Have Blade Will Travel: The adventures of a traveling chef

by David Paul Larousse

  I could have ranted and raved over such discrimination for the rest of my days, but to what avail? Instead, I struggled to resurrect in memory my own special and unique experiences with food, using the Egg Drop Soup disaster as an anchor. And slowly but surely I found that those experiences were no less valid than those of anyone who had ever sat on his grandmother’s knee in a farmhouse on the Maçonais or the Midi.

  Among my most precious memories was that of Murray the Tomato Man. Murray was trim and fit and sported a finely-trimmed pince-nez moustache, and I can see him walking towards us at my Grandmother’s home during one of the many Sunday brunches she put on for her brood. His contribution to our table at that time consisted of some of the juiciest, most flavorful and magnificently red Jersey tomatoes anyone has ever seen. And Grandma always seemed to beam a gorgeous smile when Murray made an appearance.

  Of course youngsters have little knowledge of intimate adult human relations at the age of seven or eight, but I would not be the least bit surprised if my grandmother – who had been divorced from my grandfather for some time – was having a fabulous affair. Besides, what could be a better calling card than a flat of big, fat, juicy summer tomatoes from the New Jersey farmlands? After all, tomatoes are known in common parlance as “love apples,” and frankly, my Grandma Anne was quite a looker back then. So why shouldn’t she spend her private time making passionate love to Murray – leaving the rest of the family with nary a clue?

  Chapter 3

  A Quartet of Legendary Mentors

  Like most educational institutions, especially the high-profile ones, the collective management of the Culinary Institute of America represents an internal culture of bureaucratic dysfunction in all its maddening glory. And like most educational institutions, dysfunctional or otherwise, the genuine value of that institution dwells in their educators – at least those who represent extraordinary experience through a lifetime of work in their chosen field. And of those living encyclopedias who are dedicated to their work as educators, when they connect with their students in deep and genuine ways, those students often carry on their instructor’s legacy by excelling in their soon-to-blossom career.

  I. I connected with one such instructor during a Saturday extracurricular workshop hosted by Dieter Faulkner, and it remains one the most instructive and enjoyable three days of the entire two-year program. As evidence of the impact this workshop had on me, I still have in my possession the photo-copied menu hand-out from this event, which included the following menu: (NB: Saterday was the Austrian chef’s charming typo.)

  Saterday’s Classical Cuisine Special

  Potage à la tortue, Lady Courson

  Potage queue de boeuf

  Suprême de volaille en papillote

  Salaison de boeuf

  Oeufs pochés à la Benedict

  Tomate Clamart

  Poireaux à la béchamel gratinées

  Pommes Berny

  Pommes St. Florentine

  Instructor: Dieter Faulkner

  Of all the dishes on this menu, the Salaison de Boeuf was the most dramatic and exciting. Salaison means “salted meat,” and is founded on the Latin root for salt, which is sal – from which comes the word “salary,” and part of the salary for ancient Roman legionnaires was salt – a very rare and valuable commodity in the ancient world.

  In this dish, a boneless sirloin strip is seasoned with black pepper, and seared on all six sides in hot oil in a sauté pan, at very high heat. A paste is then prepared, consisting of 15-pounds of kosher salt and one-pound of cornstarch, blended with about 18 egg whites – or enough egg white to create a malleable paste. Two-cups of the salt paste is divided up among four small bowls, to which is added a few drops of food color in each – red, blue, green, and yellow – then blended in and set aside.

  On the bottom of a sheet pan, a one-inch-thick base of salt paste is sculpted, measuring 1-inch longer and wider than the sirloin strip. The seared strip loin is set upon this base, in the center, then the remaining salt is packed onto the meat until it is fully encased.

  The colored salt pastes are each formed into rectangluar, half-inch-thick forms, on a cutting board, from which are cut out small shapes, used to decorate the top of the salt-encased roast. Chef Faulkner used playing card suit cut-outs – a club, a diamond, a heart and a spade – and attached them using a small amount of egg white as an adhesive.

  The salt-encased beef is then placed in a pre-heated 375-degree F (190-degrees C) oven, roasted for 75 minutes, then removed from the oven and set aside to rest. The heat drives the juices in the roast towards the interior of the meat – while the salt draws the juices back towards the exterior. The result, of course, is a roast of extraordinarily juiciness and flavor.

  After a half-hour of resting, during which time the juices return fully within the meat, the top of the salt casing is cut, using a serrated knife – being careful not to cut into the meat within. This top is lifted up and set aside, then the roast is lifted out from its salt shell, using a fork held at each end, and place on a cutting board. This cutting board is set onto a pan, so that the juices that run from the roast can be saved and used later – either for a gravy or as a simple jus.

  Three other dishes on Dieter Faulker’s menu were also memorable, including:

  Tomate Clamart: a medium tomato, scooped out, filled with green peas sautéed in butter, seasoned with salt and pepper. (This was a garnish I used for Tournedos Henri IV during the summer of 1973, when I ran my first kitchen at Moon – a restaurant-and-disco in East Hampton, Long Island, N.Y.)

  Poireaux à la Crème, Gratinée: the bottom half of leeks are split in half, not-quite-all-the-way-through, so the two halves remain connected at the base – allowing the leek to be carefully rinsed (there is often considerable soil in between the leaves), blanched in lightly-salted water, drained and cooled. Prepare a Chicken Velouté finished with heavy cream, place the leeks in an oven-proof casserole, top with a light coat of sauce, then a slice of Gruyère cheese, and a light sprinkling of grated Parmesan or Pecorino Romano cheese. NB: This recipe originally called for a Béchamel Sauce, but milk-based white sauce has fallen from favor (Real chefs don’t drink milk!) and is often substituted with Chicken Velouté – chicken stock thickened with white roux, finished with heavy cream.

  Pommes St. Florentine: Blanch Yukon Gold or Fingerling potatoes in boiling water, drain and cool; peel and cut into 1/8th-inch-thick slices, and layer into a buttered casserole dish. Top with a layer of creamed, chopped spinach seasoned with salt and pepper; repeat this process once again, drizzle with a little cream, sprinkle with grated cheese, and bake in a preheated 375-degree F (190-degrees C) oven for 30 minutes.

  II. Another amazing elder who had a profound influence on me was Ennio Collodel, my instructor in first-year Table Service. The year was 1971, and I knew from day-one I was fortunate to have landed in that class – for there was probably no better introduction to the world of spirits and dining and Table Service than Ennio Collodel.

  In physical form Signor Collodel resembled a Roman Charles Atlas, and could have easily passed as an important mafia don. But in truth he was a walking encyclopedia, rich with stories and personal experience in the worlds of food service, gastronomy and the global wine industry. He was seventy years old then, and among his professional achievements was service as Maître d’hôtel at the White House during the tenure of Franklin D. Roosevelt. He was also a man whose every move embodied a classic and old-world style; a debonair gentleman always impeccably dressed – typically in a double-breasted suit, complete with the most elegant appointments.

  Some of the stories Signore Collodel shared with us were related to the scores of vineyards he had visited – and he bragged about the copious notes he had compiled over the years from visiting every major vineyard in the world. As for his philosophy of degustation, it could be summed up in one simple dictum, one that he repeated regularly: “Wine is a living beverage.” And it was this five-word phrase that served as
a foundation for a life-long appreciation of all matters related to wines and spirits.

  One of my favorite Ennio Collodel stories came from his experience as the Maître d’ at New York’s celebrated restaurant, The Four Seasons. He was seating a party of four – two gentlemen and their respective partners, and as one of the two women leaned slightly forward to seat herself, one of her breasts slid out from her very elegant, and low-cut dress. Thoroughly undaunted, Signor Collodel simply picked up two spoons from the table, lifted the woman’s breast back into her dress, and never so much as batted an eye. Was this anecdote true in absolute terms? It didn’t really matter. It was a delightful yarn from a septuagenarian who embodied both extraordinary savoir-faire and a vanishing style of living.

  Signor Collodel had visited an unnamed vineyard in the region of Armagnac, and had tasted an aging brandy that was not even close to being ready for tasting, but one that the vintner wanted him to test. With his unique histrionics he demonstrated to us just how unripe the beverage was – by turning his head to one side, and uttering two loud and flamboyant “Pfaaa!” Obviously it was a gesture that drove his point home, for I remember it to this day – forty years later.

  Signor Collodel made an effort to de-mystify the wine-tasting experience, encouraging us to pay attention to our palette. “Does it taste agreeable?” he would ask. He also divided beverages into three realms: apéritif, wine with dinner, and digestif. The following are some of my notes from Signor Collodel’s class:

  NB: Apéritif stems from the Latin aperire, meaning “to open.” Though virtually any cocktail concoction may serve as an apéritif, there are a number of bottled apéritifs which are derived from the essences of medicinal plants and roots known to have this “opening” effect. These include Campari, Cynara, Dubonnet, Lillet, Punt-e-Mes, and Ricard, and are typically served in a small glass over ice, garnished with a twist of lemon or orange peel. A very popular French apéritif is a Kir – dry white wine poured into a small stemmed glass containing a splash (about a half-teaspoon) of Crème de Cassis, a sweet liquor made from the dark purple berry of the same name, garnished with a lemon twist. (A Kir is named for its innovator, Felix Canon Kir, who died from his efforts as a French resistance fighter during WWII.) The same drink prepared with champagne or sparkling white wine is referred to as a Kir Royale.

  Basic guidelines for wine service and handling:

  Avoid serving wines overly chilled; and never chill a wine by placing it into the freezer. Still and sparkling white wines are best served in the range of 40º-to-45º F; light-bodied red wines 50º-to-55º F; full-bodied red wines, 59º-to-65º F.

  After removing the top of the seal, wipe the top of the cork with a clean napkin, then open carefully using a corkscrew. (Use the two-pronged “Ah-so” wine opener only if the cork refuses to come out with the traditional corkscrew.)

  Open champagne with great care: after removing the wire cage, grasp the cork firmly in one hand using a clean napkin, turn the bottle gently with the other hand, and continue until you hear a very gentle “pop.”

  When pouring wine into a glass, bring the neck of the bottle close to the glass without actually touching the glass.

  Be sure the label faces the individual for whom you are pouring.

  Pour carefully, filling the glass approximately three-quarters full (champagne is an exception – the glass can be filled close to the top.).

  To avoid spilling so much as a drop, rotate the bottle slightly as you lift the neck – pour, twist, lift, retrieve.

  Since there may be several different wines served during a meal, the following guideline may help in the selection. Serve…

  a dry wine before a sweet wine;

  a white wine before a red wine;

  a red wine before a very sweet wine;

  a young wine before an old wine.

  Although traditional food and wine pairing criteria has become more flexible in recent years, different wines have different personalities (Remember, “Wine is a living beverage.”) The following guidelines will help in selecting wines that harmonize with the food it accompanies.

  Dry white wines Crisp, clean, light-bodied white wines are best served with light hors d’oeuvres, white fish, shellfish, and shellfish soups;

  Full-bodied white wines Melon, high-fat fish (such as salmon and tuna), spicy fish and chicken dishes, and creamed fish and chicken dishes;

  Light red wines Charcuterie (such as prosciutto, ham, and salami), pork, veal, and light, unfermented cheeses;

  Full-bodied red wines Beef, game, lamb, and strong-flavored cheeses;

  Digestifs are beverages consumed at the end of a meal, and are so named for their perceived aid to the body in processing a meal. A digestif may consist of: brandy or grappa, both distilled wines; a liqueur such as Amaretto or Benedictine; a Port wine; a semi-sweet sparkling Champagne, such as a Cremant. There are also a number of dessert wines, including a late harvest Riesling, and a number of wines produced from the Muscat grape. And lastly, you may wish to consider Sauterne, one of the most distinguished of all sweet wines – a bit pricey, but well worth the occasional splurge.

  III. I worked a part-time job in the mornings that year, Monday-through-Friday, as a chef’s assistant at Morey’s – an ancient and venerable private club in New Haven, whose members were Yale alumni. The chef was Arthur Meilke (pronounced “mel-key”), a tough old New Haven native who had been out of the state only once – during a stint in the Navy in World War I. Both his arms were covered with the faded tattoos that he had gotten during the war, and the old codger still puffed away on cigarettes. Arthur was a genuine tough guy, and I loved working for him.

  One day, the pantry station opened up, and the chef asked me if I could handle it during lunch service. Of course it was within my skill range, and I was pleased to oblige. Dinner service at the club was relatively quiet, and did not require a full-time pantry man.

  The pantry station set-up was fairly simple: a self-serve Consommé Madrilène station for the waiters, the ingredients for Shrimp Cocktail, Chef Salad, Spinach Salad, Club Sandwich, and a handful of other items. I also pre-mixed martinis for the bar, and to this day, every time I get a whiff of gin, I am immediately transported back to my days at Morey’s. Chef Arthur and two other cooks handled the hot items: Hot Roast Beef Sandwich, Crab au Gratin, Welsh Rarebit Golden Buck (Golden Buck means with bacon), Eggs Benedict, and Corned Beef Hash.

  Early on, one of my duties included sweeping the dining room, and I was fascinated by two notable elements: 1- the names of club members crudely carved into the wooden table tops; and the photos of assorted athletic teams posted on the walls. The team pictures of the football teams from the turn-of-the-century up through the 1940s were made up of primarily young Caucasian men, with the occasional black face. In the years after 1950, one could see the teams move from all-white, to partially black, to nearly all black. I found it quite an amazing reflection of the change of culture.

  IV. Finally, last but not least, it is important to mention Jacob Rosenthal, the President of the Culinary Institute of America from 1965-to-1974. Rosenthal was a short, bald, slightly hunched-over man, whose physical presence belied both his extraordinary knowledge and professional accomplishments.

  Born in Manhattan, Mr. Rosenthal earned a Master's degree from George Washington University, and a degree in finance from Benjamin Franklin University. He worked as an account executive with Donahue & Coe, an advertising agency, and in the late 1950s, served as a vice president of the Chock Full o'Nuts Corporation.

  Other than a Jacob Rosenthal Leadership Award, there is little reminder of his significant contributions to the school. Yet Jacob Rosenthal was largely responsible for putting the school on the global map. Rosenthal was also an internationally acknowledged connoisseur – of caviar, coffee, wine, and ice cream..

  Rosenthal died on November 12, 1981, at Presbyterian Hospital in Philadelphia, in his 75th year.

  Chapter 4

  Feeding the Cape Cod Prole
tariat

  Newly graduated from culinary school, I accepted a job to serve as chef at a dude ranch in Narrowsburg, in southeastern New York State. One afternoon, following a one-hour power nap, I headed into the kitchen to fire up the ovens for the evening’s meal. Arroz con Pollo was the primary course, and I had planned to utilize the upper unit of two stacked pizza ovens to complete their cooking. The ovens looked as though they had been manufactured sometime around World War I – old enough to require a match in order to light them. So, I struck a match, held it to the burner, and turned on the gas. A split second later an explosion catapulted me through the air, slamming my body into a wall twenty feet away, leaving me with first-degree burns over my face, neck, and arms – any area of skin not covered by my short-sleeved chef’s jacket. My eyelids, eyebrows, and most of the hair on the front of my head had also been singed off.

  I was conscious, but dazed. “I’m so hot! I’m so hot!,” I shouted. The sensation of heat was so intense I felt as though I were on fire. I remember thinking that purgatory was not a place where souls were sent after this life to expiate their earthly sins. Purgatory was in front of a double-stacked pizza oven, installed in 1918 at a dude ranch a hundred miles northwest of New York City.

  Hearing the explosion, several staff members rushed into the kitchen. Two ranch hands picked me up and quickly led me to an automobile, while another administered ice packs to my face and arms. Off we sped, towards the county hospital twenty country miles away. There, an amiable, but over-worked rural physician could offer little help beyond assurances that I would survive the ordeal. He administered a minor tranquilizer to help me to sleep through the night.