Reminds Me of Lobsters

“That smell reminds me of lobsters.”


“What smell?”



“When you clarify butter, it smells like that drawn butter crap they give you with your lobster.”



“Ok…”



“It reminds me of summer time in New En…”



“I got to cut you off there,” she interrupted. “You’re getting too nostalgic for me.”



“Why can’t I be nostalgic?” he retorted.



“Cuz it’s for pussies, that’s why.”



The conversation was dead in the water moments before he began its consummation. It was a vain attempt at small talk and, really, a summarized dissertation of how he felt. She was always too rough around a rusty shell of a woman, but he didn’t mind – in fact he loved her because of it. He returned to his whisking and she back to her occupational hazard of grabbing something hot with a wet towel. Got to make this right; she yelped in pain, her palm’s bordering on second degree; yolks are heating up, coagulating too rapidly, slow it down; he hands her his dirty, yet dry towel; seasoning’s off, pinch of salt and some acid; she removed the sizzle platter from the oven and the duck breast was better off fit for charcoal than consumption; shit, she’s fucked up again; she whips around and throws the entire thing in the garbage – she’s just not getting the concepts and all he wants to do is help.



She was the third angle on a sideways, culinary love triangle. Or at least to him she was. In all honesty there was no triangle, more like a line with two points; and, more precisely, she was more like a pivot point: she was the point in which all of his thoughts rotated; never allowing him to focus on what he needs to do, right now he needs to finish this sauce, but all he wants to do is grab every last ounce of burn cream for her.



It was that moment, that make-or-break analogy you hear every inspirational sports movie talk about: the girl of his fleeting dreams is sitting there distraught and without a soul to care for her, while you are already four tables behind just because you’ve been ogling her in sideways glances; not to mention that your sauce is about to break ruining the next few tables by pushing them; NOT TO MENTION that doing this would send an otherwise otherworldly calm chef into a mental tirade the likes of which should not be mention.



And you would do it all for her. For even a look back in recognition.



Kill the heat; remove the sauce; grab new duck breast; season it; review old tickets, cringe over new ones; four trout – one no butter, but EXTRA béarnaise, what the fuck..? – two NY strip – one midrare, one well –add on three more raviolis (seven all day), still four ducks barely working; start five pans over high heat…1, 2, 3, 4, 5, oil ‘em all; run, no sprint, to first aid; grab burn cream; don’t forget some ice too…



He plops down the burn cream and ice next to her, returns to his sizzle platters all lined up with open arms hoping grasp something beautiful.



He seasons all of the proteins, cranks the pasta water and tastes for seasoning (it reduced too much, more like the ocean boiling). He resumes seasoning, checks the temperatures of the pans and they too have their arms outstretched, smoke at their sides lapping the metallic overhang above.



TSSSSSSSsst…A sound every cook knows to listen for, when food kisses a pan just right the pan orgasms and you hear that noise. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5…



He looks at the clock to see that the second hand tickles the 67th minute – it was foolish of him to do so. There will be many more ticks where that came from and to realize the time this early on was going to make the rest of the night drag on. For this is his only tamable woman: a three hour crunch where hundreds open up their festering jaws, teeth glistening in the fire behind him, just waiting, praying, and hoping he’ll be dinner.



And she’s still not getting it.



The hours roll on, the dinner rush slows, and his patience with a dysfunctional wait staff runs so thin it starts to look more like Kate Moss after a coke binge than the body type he fits. The night comes to a close; it was easier today, but still rougher than others. Why can’t these servers understand we have limited amounts of products? Still they order after we are out, still they make us RUSH, still we are holding back Poseidon with interlocking pinkies, still we fight forwards and hope it will all end shortly.



He buys her a beer at the bar that night neglecting to hold back all his compassion for being subtle; his inhibitions have been caught in the night breeze like a plastic bag – it’s somewhere down the road by now. They talk, they say nothing great or astounding, but at least they are talking. He wants nothing more than to tell her that she is the reason he no longer gets mad; she is the reason his last cigarette was four weeks ago even if the nicotine tastes less brutal than love; that she is the only fathomable thing holding together weakening fibers of his being; and he wants to tell her all of this even though she will never understand his mumbled, discombobulated attempts at romance.



He buys her a few more beers. He’s been waiting too long for this moment to let her lacking wallet detract her from furthering their conversation.



They talked about past lovers and previous attempts at post-work fornication in the walk-in fridge. She was letting herself be vulnerable for the first time in a long time; her rough-‘n’-tough attitude was quickly flying away the more she talked with him. She reminisced about how distraught she was tonight, how absent minded she had been lately due to some…blah blah blah, it was really just a pity party excuse, you don’t need to know what it was, just what it meant to him.



She seemed to talk for hours, and she did. He didn’t mind at all, rather enjoyed looking at the way her hair seemed to never be held back by her ear, or how impressed he was at the very simple fact that her hair was always so clean and so well kept even under the hell-like conditions she (they) dealt with.



She was always more striking than beautiful – green eyes hidden under sinking eye sockets that wore the lack of sleep worse than her personality; her eyebrows at perched at a sharp angle towards the outer ¾ of their length making her always seem rushed or in trouble at work by making her always look surprised; she held all of her weight on the insides of her shoulder blades, she complained about it often (he even offered a message or two, she always accepted), right where the two met and you could always see them stick out ever so slightly no matter what she wore; her hands were as kept as could be expected of a cook – her forearms and the top of her hands were littered with so many scars and calluses that they looked more like a battle field from an army that had just lost – but she was still able to maintain a sense of pride with her palms that felt more like silken tofu than skin.



He was holding them now, her hands, and he was happy.



They walked back to his place, sober enough for him not to feel guilty, drunk enough to poor decision making, and he was happy. She was happy.



The formidable shell of ambivalence, misanthropy, dissidence and an unbridled bitterness was melting the next morning. She was smiling, focused, and ready to part ways with the shell she had shed that night.



That day she seared a duck breast: Tssstt it went. That day she understood what reminded him of lobsters and faraway, past tense dreams; that day that noise reminded her of him and that, above all else, made her nostalgic.

An Egret's Poem

Cradle me tender

I saw footprints in your fingers

watched them crawl

and explode into islands of regret

before another egret could ever perch

on them

fishing for your stars

and finding that you

have already gathered them all

and held them lovingly

in your fingertips.

Never letting them go

never letting them go…

Quieted Memories

Many moons ago

I promised someone that I would learn how to say

“I love you”

in a dozen languages,

in return

she’d learn to love herself.



I got halfway there

and she’s never been further.



I once knew a woman,

seventeen and beautiful

hair streaming in confetti paper

opened up books like camera lenses and mirrors

cried at the moon just before every full one –

just to make sure it knew who was boss,

and

in case you cannot figure it out

it’s her.



That was a while ago

hair now baked into a bun

eyes caked over

and fingers jammed

after pressing too many of her own buttons.

I saw her the other day

still beautiful

still wanting to suck marrow

out of any wayfaring bone

but I feel like she might not have been able

to find one

recently,

or for a while.

Stuck gnawing on finger nails

and the rewind button.



She had to have cracked her mirror by now

I know she has

she has the knuckles to prove it.



When the clock tolls twelve

she flinches,

especially when it was the darker of the two

the one where door’s creaked

open

and bed sheets were jostled

‘til father was happy.

She always filled up his hip flask

she used to joke

until I realized

what that really meant.

Knowing that

those tattoos were permanent

if never physical.



I promised her that one day I’d love her again,

six years later I did

learning my sixth way to say love

as I pressed raisins into wine

and

knew how it felt to press skin into knife.



Six years later

I found that love

between the lips of another truth

and the nape of a once held false.



Spooning cookie dough

onto another prepared memory

just to bake it into submission

serve it to a crowd

and hope that they can still taste

her emptiness

in that recipe.



So

I raise a glass of homemade wine to the sky

and pray that someone will muddle her skin into

something a bit stronger

than mache

and be less menacing

than her tiger tattoo.



She’ll still etch her warrior paint

onto eyelids

crank out more pastries than goddesses

and still bounce her temple

to another chill.

I’ll still etch my ink blots

onto bare chests

crank out more nage than gods

and still bounce my temple

to another chill.



Every now and again

I see her aching

abs split in two

hoping her spleen will eat her liver

hoping her liver will eat her lungs

hoping her lungs will stab her heart

so finally

at least this

will be self-induced

and control

has always been her biggest vice.



I will bob chins into condition

rip skulls like mache

and hope the best for you

remembering the days of opportunity

and vain promises.

This prayer goes to you

my first love

even if you’ll never know of it.

(Untitled No. 1)

When I awoke I counted

the inches of tether the blinds

had left,

wondering if there was

enough slack to try.



And on this day something beautiful

said “goodbye”

to an empty room,

what was left was merely the regret

of filling that room’s void

with a reminiscent phrase.



There was a quieted refrain

when her heels twists so quickly

that she left pinwheels in my pupils

that last to this day.



That day

it wasn’t so long ago,

but long enough

that I’ve forgotten how to catch

rocks in my jowls and store

them properly for winter.



In my hands I crack coffee mugs,

got overzealous and reached

for tea pots

burned myself on the good,

I have the pinwheels to prove it.



I no longer grasp for straw

only spaghetti – I can eat it

when it breaks –

hoping someday we will all dissipate,

call each other in synapses

and pop like rice.



If I have learned anything

in this last cycle

it’s that you’re only as good

as your worst attempt…

even if it was at a taught belt buckle.



Oh, wait, the other thing I learned

is how to drown out

the sounds when foot bones bend then break,

when tendons rip themselves from acids,

my ankles could’ve never supported me,

then again,

no one told me that

my toes would shatter

as I tipped on egg shells

around your carousel.



I’ll see if I can make a splint out of

mugs,

egg shells

and mortared with pinwheels.

Just maybe the thing I ruin

will one day

help me walk to you.

Another Unsure Prose

When those axes fell
the earth looked more human
another questioning look from
another unsure prose.

This day tastes different then the rest,
a comatose for the relentless
a redemption for the jaded.
Pull these cloud covers over my eyelids,
I do not want to see the story book ending.

I saw her trembling that night,
coddling a switch blade
opening up wrist bones like
the books I used to read,
I ran my fingers across each sentence
moving faster than my eyes could
stumbling out of the gates of literacy
I fumbled words and phrases until I realized
I could breathe while I read aloud those syllables.
She fumbled with her heart strings
undid the bow
and showed the world the shredded packaging.

She never looked more beautiful
than that night
as the night wrapped its arms around her,
cloaking her predisposed ideals
cloaking her synapses before
anyone could see them split like amoebas.

Those damn books now drip blood,
the world laps it up
and uses it as nurishment
I tried to, once,
I amended my pretenses
after I saw that I did not have the right blood type
instead I dripped
into another hip flask
and tried not to stare into the sunlight.

When I go
please
bury me under a mountain of silver spokes
and bicycle screams
the same one I fell off of
if that is at all possible.
When I go
take your time to read your eulogies,
do not let your fingers sprint while your eyes jog
let them commingle
and become one.

I forgot that lesson
along time ago.
I'm trying to relearn it now.

Awful Offal

So much of what I have to do in a restaurant kitchen goes above and beyond the necessity of an ordinary kitchen.  This fact often becomes a blanket statement that allows for the run-of-the-mill foodie to disregard something I might make as being above their comprehension or ability. Quite the opposite. 

So much of cooking is utilization of your surroundings, here, in America and the West as a whole, have so much available in our surroundings.  With that said I can make an oven for pizza with a single burner, a pot, and a sheet pan.  Not the best pizza I've ever made (it was compared to Pizza Hut...I died a bit inside), but I made it work.  The idea of utilization is the best aspect of cooking.  Nutrition, experimentation, satiation are all nice aspects of cooking, but they are end results; utilization is the process that one gets to the end result.

The reason I am harping on utilization so much is that I see such a lack of utilization in this country.  We are inundated with the best of the best products to the point that we forget where one gets sense of accomplishment and love and purpose and, of course, utilization.  I am not the best teacher of cooking, but I can show anyone how to prepare a simple dinner that will astound even the most indentured of culinary minds; the catch being an overwhelming choice of simply prepared, prepackaged, pre-butchered, precooked food items.  I think Thomas Keller (proprietor of two of the best restaurants in the world, Per Se and The French Laundry, along with many other great restaurants) put it best when he said:  "It's easy to cook a filet mignon, or to sauté a piece of trout, serve it with browned butter à la meunière, and call yourself a chef. But that's not real cooking. That's heating. Preparing tripe [offal], however, is a transcendental act."


The term offal is a blanket word used to encompass the entirety of parts of animals we, as Westerners, usually throw out.  It goes beyond organs to also take into account cheeks, tongues, brains, feet and tails.

Meat does not come in a Styrofoam container, nicely dressed in plastic wrap, and all dolled up for your eyes to ogle at.  Meat is meat, a fact many Americans have disconnected from and allowed veils to placed between them and the origins of their food products as a whole - not just meat.

Before the advent of commercialization of food, before what I even understand how a kitchen should operate, before any of that the best cooks were peasants.  The rich had the filets, the rib eyes, the chicken breasts, fresh fish, the butter, the cream, the truffles, the game, they had the best of the best, while the peasants were given what was left over:  the feet, the tongues, the organs, the tails; but damned be all if they were not going to make those items delicious.  Those former items take very little time - a quick sear, cook it to appropriate temperatures, and serve it, easy - in doing so they take very little care and love to properly prepare it.  Those latter items take a lot of time to cook, many tricks of the trade, a lot of patience, a lot of love to create them (in case you're wondering how much time and patience Thomas Keller's recipe for beef tongue takes four weeks to cure before cooking it for twenty four hours - that's patience...and yeah, it is definitely worth every second.)

This also takes into account utilization.  Slaves in the South were given the intestines of the pigs after their masters were done with the pork chops.  Now we have chitlins (a good recipe here) one of my favorite things in the world.  Utilization also taps into the Native American principle of using every piece of the animal they killed:  the skin as tepees, bones as utensils and weapons, fur as clothing and so on.  The last piece of information is, for me, the most important as it represents something that resonates with me. I have no problem with vegetarians, but whenever we at the restaurant get someone who is vegetarian its hard to switch gears and try to accommodate (we're just asking for a little heads up that's all!).  Most of the time when I ask as to why a person is a vegetarian they say the same thing:  "We treat animals so poorly here."  Which is wholly true, partly because we throw away so much of the animal so, at the end, we need quantity over quality.  Every cow can only give us one tenderloin for your beloved filet mignon (which, honestly, is my least favorite cut, give me short ribs any day!), there are only two breasts on each chicken, each pig can only give 26 bone-in pork chops that are too small to satisfy any American. 

When a chicken is killed it can weigh anywhere from 6 to 12 pounds or even higher.  Let's pick the round number of 10, a chicken is killed and it weighs 10 pounds.  Remove the head, feathers, and feet; next take out organs and chuck those away as well; separate the breast from the rib cage, separate the legs and thighs as well, and there really is no reason to keep the bones so they'll be garbage too.  What's left?  Two breasts, two thighs, two legs weighing (at most) 5 pounds.  Name any industry that plays middle man from beginning raw product to end product.  Got a name?  Good.  Those in that business would gawp  at the prospect at losing fifty percent of their product just because that's just how things work.  You won't stay in business for long.  (And yes, there are great recipes for every part of those 'garbage' parts of the chicken even the cockscomb)  Not only from a humane perspective but from an economic perspective does using every part of the animal makes more sense.

This whole prose was not just a plea to try and experiment with utilization of an animal, but, also, a plea to cook at home for God's sake.  I do recommend easing yourself into the offal world by finding a bistro in your area (any self respecting bistro will have some form or another of offal on their menu, try tongue or cheek to ease the transition even further), after that become great friends with your local neighborhood butcher (these days they need the friendship more now than ever) and get the freshest organs or tongue you can and give it a go.  A word of warning:  there is one thing that can disgust even the most avid offal eater and that is overcooked livers or kidneys.  With that said I can only cover so many things in a single post so for more information please read over the book The River Cottage Meat Book.  This book is one of the most important culinary books of the last two decades, many of the topics in his book I have touched on, but he will be able to go into great detail and provide AMAZING recipes for you to try at home.  Also, a great chef by the name of Chris Cosentino has a blog devoted wholly to this matter.

Almost every run-of-the-mill restaurant will feature chicken breast, filet mignon, and pork chops on their menu and why shouldn't they? They're all popular and the restaurant can get money from it.  But it is your job (I'm looking at you America) to change what is popular.  Soon, I hope, I can get chicken livers and pigs' trotters on every menu - I know they'll be on mine.

Internships Abounding

Very soon I will be moving from my little niche in Rhode Island to a restaurant in Minneapolis.  I do recommend that you look it up as it is pretty awesome, it's called Piccolo.  Though its website and portions are modest, the quality is anything but.  I'm pretty excited I will keep y'all updated as things progress.