while being in fairly close proximity. Marseilles is ancient; it smells ancient and looks ancient, old stucco buildings smothered in graffiti that is not particularly good. As an American I can appreciate inspired graffiti, this is not what Cézanne would have wanted to see Marseilles adorned with. At times Marseilles seems to be a movie set of the futuristic world we have obliterated ourselves into. The buildings crumbling into themselves while fresh laundry hangs on the lines which run window to window. The mini trash strike doesn’t help the situation with refuse overflowing the forlorn receptacles it was intended for. And then there is the shit. A warning to those hoofing it about the streets and alleys of Marseilles, do not wear opened toed shoes and always keep one eye to the ground. The amount of dog scat is, well, impressive. It did not seem as if there were enough dogs in the city to generate the mother load of excrement that adorns the avenues.

The day of our first jaunt through Marseilles we awoke to the news that the US had successfully assassinated the evil Osama Bin Ladan. My first thought was regarding how this would affect my travel plans. The second was that we were getting dropped off in Marseilles in the predominantly Muslim section of town. The Arabic community here serves a dual function; they do the underpaid “Mexican” jobs we have in the United States while also having a similar disdain that is placed upon the African American community. It is a heavy load to bear. Suffice to say, being a fat American I stand out like the proverbial raisin in the sugar bowl and this caused me a bit of concern regarding a personal jihad on my pasty ass. As in America (and probably anywhere else) it is pointless to listen to other people’s opinions regarding certain matters. Nobody seemed to notice us as we walked through their neighborhood, except for the young children trying to beg a couple Euros off us. I will say this about the panhandlers of Marseilles; they are much less intrusive but more effective then in America. The silently supplicating woman is definitely more powerful then the guy who reeks of malt liquor and drools on you.

We made our way to the Vieux Port where many personal pleasure boats lay anchor. It has, for lack of a better word, a board walk which runs along either side of the port with an array of restaurants serving overpriced food and drink. In the distance you can see atop perhaps the highest peak in Marseilles the Notre Dame church with the Virgin Mary and “kid”. I say “kid” because after some deliberation my traveling companion and I decided that there is a reason they make tourist trams to tour the city and opted to take one. Our pre-recorded tour guide, fluent in French, German, and English, pointed out some important historical facts of the area and noted the statue of “Mary and Kid”. 

Marseilles is very beautiful. The architecture is quite stunning especially when you realize that there has been civilization here for thousands of years. As we ascend the roads to the church, through paths etched through limestone long before Plymouth rock was official, we look out to islands inhabited by castles and prisons, the setting for “The Count of Monte Cristo”. We finally wind our way up to the church and all its majesty. I find it quite moving while my cohort makes some sacrilegious gesticulations by the holy water in the basilica. Fortunately I was standing between her and the 200 year old woman weeping and lighting candles and I didn’t need throw her off the mountain as penance, as much as I may have wanted to. Back down the mountain in our little train, it is now time to eat.

To eat, this why I came to France. Yes, charming villas, museums of legends, local color, etc. No, to eat. The café culture of France is prolific, with outdoor seating spilling out to the streets in every direction. Public workers and bourgeoisie bohemians (bobos) sitting side-by-side, resolutely smoking and quaffing the local wines. We walked through a neighborhood well concentrated with restaurants until we found one slightly farther from the street accordion player. The accordion, while a formidable instrument, is not one that serves as great background music for a conversation when played amplified. We found a restaurant with a three-course prix-fixe for 19.5 euros and one of the few not serving bouillabaisse. While Marseilles has the claim to fame of being the Mecca of the dish our host informed us that unless you see fish carcasses these days it is very likely to have come out of a bag. It seems, so far, that much of what Americans idolize and idealize about French cuisine is disappearing at an unfortunately rapid rate.

We settle in at 29 Place aux Huiles, ready for some sustenance. Jean greets us, stating firmly, when we explain in sad broken French that we don’t really speak the language that well, that “no one is perfect”.  As Marianne has been feeding us quite thoroughly since our arrival with copious amounts of cheese, pate, vegetables and assorted delectables we decided to split the prix-fixe, knowing the evening is sure to be another Olympian repast.

“My poor American friends,” Jean says “I will take up a collection for you. I’ll call Barak.”

Putting his blue tooth in his ear as he walks back inside the restaurant he begins “calling”.

           

“Barak, hey it’s me Jean. I have some Americans here, yeah, they can’t afford to eat, only to drink.”

Mid-forties, tall, lean, bespectacled, and goateed Jean was the consummate picture of the French waiter. He knew it too. With the international stereotype of this character well known he did his best to oblige us with a French dining experience that exists primarily in movies. As he solidly put down a fork or plate he would look over his glasses at us with mock disdain, roll his eyes and walk away. Our conversations usually ended with a sharp jab at us as we played the part of the naïve Americans. Towards the end of the meal he came out of character and made some suggestions for our stay. Very adept at his job we could see him sizing up each table, domestic or foreign, and being what they wanted him to be for their experience. The people of Marseilles have a reputation in France for being lackadaisical, looking to work as little as possible and enjoy the Provencal sun as much as possible. It would take much more time to deem whether this is an accurate portrayal of the citizenry but from watching Jean in action he definitely breaks many stereotypes, neither an ostentatious maître d' nor an idle layabout.

As our food arrived we realized our decision was the right one as each course was fairly substantial and had we each ordered the meal we would have been in rough shape by the end of the day. We began with a duo of rabbit; rillettes and a sort of rabbit porchetta, boned and rolled in its skin. This came with a salad of microgreens and fresh vegetables. Second was a dourade, or sea bream, fillet, perfectly sautéed, served with roasted tomatoes and fennel, adorned with a light aioli. To finish, an interesting take on a tiramisu concept. A parfait of mocha sabayon, sweetened and whipped mascarpone, and chocolate cake crumbs.

The meal was well executed and quite delicious. We enjoyed it with two bottles of rosé, the first a recommendation by Jean, lower in price but quite good, crisp and light. For the second we chose a slightly more expensive bottle, a fuller body than the first with more fruit yet not sweeter. Provence is renowned for its rosé although Pascal informed us later that it is not his favorite wine to drink and that it is typically a “tourist” wine. Even for Parisians who come here Provence means rosé, though, and the cafés do a hefty business in its commerce. Upon perusing the local supermarket it seems, unlike Pascal, many locals here take quite a fancy to it as well.

Food Karma and Failure

Some people can't cook.

"How is this supposed to be encouraging?" you may ask.

Of the total amount of kitchen failures that have occurred since Prometheus gave us fire, I would fathom an estimate of .0001% happened because of an inherent condition of being entirely inept in the kitchen. The vast majority are due to a lack of presence to the task at hand. But there is another factor which must be addressed before we discuss the things you can change. Food Karma.

I first discovered the existence of food karma while working as a line cook many years ago. I am certain at some point you have had a dinning experience go so incredibly awry that you vowed never to return to the establishment responsible for your misery. There is a fair chance you were the recipient of bad food karma. What you, the customer, can not see is the machinations of this force in effect. As the cook you do, but are unable to stop them.

Example: Broiled sole with buerre blanc, braised endive, potato gratin.

(I know it is pretty pedestrian but it will do for an example)

1st round: Sole fine, buerre blanc breaks, 3 trys to not break one, fish now over cooked

2nd round: Sole fine, sauce ready, gratin from the first round still passable, no cleaned endive, even better, chef didn't order endive, get server who is ticked off because it's taking forever to go to the table to ask what you would like as a substitute.

3rd round: You chose spinach, cook makes spinach, we are now at a 30 minute ticket time for a dish which should have taken 10. The sole goes on the plate though it's not quite hot enough since it has been sitting on a sizzle tray atop the broiler, the gratin is trimmed of the over cooked crunchy bit and put on the plate, spinach goes on, sauced out the door in a mere 45 minutes. Serve angry, customer angry, cook needs a smoke.

While all of the problems here could have been avoided, the difference regarding food karma is that while this one plate has been a source of woe, 50 others went out perfectly fine. It's the plate that just won't go away. No matter what you try to do to correct the situation it just snowballs because the universe just doesn't want the customer to be satiated tonight.

Also, brunch is a serious conduit for food karma, so be warned.

And as a total aside: Why do people who would make reservations for 12 for dinner feel it's o.k. to walk in for brunch with 12 people along with 7 other similar parties of 6-14 all at 11:45 and expect to get their eggs in 10 minutes? If you have more then 4 people for brunch make a damn reservation, your server will appreciate it, the kitchen will appreciate it and it will generate good food karma for you.

So, food karma aside, people seem to have problems with attention. As an instructor I have had the opportunity to observe otherwise entirely intelligent and capable people completely maraud the kitchen with their lack of focus. It seems they think that cooking is an endeavor which can be undertaken with half presence to the task. I also know for certain that as much as people like to goo over celebrity chefs, most people when confronted with a living, breathing cook think that we do this because we weren't smart enough to go to college. If that monkey can do it, anyone can, right?

Here are some key ways to minimize the possibility of failure:

Starting with your recipe, read it thoroughly and visualize the steps you are going to take.

Understand what it is you are doing. If you don't recognize a technique look it up.

Check your ingredients, that you have all of them and they are of good quality. I recently spent the better part of the afternoon making tamales only to find upon eating one that my masa had gone off. Much sadness.

Know the difference between a Tbsp and a tsp.

Don't screw around. If the recipe says beat until stiff peak, beat until stiff peak. If it says boil for 2 minutes then shock in ice water, don't run the beans under tap water, shock them. Trying to take shortcuts while cooking when you don't understand the importance of the step doesn't cut it.

Leave it alone. As little poking, prodding, flipping, peaking, pinching as possible.

Stir when you need to stir. While keeping a watchful eye on dishes is critical, especially those which might scorch or stick, when sauteeing, continuous motion isn't necessary. Let it cook.

Taste it. Taste it. Taste it.

Don't over salt, don't undersalt. Start with a little and go from there, you can always put in more but you can't take it out.

Overall - Pay Attention

There are obviously a multitude of small things to be mindful of but if you just start with the intention of being mindful overall success should be less likely to elude you.