Eric and I pull into a small town called Falkville in Alabama not too far from Birmingham after a seven-hour drive from Charlotte, North Carolina. “My Aunt lives out here… somewhere…” I think out loud as we drive through land that looks uninteresting and rural in every direction.

Grey, everything looks grey. The blue sky is smoky and dusty orange from a controlled burn, the land has yet to spring into green, the trees thin, twiggy, and barren.

We pass countless little churches with spiky white steeples pointing rigid and straight up to the heavens. The signs outside quote and paraphrase various bible scripture that do more to scare people into prayer than welcome with open arm: “When you die, you will meet God” and “Heaven or Hell, you choose.”

Eric and I come up with our own versions, the best being: “Admit mistakes and get good returns.”

And in between these small simple white country parishes are supersized churches. Religious compounds. They look powerful. A twenty-foot banner hangs from the side of one Baptist mega church like an advertisement for a new movie: The hammer, the steeple, the body…

This church looks like a business not a humble place of worship and I can’t help but to wonder if there are actually enough people in this sparse county to fill an auditorium that no doubt seats 2000 people or more. And I wonder if the little parishes are even full on Sunday.

This part of Alabama is a dry county. And there is something about this that irks me.  Well anyone trying to tame my bottomless wine addiction puts me on the defense.

The people that I meet at the truck stops and along the way to ask for directions, because my GPS is lost once again searching for signal, are warm and gracious. They are friendly in earnest wanting to help and chat about where we are coming from and where we are going to. They are as curious about us as we are about them.

Why here? Why would my Aunt want to live here? This is some lonely living. No movie theaters, no bustling down town. The closest center of action, besides the supersized Babtist churches, is a Wal Mart Mega store where you can pick up groceries, clothes, jewelry, electronics, and more.  No beer though. You cannot pick up beer. No ma’am.

We peel off Highway 31 onto Old Highway 31 and my GPS is telling me my Aunt lives on the left but there is nothing but hay bails on the left for miles.

We look right and see a long gravel driveway leading up to a gracious old brick house. I see my Aunt’s P.T. Cruiser parked outside and know this must be the Tune Farm: Annie Tune’s Certified Organic farm.

We pull the Budget truck slowly up to the back porch where a harem of multi colored cats are lounging lazily and looking distrustful of our presence through bright yellow and green eyes. A fuzzy grey jezabel walks to my feet and curls her bushy tail around my ankles attempting to inlisit a back scratch.

I knock on the door and nobody answers. God, I hope we’re at the right place! We walk in and I know we’ve hit the mark from the mix-matched antiques that have a certain country comfort kind of feel. It’s like an Anthropologie home store, feminine and rustic.

I call through the house for Annie and no one answers. I run up the stairs searching the five bedrooms for signs of life but find nothing but space heaters buzzing room to room.

The only sign of life besides the cats are a pair of peacocks that make the most God awful squawking noises.

The sun is setting and the temperature drops drastically. I thought Alabama was supposed to be warm but it is freezing cold. Much colder than New York. Eric is still in shorts and doesn’t seem to mind the frostbite nipping at his heels.

We search the tool shed, the old animal barn, the back forty my teeth chattering uncontrollably and come up empty handed. Then we find the greenhouse.

“Lordy, lordy! It’s Missy Glaze!” My Aunt calls, dropping her hand shovel and coming up to me with wide stretched arms. “I jus can’t believe you’re here!”

She gives me a big hug, grabs my chattering jaw with her warm hands and says, “We better get you inside! You’re freezin’ to death!”

  This is a big farm for one lone farmer and Annie has through a stroke of luck or genious or both found two young farmers recently graduated from UC Berkeley to intern for a year.

They come sauntering up to the greenhouse weapons of mass destruction in hand (pitchfork and shovel) and greet us with big hugs. They are, with no condescension implied, adorable. Their worn-in overalls covered in dirt, layers of flannel soft with use, mud caked work boots, and generous smiles impress me.

 Suzie and Oliver are doing what they want to be doing: farming the land and making it grow. Inspired by the prospect of forming their own CSA they have been steadily preparing the farm for Spring. And they are bubbling with ideas, fresh with inspiration, and loving every minute of having a big ol’ farm to call their own and make of it what they want.

Suzie is a kindred spirit and earth mother. She likes to grow things. In the kitchen she has glass jars filled with different fermenting concoctions. Her latest fascination being homemade Kombucha. She grows fermented chains called ‘mothers’ and places them in various sweetened teas to create vinegary refreshing cold drinks.

And she bakes bread. God does she bake some mean bread. We’re talking whole wheat soft loaves stuffed with cheddar cheese & jalapenos and dill & garlic. Bread to break and sustain the heartiest appetites slathered with homemade butter.

To add to the fermented list is sauerkraut pickled with cranberry juice and carroway (a throw back to her Polish ancestry) and hard apple cider, a prisoner’s desperate and delightful deliverance. I eye the Happy Jack wondering if she’ll miss a gallon of it if it magically disappears.

In the vein of true Southern hospitality Annie and I hit the road to find alcohol. A little time alone with my Aunt is just fine by me and we throw the PT Cruiser into drive and speed down the Old Highway to the next county of Decator which promises some cheap whiskey, wine, and beer.

“Don’t get caught!” Oliver calls to us through the kitchen doorway laughing at two old women in need of drink. We buy our bottled sins and make a quick trip to a BBQ house to pick up a gallon of Brunswick stew and a coconut cream pie to take home.

“You can buy a gallon of stew here? I don’t know why, but that just sounds wrong.”

“Oh yeah, you can get a big ol’ gallon jar of it. Suzie loves the glass jars anyways. She makes her Kombucha in them.” Annie and I drive and drive and pull up the gravel driveway to her cozy farmhouse. We enter to the smell of fresh baked bread…

  and a wonderful cumin and blackeyed pea stew with wilted arugula from the garden and a little bacon grease for flavor. A tossed salad graces the table with lettuce picked only minutes before.

“I’m not leaving.” I announce.

“Me neither.” Eric chimes in both of us in foodie heaven.

We put the Brunswick stew in the refrigerator for another day since Suzie and Oliver have cooked their hearts out in our absence. I pour red wine for the ladies and crack Budweisers for the men. Actually Annie and I are double fisting with wine and beer. Well, why not. Budweiser tastes more like flavored water anyways.

We eat like Kings. Polish off the magnum of table wine and an 18 pack of Bud and hit the hay. I sleep deep on a featherbed with a little space heater desperately trying unsuccessfully to do her job.

In the morning Suzie and Oliver are at it again cooking up food so fresh and delicious I’d pay twice the amount of a fancy restaurant just for second helpings. She spoons a big dollop of her cranberry sauerkraut next to my farm fresh eggs and places some strong black coffee next to my seat. I scarf down.

“I will buy your sauerkraut for my restaurant. Anything you can or jar I will buy. Just tell me what you want for it and we’ll work it out.”

“Really? That could be cool. I’ve never thought of selling any of it. I guess I’ll have to perfect the recipes.”

“Well you should think about it. And don’t worry about perfecting it – you’re already there. I’d hire you in my kitchen just so I could eat your bread everyday.”

After breakfast we hit the local flea market where my Aunt Annie runs the parking lot collecting 50 cents per car. There is everything to be found here. Animals, chickens, saddles, food, antique cast iron pots and pans, junk, and blue eggs.

Oliver, Suzie, and a new addition to the intern team, Alex, find a shabby looking dog in a cage and debate with Annie over whether or not they should buy it for $20 and take pity on its sorry state. It’s a mixed breed: beagle and hound.

We talk the owner down to $8 and he swears tooth and nail through tobacco stained yellow teeth that the dog does not bark or chase chickens.  The dog is not a chicken killer. Annie gives him a once over through her crystal clear turquoise eyes suspecting that he’s fuller in shit than his crusty appearance is letting on.

We take the dog anyway against better judgment.

“We need a dog that will kill the groundhogs.” Suzie and Oliver justify their nurturing hearts. The other dog on the farm is a gentle rotwilder that prefers swamp swimming to hunting.

We get the dog back to the farm after I get shooed away from one woman’s stall for taking photographs of her $1 grab bag collection (why? Did she think I was going to copy her idea?!!). Our motley crew is feeling good after our dog rescue. It is a sweet dog.

At the farm the dog is unleashed. It makes friends with Carla the rotwilder, a good sign, then it takes off after one of the chickens semi killing it by grabbing its feathery neck and thrashing the chicken back and forth. The other chickens squawk and we run over to the crime scene.

Annie is in shock and visibly upset. She pens up the dog who immediately begins barking its head off and yodeling for us in hound-dog fashion to unleash it. Oliver grabs an axe and lops off the chicken’s head to put it out of its misery.

But now our crew is left with a chicken and no idea what to do with it. I’ve gutted and plucked numerous feathered creatures and skinned rabbits and baby boar, but none that are freshly dead. And I’ve heard it’s hard to get the feathers off of fresh kill.

After quickly researching the farmers put a big pot of water on to boil. Dunk the chicken by the feet into the pot and pull off the feathers. They come off easily. They singe the pinfeathers with a torch and debate on how to gut it.

I explain that I like to go through the neck sticking my fingers up to the top of the breast bone and fingering the lungs loose then reaching back further and pulling out intestines and all in one clean swipe.

But a book on Country Living says to cut the chicken across the thighs to gut it. I’m wondering if this is the way to go with a freshly murdered chicken as opposed to one that has had time to firm up with rigamortis.

I’ve also cleaned chickens through the butt hole. I know that sounds bizarre. But in France we clean capons through the backend. You cut the anus a tiny bit larger and then pull all the innards out while everyone in the kitchen cracks jokes at your expense in French. Executive chefs included.

The reason for this innard enima is so the skin over the breasts is not torn. And the opening around the neck is kept smaller. It is very important that a whole cooked bird has beautiful crispy skin that is fully in tact.

Oliver, very much wanting to gut his first chicken, makes an expert incision with a buck knife from thigh to thigh reminding me of a field cesarean section. Warm gelantinous yellow fat spills forth but no intestines. The crew gathers around and debates the next step.  They are fearful of puncturing the gall sack and ruining the flesh of the bird.

I’m afraid my gall sack warning has caused hesitation so I shove my hand in the bird and reach far back to the neck into the warm gushy innards and blood feeling around for the lungs to loosen and pull as much as I can out.

The blob does not come out in one neat grab probably because the bird is still warm. There are still odds and ends to rip out and Alex and Oliver take turns reaching in and fishing out the rest.

We wash the bird, crack open some beers to celebrate, and feel mightily redeemed that we have turned a wrongfully murdered chicken into something useful like dinner.

Eric and I leave the farm and hit the road aiming the truck towards Oklahoma City by way of Tennessee and Mississippi. Suzie packs us lunch and hands me a large jar with Kombucha mothers so I can make my own when I get back home. I squeeze Annie promising to come back in the Spring.

Goodbye Sweet home Alabama, hello Oklahoma O.K.

The post Murder & Redemption in Sweet Home Alabama first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

No small feat considering I have just spent the previous day puking my guts up for hours on end and have no real desire to carry heavy boxes and furniture. Just my luck, my last weekend in New York City and I am food poisoned. Either from the cheap BBQ wings I had feasted two nights before or the Chipotle burrito the day after which only digested for roughly one hour before emerging looking surprisingly un-chewed in my toilet bowl.

I’m sure there are worse things to regurgitate, but I can’t think of many that top black beans, hot sauce, and marinated chicken.

Nonetheless, Nico the “French Terminator” as we have lovingly dubbed him at work for his make-it-happen work ethic and funny sounding French Alsatian accent, get to work wrapping everything we can in shrink wrap and loading up the truck. Nico is a master packer. Not suprising because he is a very efficient and organized cook.

The decision to drive my apartment across country was out of necessity although the romantic idea of driving through America’s backbone easily turned my grim reality into an exciting adventure.  When will I have an excuse to make this kind of trip again? No doubt my new home at Le Club restaurant in San Franciso will keep me fully engaged for years to come.

Road trip. God it’s been ages since I went on a road trip.

I rent a Budget truck after many blog readers advise me against using U-Haul trucks to drive across country. (And I must add a quick ‘thank you’ to the reader who provided the low down on rental insurance). Before Nico arrives on Saturday afternoon, I go to the rental place, take a look at the 10’ truck I’ve rented, shove open the roll gate cargo door to check out the space that will house my apartment, and realize it is much to small. Much, much too small.

I go back to the office and sweet talk the manager into giving me the 17’ truck for the same price. Things are looking good so far even though my stomach is still not sure if it wants to be cooperative on this journey.

Climbing into the cushiony driver’s side I adjust the seat, my side mirror and reach for the rearview mirror when I realize there isn’t one. Shit. I’ve never driven a truck before. I roll down the window on the passenger side and adjust the other side view mirror.

Keys in ignition, radio blaring Lady Gaga’s overplayed hit ‘Bad Romance’ I peel out of the Budget truck parking lot onto the Westside Highway and commence in making my way South to the financial district, my home.

This is fun! I am so much taller than I’ve been before riding higher than the cars all around me. I can’t believe I’m doing this, I think out loud laughing for nobody to hear but Lady Gaga.

I make a left off of the Westside Freeway and head over to 7^th street and now I’m a little nervous. The streets are narrower and I have too much stimulous to take in trying to negotiate stoplights, parked cars on my right and traffic passing me on my left.

And then the worst happens. As I’m looking out my side view mirror I hear a deafening smack. I automatically look into my nonexistent rear view mirror and then to the passenger side mirror which is no longer outstretched but firmly folded into the window.

I have just taken off some parked car’s side mirror. Shit, shit, shit. Do I turn back? Do I keep driving? Oh my God, I can’t believe this.

I pull over, shaking, get out of the truck and adjust my mirror then slowly walk down the street to see what kind of damage I’ve caused. And there it is, a car with a demolished side mirror. Some guys standing outside work on a smoke break are laughing their asses off. I smile sheepishly.  

I’m waiting for some one to come running out and start screaming at me, but no one does. I leave a note, nervously take another quick glance around, and get the hell out of there.

This time I keep the radio off and drive slower down the street until I make it to my enormous apartment building. And now the real fun begins: parking a 17’ truck in New York City.

There is no parking in the financial district. My building, a block away from the Stock Exchange is a heavy security area with guards up and down the block and meter maids that fly out of nowhere giving double and triple tickets to illegally parked cars.

I drive around the block once, twice, three times, four times. I need to park oustside the building but it is a ‘no standing’ zone and the moving trucks that have dared to risk the vengence of Rita the Metermaid all have little yellow slips underneath their windshield wipers. I pull up outside the entrance to my building and leave the truck running.

There is a black Surburban in the ‘no parking zone’ (not to be confused with the ‘no standing zone) on the other side of the street. A famous name is plastered in the window and I ask the driver if he is going to leave soon. He is.

Since it is Saturday I can park in the ‘no parking’ zone but not in the ‘no standing’ zone. Go figure. I wait and wait and finally the world famous passenger leaves the apartment building. He waves to me, I wave back wishing my camera more accessible and then attempt to negotiate parallel parking the beast without any more casualties.

In my apartment I look at the twenty boxes I’ve managed to pack over the last few days in between sudden and swift naseau attacks and flop on the sofa waiting for NIco. The rest we will do together. And I’m sort of at the giving up point. Maybe I should have just paid the extra $1000 for some one to make my crap disappear.

Nico arrives with enough energy for the both of us. We pack, we talk shop, and I attempt to convince him unsuccessfully to leave New York and join me in my new adventure. I can tell he’s thinking about it. I have already secretely attempted to win over his wife, who has trained in France and who holds a Master’s  Degree in hospitality and management. A dynamic duo in my small restaurant would be awesome.

Nico and I are around the same age and both ready to have creative input. The idea of burning yourself out for yourself is always more alluring than being a burnt out cog. We brainstorm recipes while loading up and he promises to at least make a trip to San Francisco with his wife. I repay him with cold beer and hot pizza and he leaves to enjoy a layman’s holiday with a promise to return on Sunday and finish the job.

Thank God for Nico. I could never have packed up without him.

Eric, a chef friend from San Francisco and my newest and only other team member thus far, flies out to help me make the drive across country.  This is team spirit. I trade him a free one way ticket to New York and promise a quick and fun tour of the city’s attractions before heading out. He’s never been to New York before and hasn’t taken a vacation in over 7 years.

I can’t imagine how driving 8 hours a day would be considered a vacation. But Eric tells me he loves to drive. And he’s excited to make the cross country trek. Growing up in logger country, and working for the family business as a kid, he has driven just about every truck known to mankind and driving long distance is no big deal.

There is a God after all. How I ended up with a talented chef who also happens to like driving trucks long distance is beyond me and I think qualifies as a bonefide miracle.

Now Eric is funny. He shows up to my apartment in shorts. It’s still Winter in New York. “Don’t worry, I have a pair of pants.” This is so Californian. The rest of the East Coast is bundling up in layers and face masks and scarves and mittens. And Eric is still surfing the West Coast. He’s of Nordic descent, Viking no doubt, and apparently cold weather or ‘weather’ as we call it on the East coast does not affect him.

“Is there anything you really want to eat in New York?” I ask before dragging him around the freezing city?

“Not really, I just want to see what I can, and maybe eat at one of David Chang’s restaurants. Good pizza would be awesome.”

Not a problem.

Times Square. Check.

Central Park. Check.

Kespe Pizza in the West Village. Check.

Pool and jazz at Black Cat. Check

Cocktails at Daddy-O’s. Check.

Pork Buns at Momofuko’s ssam bar. Check.

Cocktails at DPT. Check.

Leo’s Bagels. Check.

The morning of the our first travel day things go wrong. I am forced to park the truck in the ‘no standing’ zone outside my apartment building in order to load in the last of my stuff. Rita gives me a $95 parking ticket but promises not to double or triple ticket me out of something resembling pity. I’m not sure that metermaids have pity, but she is cutting me some slack anyway.

We’re ready to roll and I go to wash my hands in my kitchen sink and the faucet comes straight out of the socket spewing water everywhere.

“Are you kidding me?!?!?!?!”

I get it fixed delaying our trip to Williamsburg, Virginia by hours and say goodbye to the concierge staff who have taken very good care of me over the last two years. And then it hits. I’m leaving for good. I give Oliver, the doorman and my constant protector, a big bear hug and tears start flowing.

Oliver looks over to Eric and says, “Take care of my girl. Or I’ll find out where you live, if you know what I mean.”

Eric laughs and promises to do his best. Oliver is smiling, but I know he’s not kidding either. Oliver has helped me to my apartment in some interesting conditions. He has been a good friend and easy listener. If there’s anything I need he’s there to help and not just because its his job.

“Don’t say goodbye Amy. Just say ‘I’ll see you later’. Come back and open a restaurant here. I’ll get the investors…”

I wipe my tears and muster a half smile and a ‘see you later’.  Eric and I hop into the truck. Me in the passenger seat with a plethora of GPS devices and out of date maps and we begin the adventure navigating New York City streets to the New Jersey turnpike before the incoming snow storm hits.

We cross into New York and the Statue of Liberty is holding her flame high. “Eric, look, there she is! Now you can say you’ve seen that too.”

He responds with a simple, “Statue of Liberty. Check.”

The route we have come up with is not the real Backbone of America that bisects the country in two but a Southern route, I-40, that starts with a slight detour into Williamsburg, Virginia where my older sister lives. I’ve lived two years in New York and never once made the visit and there is no way in hell I’m going back to California without seeing her.

We had hoped to get there by early evening, but our trip is now more than four hours behind and we pull up to her house late in the evening. Nonetheless my sister and sister-in-law have a steaming bowl of beouf bourguingnon ready for us and some nice cold beers. We catch up filing in the blanks over the last few years and then I fall asleep with her three dogs snuggling up around me like a re-found pack member. That was some good sleep.

Day two of the adventure we head to Knoxville, Tennessee where a fellow blogger and chef, Kevin Weeks of Seriously Good, promises us some sofa to sleep on and a hot meal. It’s a good deal: we bring the wine, he makes the dinner and gives us a place to stay.

But we get lost and end up in North Carolina around 6PM. We somehow manage to miss the I-40 connection from I-85 and continue on it until we are far South of Knoxville.

I call Kevin, who I am very excited to meet, and say “I know you don’t really know me yet, but I think you’re going to very much dislike me. We somehow ended up right outside of Charlotte in North Carolina and we don’t really know how long it will take us to get to Knoxville, Tennessee from here.”

“Oh you poor thing!” He says with a reassuring voice “I’ve missed that connetion before too.”

“Really?” I ask feeling not so inept as a navigator. “You have really missed that connection before? How long do you think it will take us to get to Knoxville? My now-working GPS says four and half hours.”

“Oh, no way. There’s a rockslide that you will have to detour so plan on 7 hours.”

“Oh my God. Okay, I guess we better find some place to stay here and then head up tomorrow.”

Kevin wishes me well and reassures that the dinner he has prepared for us is no big deal. But I know he’s not telling the whole truth. I know he has something special up his sleeve. He’s a chef after all and a good one. However, he lets me off the hook without even a slight guilt trip. I’m bummed. I was looking forward to meeting a fellow food blogger. And I think he is too.

Parked outside a diner called Bicuitville Eric gets on his cell phone and me on mine as we call friends and family trying to see if anyone knows anyone in Charlotte, North Carolina.

I’m coming up empty handed but Eric is making headway. He knows a cook who knows a cook who just moved back to North Carolina from California. It’s a long shot. We don’t even know if they live close to Charlotte or if they will have us.

Within fifteen minutes we are heading over to a suburb of Charlotte, the Biscuitville truck stop growing smaller in the rearview mirror and the promise of a biscuit and fried bologna sandwich. “Fried Bologna is Back” the posters around the diner boast.

Really? It’s back? Where did it go?

We arrive to our new host’s house and are greeted with ice cold Budweisers, hospitality, and a hot plate of pinto beans, fresh cast iron skillet cornbread, and sautéed cabbage. It is a great meal. Homey and nourishing.

We polish off six pack after six pack swapping hilarious cooking horror stories comparing burns and scars. My cheeks hurt from laughing. Our host is funny, and I can only imagine what cooking on the line with him is like, no doubt a good time.

In the morning we re-route. Our next stop was supposed to be Oklahoma City after Knoxville but this will mean a 20 hour drive. Without internet connection we feel lost, so I call my Mom, our new On-Star navigation system, and she quickly comes up with a new plan.

“Listen, you are going to have to add another day to the trip. That’s all there is to it. Enjoy yourselves and don’t risk the long drive. From Charlotte you will drive through Alabama and then up to Oklahoma City. That’s the quickest way to get to I-40.”

“Alabama?”

“You know what. Your Aunt Annie has a farm in Alabama. She would love to see you.”

“Yeah, but is it on the way?”

I can hear my mother clicking away on her key pad inserting new information into our trip.

“Actually her farm is right on your way. You will have to go through Birmingham anyway and she’s just 50 miles North from there. She would love to see you, you know.”

I have only heard rumors of my Aunt’s certified organic farm. And although we talk on the phone and keep in touch via email I have never visited.

We fortify ourselves with biscuits and gravy at Bojangles and hit the pavement.

Alabama here we come!

The post Fried Bologna is Back: From New York to North Carolina first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

It goes like this: you live in a city for two years and think it’s kinda cool and suddenly it becomes magnificent.

And then you run around snapping pictures, walking aimlessly ogling over skyscrapers, jogging over bridges you have never crossed, taking cruises to the Statue of Liberty and crying at her feet…

stuffing pizza into your mouth, eating at every vending truck on every street desperately hoping that each precious experience will absorb itself into your being before it’s just a memory.

What a stunning city it is this time of year. All sunshine and snow once the storm clouds pass. The skyline defiant and strong in the sharp winter light. It is hard to live in New York and not take pride in what it means to be American and what it means to live the American Dream.

The unity here in New York city will rekindle any misconceptions you might have. It will inspire you!

However moving companies do not inspire. They swindle. They scam. And they are absolutely crazy if they think I can afford $4,600 to move home. And if they think $900 doesn’t raise one eyebrow in an are-you-f’ing-kidding-me untrusting arch, they are wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

So I have decided to drive home. And the newest member of my three person kitchen team is hopefully flying out to help me do it.

I couldn’t be more excited! I have never driven across the country. I always hoped it would be in a huge plush comfortable cadillac and not a noisy U-Haul truck, but it has been ages since I went on a road trip!

I’m planning on taking I-40, the Southern route across the country. If you live along that route and would like to put up two cooks for the evening who don’t have a lot to offer other than great knife skills and fantastic dishwashing abilities please let me know. I know that doesn’t sound like a great swap. It isn’t. But I figured it was worth a try?

Any tips, places to eat, national parks & monuments that are must-see detours would be greatly appreciated.

Cheap gas too. Cheap gas is good. Keeps my eyebrows level.

The post Goodbye New York hello San Francisco! first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

Fourteen days ago I was unsure of how I was going to buy groceries. Now I still don’t know how I’m going to buy groceries, but if I use the Enron mark to mark balance sheet module I might be able to bank on potential profits.

I’m re-opening a restaurant in San Francisco!

I came home to the Bay Area to find and apartment and found myself a job instead. Gina Milano, owner of several popular establishments in San Francisco called me last week and the conversation went something like this:

“Amy, Babe, where in the world are you right now? Are you still at Le Bernardin or are you in Paris, or where?!?”

“I’m flying back to SF this week. Why? What’s up?”

“You want to cook a dinner party for 30 people on Wednesday at Le Club?”

“Sure! What’s the menu? Or do you have one yet?”

“Yeah, it’s easy. It’s a salad with three choices of entrées: chicken, filet, or pumpkin risotto and chocolate pots de crème for dessert.”

“No problem, I can make that happen…”

“Call me when you get in hon’.”

I’m great at committing myself to things and then freaking out over how I’m going to accomplish them. So I call one of the sous chef’s at Le Bernardin and ask for advice because he is the master of running private parties.

“How much filet do you think I’ll need to order for a party of 30 texan doctors with 3 choices on the menu? I don’t want to over order the filet because it will go to waste.”

“Are you kidding me? You better expect all of them will order filet.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” I respond with calculator in hand adding up pound per pound.

“What are the other options?”

“Roasted chicken and pumpkin risotto”

“No one’s gonna order the risotto.”

“Yeah, not when there’s filet on the menu. So I’m cooking this alone. I gotta pre-sear stuff or I’m going to get seriously crushed.”

“Oh yeah, pre-sear everything. You really gotta take the bull by the horns, ya know? I mean you have to embrace it even if you don’t want to embrace it or you’re going to fail. Failure is not an option, remember? See, now you understand why I was such a control freak in the salon parties.”

“Yeah, I understand a lot more now, that’s for sure. I wish I had taken better notes.”

“You’ll be fine. Just don’t leave anything up in the air and trust no one. If you mess up something in the cooking process then you can blame yourself, but it you let some one else f’ck it up then that’s a different story. You’ll be fine. Let me know how it goes, huh?”

It’s not that preparing a meal for thirty people is so difficult. But picking up three different entrées simultaneously and getting food out hot and timed correctly for thirty people is challenging when you have limited help.

The evening was a total success. Knowing that it would be impossible to plate thirty dishes and pick up three different entrées alone, I brought in a new cook friend of mine to help out and we just had a blast in the kitchen.

It’s been a long time since I actually had fun cooking. I forgot how much I loved it. Working in 3 Michelin star restaurants is exciting, but the pressure can be draining. And it’s hard to find time to really talk to colleagues and get to know them. Crazy, considering we work side by side day in day out.

I blaze through most of the prep the day before and Eric comes in after his daytime shift at a different restaurant to help me finish up. We’re ready to go. No rush. We’re confident. We’re swapping cooking stories, jokes, comparing burns injuries, talking about knives, gossiping about cooking schools and restaurants. We’re having fun.

We wait and wait and still the tables haven’t ordered and now we’re getting bored and Eric, no doubt, is getting tired having already worked 10 hours or more. The servers bring the tickets back to us and sure enough each of the three tables has ordered a staggering amount of filet. I sell one risotto. What a waste of time and effort! But thank God I ordered enough filet to cover the board.

We pump out the orders table by table all the while loving the 12 burner stove from the 1940’s that burns hotter than any stove top I’ve ever worked with. And then one of the ovens dies. The chicken is semi-done. Not good. I put my hand in the oven and realize it’s gone kaputz.

But it’s not a major catastrophe. I switch the proteins to the other oven and in minutes we’re ready to plate. The first table is turned out a few minutes later than I would have liked, but the servers reassure me there is no rush. The party is giving speeches, drinking wine, and enjoying themselves.

I pick up three more last minute private parties in the same week. All the parties go smoothly and the regular customers happily eat up the extras I send out to the bar. Everyone agrees that it’s time to bring the food back.

The last chef was fired a year ago for soaking the restaurant in outrageously high food and staff costs and Gina has kept the restaurant closed ever since keeping the three lounge rooms open for cocktails. She books the small restaurant with private parties and normally brings in a chef to cook. We’ve flirted off and on this year about re-opening it. But with the bad economy and my work commitment in New York, the timing was off.

Now the timing is perfect!

I am scared, nervous, and totally excited. It is rare that a cook can walk into a kitchen that has everything in place and do exactly what he or she wants to – with in limits of course, we are working on a tight budget. Which makes it even more of a creative challenge and will translate into an affordable menu that clearly everyone is looking for these days. We’re bringing ‘bistro’ back. (As if it ever went out.)

I love the venue. I always have. It’s one of San Francisco’s last true historic gems. In fact the name, Le Club, dates back to the original restaurant/lounge in the 1920’s. It has an old Paris bistro feel with a certain San Francisco speakeasy flare. And the kitchen is amazing. Small, but loaded with goodies.

And the piano! Oh my goodness I have never worked on a piano quite like this one. Twelve burners, two rows of six, with unusual flower shaped cast iron and btu’s that are out of control. An energy saver’s nightmare for sure. Now if I can just get that oven calibrated…

I will be heading back to NYC to pack up and move out. We hope open next month. In the meantime come by for a properly made cocktail or glass of champagne on the top of Nob Hill! Or, book a reservation for March…

I can’t believe this is really happening!

Le Club

San Francisco

1260 Jones Street, 94109 (top of Nob Hill)

The post The Ending Chapter And the Beginning of a Restaurant first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

And I don’t mean in the traditional sense like if you see a penny face up and you leave it there (because New York City sidewalks are dirty) that you will get hit by a bus.

I have created my own superstitions. I think this is the beginning of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder…

I hit my snooze bar at 5:45A.M. my body begging for another ten minutes. My hands are so numb and swollen from fresh cuts and burns that I’m not even sure they are still connected to my body. And my desired ‘extra 10’ is looking like a lost cause since the feeling is starting to creep back into my extremities.

The numbness has now morphed to a new sensation resembling frost bite mixed with boiling hot water. Not pleasant. I get out of bed pumping my hands to get the blood going.

I stumble into the bathroom, look in the mirror, and ponder for a split second if I really need to shower. I showered last night. Do I really need to do this again? Couldn’t I crawl into bed again instead? No, I turn the rocket jet on and walk into the shower, bend my head slightly forward, and let the water which falls like hard rain pummel my brain. This feels good. I know it sounds like torture, but really it feels good.

I scrub quickly, vow to wash my hair in the evening, put on the same clothes I wore yesterday (change underwear and socks), grab my knives and run to the subway in order to catch the 6:06 A.M subway. On the train I doze off. Everyone dozes off. We are all sleeping, rocking too and fro with the rhythm of the wheels gliding over the well polished tracks.

My eyes open every now and then to peek at what station is next and then close thinking about what I need to do when I get to work…..cut kobe fries first, then make tuille batter, continue with normal prep but have grilled veggies done by 8 A.M, don’t forget extra corn cannelloni’s for the salon, and…..

It’s finally my transfer stop, 42nd Street, and I stumble out of the train eyes still half shut to wait for the local #1 train to arrive. It never arrives at the same time. Ever.

If the #1 train is already at the station and all I have to do is hop over and take a seat, then I know it’s going to be a good day. But, if I have to wait 10 minutes, then I know the Gods have predetermined my morning if not my afternoon and evening…

I wake up early so I can spend 3 minutes on my walk to work to grab a quick cup of coffee at Starbucks. I need coffee in the morning. I am not human without coffee in the morning. And none of the morning cooks (myself included) have figured out how to get our brandnew coffee machine going so we are forced to outsource. We all come with Starbucks coffee.

Which is a good thing because there are too many sharp objects and stressful situations in the restaurant kitchen to start off work at 6:45A.M without coffee. It helps to take that edge off.

No zucchini in the walk-in fridge for my cod tandori plate? Slu-u-u-rp. No problem, I can wait till 10AM when the produce arrives to finish that. The 4 gallons of freshly squeezed orange juice that I need for my poaching liquid have mysteriously disappeared overnight? Slu-u-u-rp. No problem, I can squeeze my own.

But here is where superstition comes in… if the #1 train has screwed me over yet again, this means that Starbucks had better be empty so I can grab a quick cup. But, if Starbucks has a long line and only one person working behind the counter – like today – then I know I am going to be in the shitz all day long.

Today, specifically, not only were all the tell tale signs in place of a no-good-very-bad day. But I’m pretty sure the kitchen witches were gathering around their Amy Glaze voodoo doll and sticking in pins. I’m almost positive that every time I tried to get back on track this morning one of the witches stuck me good.

You have heard of kitchen witches haven’t you? Perhaps you have a kitchen witch doll hanging in your kitchen to appease the coven?

The kitchen witch, and I quote here from a pagan wicca website, “honours what she cooks, preparing meals with loving intent. Using fresh ingredients, often from her own garden, she makes magic in the kitchen by creating delicious, seasonal food, herbal remedies, and magic spells.”

Clearly the kitchen witches felt I was not honoring them in someway. Why else would I semi slice off my finger tip with my brand new mandoline? Or drop my misono pairing knife on the ground breaking its tip? Or why would there be no orange juice in the walk-in for my poaching liquid but a bunch of staffers sipping something cold and citrus-like all morning?

12 o’clock finally hits like a sledgehammer and I’m set up. I’m ready. fingertip be damned. I am set up and ready rock.

And then the kitchen witches start to make a mockery of me. I grab a plate from above the stove to flash in the oven for the first order of striped bass and cramps stab me in my lower abdomen. Oh yes, the joys of being female, working on a hot line, without coffee, and my premenstral syndrome just went code yellow to code I-could-use-some-motrin.

My eyes cloud momentarily with pain. The sauté cook, and only other female on the line, looks at me and asks if I’m okay.

“Cramps.”

“Oooooo, stay away from me! I don’t want mine yet!”

We laugh. Women who live and work together will pull each other to the same cycle. And having attended an all woman’s college I can say it’s a fact not a myth.

Orders start flying in now and I’m getting hit pretty hard. However, Kendra, the sauté cook who cooks 80% of all the fish we have on the menu, is getting pummeled. But, like always, she’s going strong. She loves it, the sense of dominating and controlling chaos and the euphoric release of endorphines that no street drug can replicate.

The chef calls in the nightime cooks who have started their mise en place for the evening to give a hand on the line. We are doubled up on the three one-man entrée line stations and the chef starts firing off the orders all at once.

“2 halibut, 1 monk, 1 stripe by 2 stripe by monk, stripe by salmon, skate…”

I pull my two halibut out of the poaching liquid while Brian slices the monk for the first order. They’re perfectly cooked but by the time they reach the passe they will have gone from medium rare to just under medium. I rush the plates, the chef checks the temperature with his metal skewer against his lip:

“Less cook on the hali…”

“Oui, less cook on the hali…”

I finish the striped bass while Brian brings the next monk to the pass. We grab sauces for the dishes and run back to start the next table.

The rush is finally over and the line is turned over back over to the girls. It’s a nice feeling to have a little female comraderie on the line. Something I’ve only encountered once. Another order comes in and it’s mostly mine: two halibut (one well-done) and one striped bass. I drop the two halibuts in my poaching liquid and set up plates, garnishes, and sauces while Kendra pan poaches the striped bass.

But the timing goes funny. Her stripe is done and one of my halibuts is done, but the other is still medium. I bring to the passe the two dishes that are ready and then run back and plate the last one. I know it’s a little under in temperature, but I’m hoping the heat of the plate will finish it off. It’s so close to being well done…

The chef checks the fish temperatures with his skewer and I’m sure I’m off the hook, but then he calls out: “What is this? Did I not say ‘well-done’? Does this look like well-done to you?” He pulls apart the fish and a thin line of rareness is visible.

I’m pretty sure he’s going to throw it at me, but instead he gives me back the plate calmly and tells me to fix it. No problem. I can fix it easily. It’s impossible to turn ‘well done’ into ‘rare’ but the reverse takes seconds – at least with fish.

I fix it and bring it back to the passe, but I’m embarrassed. I felt pressured to rush it because I didn’t want to loose the other fish.

I’m telling you: no #1 train, no coffee, no orange juice + pms + kitchen witch voodoo = no-good-very-bad day.

But there were some humourous parts to the shift. Think of them as out-takes on the line….

Kendra split her pants on the line during service and no one but me noticed. And they were split from waist to bottom. Thank God for long chef’s coats. She’s not fat, she’s mean and lean, but boys pants somehow don’t work out all the time for us ladies.

I got so upset with the coffee maker at work that I opted for espresso instead. But there was only decaf. This did not help any. So I poured a cup of what I though was iced tea. I took a big gulp only to discover that it was cleaning liquid and water. I basically drank half a cup of industrial soap. Luckily my stomach didn’t object.

8 gallons of freshly squeezed orange juice arrived late, the driver got stuck somewhere.

Sometimes you gotta roll with the punches! And, pay a little homage to the kitchen witch in your house – or restaurant…

The post Le Bernardin: Superstitions & Kitchen Witches first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

I discovered it the summer I graduated from from college while visiting my college girl friend who had, at the time, dedicated her life to urban forestry in NYC. Quite a noble mission for a rural born Oregonian. New York was much different then. And in someways the same. But, no, much different. It was dirty. You hung on to your purse tightly on the train.

But it was fun, the same way it is now, with energy, excitement, and diversity that no city in the world can match. It’s just I’m notas worried about getting mugged as I was back then. Catkin landed an internship for a company called the Green Gorillas and with her major in Environmental Studies, New York seemed the perfect battle ground for a must-change-the-world-now type of gal.

I was on my way back to London to make it as an actor, but thought I’d stop in New York to help her out for a few months. After all, we became friends in an Environmental Studies class and best friends during a hellish Biology class at Mills College. Later we became roommates. But after receiving a ‘C’ in Organic Chemistry I gave up on becoming a Botanist and traveling to the Amazon rain forest to discover cancer curing plants and decided to focus more on Theater, Communications, and Middle English.

Don’t ask. She stuck with Environmental studies and added on a French major just to cover the bases. And she also completed a minor in ballet. No one can say we weren’t well rounded in our education if not totally bipolar. How could I turn down being a green gorilla for few months?

We planted gardens along Houston Street in Soho, handed out information about “getting green”, and traveled into Harlem to replant people’s personal gardens (incuding the late Langston Hugh’s backyard), greenify parks, and spread the gospel about the dangers of lead paint. These were the days before the word “green” was PC. I think we were seen as annoying, funky, crunchy granola, West Coast hippies. Probably how most people view those college kids who canvas for Green Peace. I mean come on, the company was called Green Gorillas afterall.

New York really didn’t care about getting ‘green’ in 1995. Global warming was a concept that was mostly uninteresting to people if not proposterous. And radical. And totally unproved. Cows were blamed by the media for part of the problem because of the methane gas they create. As if getting rid of cows would end the insignificant annoyance called: Global Warming. Harlem was in transition too. We got off the train one day with our pamphlets and shovels and quickly were told by a group of young men that were hanging out around the station that we “didn’t belong here”, “it could be dangerous for us”, “best get on the train back to where we came.” Catkin and I just laughed and asked directions.

The guys shook their heads in disbelief but headed us on our way all the while shouting out how crazy we were. We really didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. Still don’t. However we did look ridiculous in our Green Gorilla uniforms that were really nothing more than cut off shorts, bandanas to hold our hair back and keep the sun from melting our brains, and our college T-shirts that boasted slogans like: “Strong women, proud women, Mills Women” or “Remember who you are and what you represent”. Regardless of the warnings we had a great time in Harlem. And people fed us constantly. We inhaled the hospitality.

Summer never tasted so good. Our apartment was in Brooklyn. Alice Walker’s daughter had just purchased a cafe just down the street and Spike Lee opened a shop on the corner boasting his own clothing line. A lively performing art’s school chorused with talent from morning through the afternoon right across from us. I haven’t been back to Brooklyn since that time, so I can’t exactly remember where the neighborhood was sadly enough. And I wonder if that special area has maintained it’s vibrant artist community.

Brownstones were just beginning to become hot commodities then and I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to afford an apartment there today. In the morning we would catch the train into Manhattan were the headquarters of the Green Gorillas was lodged just North of Houston in a neighborhood that is now called Noho. It was defintely not called Noho then. It was simiply: North of Houston or North of Soho.

One hot sticky muggy summer’s day after planting a garden that is now in shambles near Houston and Broadway, we ventured into the trendy Soho district for lunch, broke and starving after a hard day’s work in the sun. And we were not attractive: the two of us covered in dirt wearing our cut off shorts and our dirty bandanas that barely hid our sweaty, dusty, greasy hair. We were not Soho material. We were not Sex In The City girls by any means.

Walking down the little streets West of Broadway we came upon a restaurant called Kelley and Ping’s and decided to take a risk. I had never seen a noodle bar and certainly not a stylish self serve Shanghai canteen that boasted affordable prices and huge bowls of soup steaming with noodles and vegetables.

We were not disappointed. Although hot food was not exactly what the doctor ordered on a New York muggy summer’s day steamed vegetables, nourishing broth, with tender pork dumplings hit the spot. The restaurant captured summer effortlessly with an overhead gentle breeze from slowly moving fans and sunlight streaming through its partial glass ceiling.

Kelley and Ping is exactly the same today. Except they have a liquor license. Which I think is an added bonus. Especially considering that now I am more than old enough to legally drink. The prices are still cheap. (I hate the word ‘reasonable’, it always sounds like a compromise.) You can order any number of soups from Pho Bac, a frangrant Vietnamese soup with beef and basil to Wonton soup with duck, chicken, or pork broth and any noodles of choice.

There are lots of Asian curries and stir frys too. I always order a side of the steamed market vegetables that comes with a carrot ginger dipping sauce and fresh tofu.

My friend has long since left the Green Gorillas in order to pursue a career in Chinese Medicine and acupuncture and I have returned to study botany in the form of cooking at the Veg station (Entremet) here in a fancy New York restaurant. We both still enjoy Kelley and Pings. She never left New York. I keep coming back for more…

Kelley and Ping is located in downtown Soho 127 Greene Street (between Prince and Houston New York, NY 10012 Phone: 212. 228. 1212

The post Kelley & Ping, A Shanghai Noodle Bar, And a Summer Long Gone first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

Well who wants to cook on their one day off? Not me!!!!

The Radegast Hall & Biergarten in Williamsburg, Brooklyn has how officially been included on my ‘Industry Picks’ list for it’s unpretentious tasty affordable Austro-Hungarian menu and its plethora of beers.

12 on tap and 37 in the bottle. Lots. And lots. Of beer.

But what really made the Sunday enjoyable and the heavy drinking and eating excusable was the long stroll over the Williamsburg bridge from Manhattan.

What a beautiful view.

The view coming home was a bit blury… The biergarten is a beer hall. A huge beer hall spanning two connected warehouses. One hall is a traditional darkly lit space with a semi-circle red oak bar where one can slurp in privacy, while the other is an open garden under a retractable skylight ceiling.

We preferred the garden with its long wooden tables that allow for communal carnage.

Happily enough, we also happened to arrive during a mustache contest which was taken very, very seriously. Contestants were given one month to grow a mustache. I’m not quite sure how winners were chosen, but roundtrip tickets to Austria were the prize. I’ll drink to that…. Radegast Hall & Biergarten 113 N. 3rd St., Brooklyn, NY 11211 at Berry St. 718-963-3973 Nearby subway: L at Bedford Ave

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Somehow I have time to party until 6AM in the morning, eat at fantastic underground restaurants, sleep for 3 hours and go back to work again but (sigh) no time to cook at home.

So I’m adding a new category to my blog: Industry Picks. In other words, restaurants that all the cook’s eat at in NYC.

Here’s the criteria:
1. Open late or early in the morning
2. Reasonable in price
3. Fast
4. Must have a kick ass signature dish
5. Seriously cool.

Well, cook’s are cool these days. Ten years ago we were just a cut above certifiably insane, but now there seems to be a rock star allure to being ADD and unable to sit still in an offfice all day.

This restaurant is not only a well loved cook’s hangout but also a neighborhood hotspot. The Dumpling House serves ridiculously yummy food at a very reasonable price.

There’s nothing like a soft and salty, squishy, hand made, meat filled dumpling to soak up all the toxins and revive the creative juices. And you can have them steamed, pan friend, tossed in soup, or served up plain.

“This place is awesome. It will cure you’re hangover.” He promised.

“Not possible.” She moaned, forehead in hand throbbing with pain.

“Oh, it’s possible.” He laughed with the sage knowledge that one dumpling could remedy a plethora of problems and bestow good luck, fortune, security, and safety all in one bite.

“I’m not even hungry right now, I just wanna dive face first into my pillow and never wake up again. There’s no way I can cook today. I can’t even see straight.”

“Meet me in the Lower East Side at The Dumpling House.”

“You’re crazy. I’m going back to bed.”

“Just meet me there…”

“I’m broke.”

“It’s $3 for 10 dumplings. It’s so cheap you can splurge on a taxi. 118 Eldridge between Grand and Broome in 20 minutes or you’re missing out…”

The making of dumplings in China is often done by women. And I was not surprised to see that the restaurant was almost entirely staffed by woman making the dumplings, cooking them up in huge steamers and woks, and running the front of the house.

Even if you’re not a dumpling lover, this restaurant it is still well worth a visit just to see the precision and speed of the women who sit in the back and make the dumplings. And I suggest coming at off peak hours – they fill up for lunch fast.

The Dumping House
118 Eldridge St.
New York, NY 10002
nr. Broome St.
(212) 625-8008

The post Dumpling House: Insudstry Picks first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

Let me rephrase that: I was reeled in quickly like a line-caught trout heroically flopping away for freedom but tragically hooked by the smell of frosting and cake.

They must pump that heavenly smell above the entrance for people like me who are slaves to their salivary glands.

My inner magpie was dazzled by the bright pink store with old fashioned glass cake tiers filled with perfect tiny frosted cakes in colorful shapes and tantalizing flavors.

“Can I take a picture?”

“Only if you buy one. And only of that cupcake. Not the whole store.”

“Okay. Hmmmm… is that really McCain?… I’ll take that one.”

For some odd reason the little shop only had McCain cupcakes of the political persuasion. No Obama, no Palin, no Liberman – just McCain. I’m not sure why. Honestly I couldn’t figure out if they were celebrating him, pawning off leftovers from the RNC, or indulging customers in some twisted fantasy.

And frankly, I was sort of curious as to how they would flavor the presidential candidate.

I asked the staff, “Why McCain?” but nobody answered. They just sort of shrugged, smirked, and looked sheepishly between one another.

And yes, I could have chosen one of the vanilla cakes topped with flakes of dried coconut clear up to the sky or a strawberry one with girlish pink swirls of buttercream. But…

this was so much more satisfying.

Forgive me?

The post McCain Cupcakes with Sprinkles first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

I am so excited I don’t even know where to begin. Part of me feels like I just walked out of 1940’s Broadway musical where the leading lady shows up in NYC with two suitcases and a lot of nerve and just dives right in.

Come on, you know that song… “if I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere..”

That’s me pretty much, except I showed up with 16 boxes (half of which were shipped from France), 2 suitcases, 2 army duffle bags, and my knife case.

And the most important item: a wine opener.

I have learned through living in 6 different apartments, 4 different cities, 2 different countries over the last 5 years that having a wine opener is really the key ingredient.

Everything else can wait. But damn, that glass of wine just cannot wait.

When you’re sitting around staring at an empty apartment wine makes everything look rosy. Or it knocks you out cold so you don’t have to think about the grim reality of starting all over again.

I’m still in the rosy phase, but depending on how my furniture looks when it gets delivered, I might end up in the drain-the-bottle-in-one-whole-swig phase. We’ll see.

But that’s what I love about this city – everything can be delivered right to your doorstep even if it’s on the 17th floor. How cool is that?

No wonder the French love to visit New York. They don’t have to climb up and down multiple flights of stairs all day long.

Today I had 6 bags of groceries from Whole Foods delivered plus multiple boxes from Bed Bath & Beyond and I didn’t even have to lift a finger. I didn’t have to drag my little Parisian wheel-y cart through bumpy cobblestone streets and up five flights of stairs.

Aside from settling in to my new apartment, I’m peddling my resumé around once again. And this time it’s hard. I’m anxious to see what it’s like to cook in a New York kitchen, but not so energized about starting from scratch.

I know things will be different here. I know there are kitchen systems, regulations, cultures that are unfamiliar. I’m sure I will be flung mercilessly to the bottom of the totem pole and then struggle to inch my way back up again.

I’m positive that I will be cooking beside 20-something’s that have boundless energy while varicose veins climb faster and darker up my legs.

Oh well, as everyone says: fuhgghedabowdit. I suppose that’s a little like: tant pis.

The street food alone is reason enough to move. Oh my God is it delicious. I’ve been eating off the streets since my pots and pans have yet to arrive and all I have to say is: I LOVE NEW YORK!

I thought the crèpes in France were tasty, but I’m sorry, they are nothing compared to the spicy stewed chicken tacos I had for lunch today oozing with sour cream and melted cheese or the philly cheesesteak I had for dinner – again oozing with carmelized onions, peppers, and more melted cheese.

Nathan’s hotdog? Yes please. Halal gyro? I’ll take two. Fruit smoothie? I need my vitamins. Salted pretzel with mustard? Yup. Spinach empanadas? Oh hell yeah.

Work-out at the gym? No thank you. I’m too busy stuffing my face right now.

Maybe I should re-name my blog: Ms. Glaze Eats Manhattan. Then again, maybe not.

Just so you don’t get the wrong impression about my feelings about Paris, I should let you know that I’m applying to only French restaurants.

I’m not sure how restaurants here feel about cooks blogging about their kitchen experiences, so I will keep mine on the back burner until I find out what the proper etiquette is.

My former employer was supportive about my writing and I will always be thankful for that and for everything I learned there too (bien sûr!)

So here’s to New York and a new adventure! May it be just as tough, sweaty, and exhausting as the last one and filled with even more grit, grime, and elbow grease.

I’m drinking to that…

The post From Paris to New York, New Work first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

Sitting around doing nothing is not my forté.

So, I’m on a friend tour. Otherwise known as couch surfing. And I’m reconnecting with girlfriends who have scattered all over the U.S. catching up on the last 4 years that I’ve missed out on. I’m thankful for this injury, it’s a blessing.

For the moment I’m in New Jersey with one of my old college roommates, Catkin, and her family, and we are cooking up a storm – 3 home cooked meals a day!

Cooking with Cat is a learning experience. Why? Because she’s a vegetarian and ‘wild’ chemist, and she eats weird stuff that I’ve rarely used or never heard of like: hemp protein powder, quinoa, spelt, buckwheat, and amaranth.

She also plans carefully on how to make the most of leftovers and run a full-time home kitchen. And she has a doctor’s practice out of her home in Chinese Medicine and Acupuncture.

She’s a busy woman.

I open her kitchen cabinets and there’s strange little brown glass tintures with even stranger names – not a thimble full of white sugar, all-purpose flour, or regular salt to be found.

And I’m like: how do I cook? How do I make meals without meat? How do I make banana bread with whey protein powder, teff, and evaporated cane juice? What the heck is Agave syrup? How do I survive without a glass of wine at night?

I’m getting healthy, despite my wicked ways, with the nasty tasting Chinese teas she forces me to drink made of frankincense, myrrh, dragon’s blood, and peony root not to mention the needles she keeps sticking in my head and ears. And I’m learning about how to cook for a vegetarian family.

Actually, I’m just getting totally schooled in the kitchen. You’d think I never went to cooking school or worked in a 3-star French kitchen. I’m so out of my league, it’s not even funny.

Last night we tucked the kids into bed after a hearty soup of lentils, collard greens, and beans and did something very naughty. We went out on a midnight raspberry run.

We grabbed flashlights and pails and drove to a hidden spot she knows where raspberries grow by the side of the road. All the while feeling like runaway teenagers on a renegade mission.

Careful not to get in the way of poison ivy we shined our flashlights on the bushes and picked away laughing about our old college exploits, margarita ‘study’ sessions, and catching up on who is where and doing what.

We ate more berries than we put in our pails. They were so tart-sweet and juicy, not the normal mushy type. Difficult to resist straight off the bush.

In fact, we only came home with two handfuls each. But, it didn’t matter anyway. We escaped in the humid New Jersey night for a girl’s night out.

The next morning, I asked what to do with our waning raspberry supply and she suggested we make yogurt and sprinkle them on top.

Make yogurt? Am I living on a hippy commune or what? Okay, let’s make yogurt.

When I taught in India, the school kitchen made a lot of yogurt. The milk would come fresh in the morning and the staff would boil it for the students’ morning cereal then take the extra milk and turn it into yogurt for lunch and dinner.

There was no refrigeration (none, zip, de nada, rien de tout) so keeping milk products fresh was difficult. But, yogurt has live bacteria that fight off bad bacteria inside and outside our bodies. Probiotics – It does a body good.

Catkin took a year abroad in Madagascar where they also made a lot of yogurt. When you’re living in a third world country, yogurt can spare you from many unwanted digestive problems and it’s delicious and cooling on hot days.

It’s pretty simple if you have the right stuff: milk, culture, and 8 hours. A yogurt maker makes the job easy and quick, but you can make your own contraption with foam rubber (see Joy of Cooking circa 1964).

We used Bea’s yogurt recipe at Le Tartine Gormande and she creates her own culture starter using greek yogurt and organic milk. Store bought yogurt has high concentrations of live bacteria and are great for getting your own culture started. Just like yeast starters, you can save some to get the next batch going.

But aside from hunting wild raspberries and drinking herbal teas, the best thing about being here is talking to her children about who their mom was waaaaaaay back before she was a mom.

“Did you know your mom was one of the best ballet dancers in school?”

“My mom can dance?”

“Yeah, she can leap high in the air.”

“I can leap high too, wanna see?”

“Yeah, I do wanna see.”

Bea’s Yogurt Recipe
(taken directly from her fabulous blog; Le Tartine Gourmand

1 plain Greek yogurt (full fat, that is 20g)
4 cups of Organic 2% milk

And that is it! To do it, simply boil the milk and then let rest until it reaches room temperature. Remove the skin formed on top and mix with the yogurt. Pour into the individual glass jars and start the yogurt maker. Set a timer for 8 hours and then, go and do your errands!

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Everyday’s a long day – sometimes over 12 hours, but we do manage to have some fun because our team is FUN! We just hired a new girl to the garnish station so now I’m not a lone female. She’s young and super talented and we have a lot of fun working together. We’ve bonded in our need to brave the constant teasing – yesterday we were caught chatting in the hallway and when we returned to our respective stations our bosses asked if we had fun shopping together and if we would like any coffee to go with our afternoon brioches. “Thees eez not holidays!” Nonetheless, I know our femininity is a welcome relief.

In fact I think our team has become the envy of the rest of the kitchen because there are two women now in the meat and garnish section. What a novel idea! Can you imagine not working around the opposite sex every day – 12 hours a day? I know that not all chef’s are particularly happy about our being included on the line, but too bad. The Chef de Parti’s of the meat and garnish stations seem to think that a co-ed work environment is a good thing. Perhaps France is changing slowly but surely!?!

Chef Johh Baptiste, Chef Francois, and Chef Damien (soon to be Executive Chef at the new Moscow restaurant). Take a good look at these faces, because these guys are young and have been cooking since the age of 17 – they are sure to be the upcoming talents gracing the pages of foodie mags in future years. They already have ten years of professional cooking experience thanks to the trade school university programs in France. Sometimes I feel so behind…

Some new dishes were added this week. One beef dish, one chicken breast cooked in a pigs bladder that is popped tableside for extra entertainment, a new crab entrée, and a raw mushroom salad. The pigs bladder one is the weirdest and I don’t know how I feel about it. The bladder is popped at the tableside to reveal a stuffed chicken breast. Kinda cool, I guess, but kinda weird too…

I like the new beef one that has fillet with a melted pieces of bone marrow on top served alongside a beef and carrot medley that is sauced with different mustards and jus. It’s a little retro – okay it’s very 1980’s, but it’s tasty anyway.

Only other major happenings include Auralee, the new girl, slicing off the tip of her finger with a mandoline into our staff lunch. The carrot salad was extra crunchy. Oh well, we all ate it anyway. She came to me with finger spurting blood asking for a bandaid. We had to send her to the pharmacy to have it professionally wrapped (thank God for the pharmacy’s here!).

How she made it through the rest of the day I will never know. Her job includes garnishing all the meat dishes and she’s constantly putting plates under the hot broiler which I’m sure her thumb didn’t appreciate. I’m surprised the finger condom didn’t melt into the wound. She’s a tough cookie!

I’ve progressed into slicing chicken and pigeon at the meat station for presentation and not stressing out so much when I have to cut ris de veau into exact 35g pieces without wasting any of it. I’ve noticed that my speed in hacking apart chickens to order is increasing and so is my oragami pappiotte dish. Life is good.

That’s all for now, from the land of 3-star cuisine… there’s no place like home…

Technorati Tags: 3-star restaurant, 3-star restaurants

The post 10th Week: No Place Like Home first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

I love NYC – the people, the food, the theater, the energy – I don’t love the weather, but it’s no worse than Paris. We stayed in the Lower East Side and spent time with old theater friends currently taking respites from their Broadway careers.

Playing soon in a theater near you!?!?!

Lo-side used to be seedy but now it’s the place for food, music, and eclectic boutique stores. They even have some trendy cool hotels now such as the Rivington Hotel. The area has always been a haven for music with venues like the legendary CBGB’s (closing soon –quick get a t-shirt) but the food is incroyable and affordable.

Here’s my suggested itinerary…Start at Suba’s, a tapas restaurant whose Chef de Cuisine is a prodigy and the recent recipient of the James Beard Best Restaurant award. Sip fresh peach white sangaria while waiting for a table (hopefully next to the moat – yes, there is a little river that surrounds the restaurant) and get into the spirit of the evening while listening to latin inspired techno grooves spinning overhead. The tapas are divine, but our group opted for main courses because we needed fuel for the night ahead…

After Subas, walk down Ludlow street just before Rivington Street to the rockabilly hangout, Motor City. As one city search reviewer described it: “The bouncer is the Lower East Side and the bikini girl dancing in the window is directly out of 1950’s. Cheap beer, decent drinks and a Star Wars pinball machine”. Couldn’t have said it better myself…

And don’t forget the Pabst Blue ribbon with the shots of tequila

After Motor City check out the local venues for music. We went in and out of different places in search of the the best grooves and more snacks. We poked in Katz Delicatessin the famous 24-7 eatery but decided we weren’t hungry yet and headed over to Arlene’s Grocery for live music (it’s not a grocery store) but they wouldn’t let me in because I didn’t have my ID with me. Bummer! – don’t they know who I am!?!?

Somehow we ended up at a dive bar on the corner of Clinton & Houston Street bordering Alphabet city that had a secret backroom where a salsa band was playing and it just happened to be right across from the famous Clinton’s restaurant known for their cuban sandwhiches. The service is notorious slow, but worth the wait.

We finished the night at the marvelous afro-french colonial restaurant Le Pere Pinard on Ludlow Street, for some well made nightcaps, groovy beats, tarot card readings, and French conversation with the fabulous owner FiFi.

One last photo…we had to get a picture with the local fireman. I’m not too sure what they were doing up so late at night or where exactly the fire was – but we attempted to put it out! God Bless the New York Firemen and all those that lost their lives.

Quel Bonheure!

Technorati Tags: Arlene’s Grocery, La Pere Pinard, Lower East Side, Motor City, New York, NYC, restaurants, Rivington hotel, Suba, travel

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