Farm on Adderly

Wednesday night off from the restaurant, I have this standing date with a friend in Carroll Gardens. We usually eat at Fragole on Court St., although sometimes we pick up Chicken Parm at Vinnie's on Smith. After dinner we watch Lost at his place, guilty pleasure, I know, but I don't miss it. Anyway this week he couldn't make it, and I don't have cable, so I did what I often do when plans fall through--took myself out to dinner.

Now I've been reading a lot of MFK Fisher lately--I would quote her on this, but I've lent my girlfriend the book. And there's something about the way she ate alone, and something about her dignity and aesthetic and the way I feel when I'm alone, how sometimes it's nice to not have to be anything for anybody. I could have gone to Blue Ribbon where they know me, or to my old restaurant, but somehow being around people I would have to talk to missed the point.

Besides, taking yourself out should be new and different and exciting. I had never been to the Farm before, had always wanted to check it out, but never did. Walking there, I started to feel a little sorry for myself, a little awkward, having second thoughts at the door and looking at the menu, watching people eat with people and laugh and I went in anyway. Sit at the bar, look at the menu, order a drink and ask the bartender what she likes. I order then, pate to start and fettucine; a heavy, meaty appetizer and a lighter entree, something I can linger over, and then the bread comes and it's not perfect--a little dry maybe, but I wipe it through my little dish of oil, and I'm ready for more. Things start to feel good, and the pate comes--a big plate, one solid slice of terrine, some mesclun, grainy mustard, olives and cornichon. I smell the terrine, slice a piece and it's everything a country pate should be, hearty and well seasoned. The mustard is delicious and I eat each piece differently, trying every combination of bread and meat and greens, mustard, pickles and olives. The olives are creamy and the mesclun is acidic with a citrus undertone.

I finish, pushing the plate away and nodding to the bartender. I tell her it was delicious, I'm glad I ordered it, and then the fettucine comes, a giant bowl of pasta and peas and broccoli rabe. It's a little bland at first, but some kosher sprinkled over, a good swirl with my knife and it's perfect, filling but light, good spring vegetables, fresh pasta and I eat it quickly, finishing every strand. I'm full now, sit back and look at the plate. The bartender sees the peas I've left, says "You don't like peas." I laugh, "No I love peas, I'm just full," and somehow saying it gives me enough push to dig in again, and I finish the plate. Skip desert because, really, I am very full. I look down the bar, to the back of the restaurant, half full, a couple of tables having come in since I sat down. It's a Wednesday night, after ten, and a restaurant in Brooklyn is almost full. Life is good.

david chang in interview at momofuku ssam bar

To elaborate--it's no secret I've got a hard on for the guy, so needless to say, I was excited to see him. I stopped in with friends for a ssam or too. Ended up eating the pork buns and Dr. Pepper. On my way to order, I congratulated him. I wanted a chance to talk a bit more, but the interview went on for a while, and then we were ready to leave. The reason I love David Chang is in every salty sour sweet bite of pork bun, the bottom of the bun splitting, and I try to keep the meat in with my fingers, holding it to my mouth pinched between thumb and index, my pinky ring and middle cupped under the bottom of the bun and my other hand catching the drips, still pork is spilling out and there's juice on my chin and I'm with friends but goddam this is a good pork bun and, i'm sorry, you were saying? I love the restaurant because it's fucking delicious and I could talk about the atmosphere and the decor and the hip factor and the p.r. machines, but at the end of the day, I'm sitting elbow to elbow at a bar with guys in suits and girls in mini skirts; we've all got meat juice dripping down our chins,and it doesn't matter because it's about the fucking food...period.

Some lines are just too easy. And if she won't do it, I will...

“I thought it would be much, much bigger,” said one of my companions.


Indeed, Frank, Indeed.

Porchetta

Just to weigh in on the whole Jason Neroni thing. Old friend of mine used to roll her eyes when I would do something clumsy (which was often). "Cute, but not so bright," she'd say. I was a huge fan of Porchetta--ate there at least five times, usually had the lemon gnocchi which did not taste like lemon pledge at all. Neroni did incredible things with classic Italian dishes--I remember having a carpaccio with candied fennel seeds. So I was happy to see the review give him a star, even if it wasn't completely effusive. I was a little disappointed at Bruni's personal criticism of Neroni, which has no place in a review (a different topic, one which I'm sure the count will allow me to redress soon enough). But now, it seems, Neroni's personal life is fair game. Talented, but not so bright. And possibly on speed. It would explain the behavior, and from past interactions he and his erstwhile pastry chef do come off as a little, what's the word, distracted? Fidgety?

But the good news: even though it's farewell to Lupa on Smith, the owner is reopening within the next two weeks. Word is it's going to be a steak joint...Stay tuned.

I didn't make any mention of this in my "manifesto" , but the whole point of the blog, the flash of inspiration was when my chef put a grouper head in the toilet to scare the first bathroom goer lucky enough to find it...kitchenpranks was born. i don't have that picture anymore, so here's what i did to my thumb a couple of months ago-it's still numb where i sliced it.

Bruni the waiter

Comment left in dining section, something I've been meaning to write about but kept forgetting and Frank was kind enough to remind me:

While I have nothing but respect for the front of the house, I wanted to comment on Frank's having waited tables. I reacted to that article strongly when it first came out, only to be reminded of it in this years Best Food Writing. Frank says it's hard, the hours are long, the pay is not great. Maybe it's sour grapes, but working four or five shifts a week doesn't seem like that much? Standing on your feet for six whole hours without a break? Frank says, "If they put in a full schedule of four prime shifts a week, they might make $45,000 a year before taxes. Almost all of it is from tips. They wonder if diners realize that." But I'd be curious to see what Frank's tank on the other side of the line is--what of the line cook, on his feet ten or twelve hours a day with no break, working five or six days a week, going home with $34,000 a year, before taxes, if he's lucky? What about the debt that she racked up from that fancy culinary school? I'd like to see that article...

Right, so I said I would try not to hate too much, but this blog has been inattentive of late, and failed to make any mention of this review. About which I have to say only this: when the newspaper of record starts to review places that are obviously trying to cater to the lowest common denominator, what's next, Applebees? Seriously Frank, quit it.

But the good news is this: Rising Star David Chang is opening yet another restaurant, and moving the original Noodle Bar into a bigger space. Which just might mean that when I feel like picking up some ramen to go, I won't have to call first. And that would be nice.

and this...

I can post from my phone, so watch out.

Manifesto, et al.

Wherein I say what I want to say, once, not in terms of locking myself into any one thing, but really railing against the institution as it is, saying who I am and why I'm doing this. Once. And then, maybe posting things on a semi-regular basis.

So. I'm a cook. Not a chef, not some guy that likes to cook a lot at home, but an honest to god real life bonafide line cook. In a restaurant. Actually, a pretty fancy one. Um. very fancy. And very expensive. And unlike these guys, I don't have any debt to speak of. Because I fell into cooking the old fashioned way--I got so fucked up on drugs I dropped out of high school. I ended up a dishwasher in western Washington at a little breakfast place. I was good enough at that that they asked me to start cutting onions, washing potatoes, stuff like that. A year later I was a line cook.

And a year after that I moved back in with my parents in New York, sent out a bunch of resumes to restaurants and ended up working at Trader Joe's. But after a year I landed a job working garde manger at a very trendy, very yuppie bar/restaurant in the west village. I moved to a New American, family run joint in Park Slope, and then scored this spot at the Fancy Restaurant.

Not including my time flipping eggs, I've been cooking for a year and a half. And I'm where every culinary school graduate wants to be, plus thirty grand. And I'm having as many second thoughts as those guys, except that I never had any illusions as to what kind of money I'd be making in a kitchen, because I worked my way up, made shit for years and am finally on my feet, sort of. It's just that I've got something in common with everyone on the other side of the line--I got into this really because I wanted to do something else, wanted to write. Knew that I'd never be able to wait tables, or clerk somewhere, so I took the kind of day job that was actually interesting to me--it was challenging, it was creative, it has the potential to be financially rewarding in itself.

I thought I could write in my free time, except most of my free time is spent drinking coffee so that I can wake up enough to get to work. When your day job eats up sixty hours of your week, it's not "what you're doing so you can do what you love," it's what you're doing. Which is a long way of saying that this is really an attempt to start doing what I set out to do in the first place, before I got caught up in the reality of being a good cook in a good kitchen in New York City.

This is part M.F.K. Fisher, part Ruth Reichl, part Anthony Bourdain (who himself is redolent of Hunter S. Thompson and Lester Bangs). This is a celebration, not a diatribe. There are things I hate and things I love but I'm not about to get lost railing against anything for its own sake like so many culinary writing hipsterati. This has the potential to be a space for reviews, and observations and Savarinisms and gossip and news and whatever it decides it might one to be. Stay tuned.