I was in a cab in downtown San Diego with no plans other than to walk around and to eventually eat lunch. When I saw the Nobu sign I said “drop me there.”  The restaurant wasn’t open yet, but based on the warm simplicity of the dining room and the menu in the window I decided that I’d head back in an hour or two and get lunch

It was raining and the wind had inverted my umbrella twice as I skirted construction and puddles. I love rain, so I was in a pretty good mood.  Even thought I aimed the umbrella at the wind I was soaked up to my pockets by the time I got back to Nobu.  The place was packed and people were waiting for tables.  I asked the host if there might be a table for one.  I expected her to look at me like I was crazy for asking and then suggest that I go and drip elsewhere.  Instead she seated me immediately at the only empty table in the restaurant.

Score one for service and pity.

When I asked about the different sake options my server ask if I liked my sake dry.  I said yes and she suggested one at the low end of the price range.  Score two for service.

The scallops in a warm garlicky sauce were as creamy as a double stuff Oreo on the inside and as crisp as the cookie part on the top and bottom.  I was in a double bind.  I wanted to gobble then up and I wanted to eat them slowly so they’d last.  Luckily the people-watching was good so I had an external reason for taking it slowly.

Among the people to watch were the waitstaff.  The women were willowy and yoga-instructor-ish.  I’m pretty sure that most of the men were Chippendale’s dancers moonlighting the lunch shift at Nobu.

Back to the candy on my plate…  The fresh seaweed salad tasted like an ocean breeze on a cool cloudy day.  The wide strips of seaweed were tender, barely salty, of-the-sea-but-not-in-the-least-fishy, and softly sweet.  The whisper of sesame and soy didn’t mask the flavors – it coaxed them to fruition.

The mochi-covered ice-cream I had for dessert was standard – but I’m a sucker for cream wrapped in bean paste.  The green tea was particularly nice.  It wasn’t just green ice cream, it tasted sweet with undertones of savory, and it hinted at the bitter finish of good cup of tea.

There are times when a simple meal transcends the necessity of eating and becomes an experience.  Nobu provided more than the food on my plate.  Sated, I walked back to my hotel in the rain.

My Post today in the New Time’s Chow Bella: AndyTalk: Attack of the Hot Tomatoes garnered a comment that took me by surprise.  It blended a very grudging bit of respect for my food-q, with a derogation that suggested I was a “libtard.”

I’m happy to say that until today I’d never heard that word.  It’s offensive on two fronts.  I’ll work back to front…

I expect that the person who wrote the comment likes to make fun of people with mental impairment.  Anyone who can post a comment on line (i.e., turn on a computer and type) has to know that it’s wrong to poke fun at people who are intellectually challenged.  I expect that my feelings on this subject will be proof to many that the I am, indeed, a “lib.”

When it comes to food I am liberal.  I like to be generous with portions.  I like to offer a wide variety of recipes and I’m liberal with tips that will help people successfully recreate the recipes.

I am a liberal if that means that I try to be open-minded, or generous, or capable of enjoying the humanities.

I am definitely a liberal if we’re talking about how much syrup I put on my pancakes, how much wasabi I like on my sushi, or how many potato chips I like mashed on top of my tuna salad.

Somehow, it’s fitting that the remark was posted in response to a blog post on tomatoes.  When there’s a mob, or just one person with a mob-mentality, there’s always someone throwing tomatoes at the person who has the floor.  Sometimes those tomatoes are round, red, and edible.  Sometimes they’re just hot air.

I’ll be on a plane tomorrow (12/24) just to prove once and for all that I’m a little crazy.  On the other hand, for the next 5 days other people will be cooking for me.  That’s worth a few hours of airpo

Time spent travelling has a kitchen equivalent.  Our perception of time as it passes in an airport or on a plane is the same as our perception of the time spent waiting for water to boil.  Ironically, someone ultimately gets steamed up in both contexts.

Anticipation may be the ketchup theme song, but it’s pervasive in any well-used kitchen.  We smell the cookies before they’re done, and that aroma turns every minute into a seven-times-as-long-dog-minute.   But, if the cookies are good, those long minutes imbue them with some kind of enhanced flavor.

Anticipation is a flavor enhancer.  When the bread tastes as good as the aroma wafting out of the bakery we experience a kind of culinary nirvana; we are simultaneously in both the real world and a metaphysical world where perfection exists.  As we finish the bread that connection is lost, but our memory of the experience sustains us spiritually.

Holidays often include special foods.  Other than fruitcake the month of December is a pretty tasty month.  If you have not had your mother/grandmother/aunt’s special cookies/cake/roast duck in years you can’t help but look forward to the soon-to-be next taste.  You know that nirvana is near.

Maybe that’s what sustains me when I’m unnaturally speeding along five miles over the earth and looking out the window to make sure that none of the bolts holding the wing to the plane are loose.   I’m not really calm because I’m closer to heaven (in fact that makes me more nervous).  I’m calm because my partner’s godmother makes the best cookies on the planet and I know there will be a batch waiting at the end of my ordeal.

As always, I find some kind of peace in the kitchen.

A couple of months ago I began AndyTalk – a weekly blog on food and cooking for the Phoenix New Times / Chow Bella.   I also had rotator cuff surgery and was limited to typing with my left hand for a month.

Thus, I’ve been writing but not so much on my own blog.  I’d like to share those posts with you:

Why I Cook in Clown Shoes

Cooking Without a Net – The Rush of No Recipe Cooking

Sugar Plumps Cellulose – A Mantra and a Bit of Useful Kitchen Science

Sometimes Doing Nothing is Doing Something – Patience is a Key Ingredient in Many Recipes

Garlic and Gadgetry – Why I Use a Knife to Mince Garlic

Addicted to Chocolate

Piecrust Should Be Tender – My Favorite Crust Recipe

Sugar

Plumps

Cellulose

One of my high school English teachers taught me that the time to use a big word is when it allows you to complete a thought with fewer words. Since then, the most valuable additions to my vocabulary have been accompanied by an epiphany.

Thanks to Word of the Day, “weltschmerz” gives me a name and a construct for understanding the angst (and accompanying mayhem) of many challenged cooks. In one word it explains why some people are bad cooks.

Weltschmerz is sorrow one feels and accepts as one’s lot in life. Wow! Superman leaps tall buildings in a single bound; in one word weltschmerz allows me to navigate the chaos of thought and see a pattern of behavior common to people who can’t boil water. The kitchen-challenged have a dysfunctional thought disorder, a little behavioral neurosis.

I call it Weltschmerzian Cook Syndrome. Now that I’ve got a diagnosis I can work on treating the afflicted.

“Woe is me.” The vast majority of bad cooks feel trapped. They’re damsels and drones in distress, and desperately want to be rescued. The question is how to rescue someone from a state of mind?

One of my fellow students in culinary school had a profound case of Weltschmerzian Cook Syndrome. He couldn’t make a decent pancake ten months into the program. After three tries he asked me for help.

“M” enrolled without ever having read Bon Appétit or Gourmet magazines. How much could he like cooking if he’d never read a food magazine? For the first few weeks of school he wouldn’t taste the food. He was kosher and before enrolling never considered that he might have some dietary issues with the program. Ultimately he tasted and spat (the kosher equivalent of “I didn’t inhale.”) His father sent him to culinary school. He was uninspired, unmotivated, and trapped. That’s a recipe for a bad pancake.

Now, think about every working mother (or father) with kids to feed. Maybe her mother was a bad cook. Maybe her mom was great, but never taught her. Maybe she just thinks cooking is a dismal chore. How can her food not be steeped in the weltschmerz that landed her in the kitchen. Without innate ability, or a glass-half-full motive, her food will be lackluster at best. But … what if she has the option of an easy way to make one of her favorite foods – like individual lasagnas or baked chicken parmesan? Maybe she’ll learn to make one recipe really well. Maybe she’ll make it once a week for a month. By the fourth week she’ll barely need the recipe. In one short month she’ll have a repertoire, albeit of just one recipe. The first step is always the hardest.

Cooking is like driving.  Whether you thought it was easy and exhilarating or hard and scary, the first time was the most difficult, . We aren’t born knowing how to drive, but once we learn we can drive pretty much any car.

Cooking is easier than driving; while it’s possible to kill someone, most kitchen disasters just leave a bad taste in your mouth.

Recipes are like cars. It’s a good idea to take a recipe for a test drive. If you’re a novice you might need to practice a few times to get it right (like parallel parking).

If you can drive you can cook. If you can drive without angst then you can cook and smile at the same time.

I love to cook. Despite my bias there are times when a dash of weltschmerz is actually part of a good recipe; especially as a finishing touch.

It is OK to say, “After all the trouble I went to, making that cake/turkey/dinner…that’s all you’re going to eat?”

Just remember one thing.  Weltzschmerz is like salt; too much will ruin any recipe.

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Andy’s most recent post on the Phoenix New Times’ Chow Bella Blog:  Cooking Without a Net

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[Note: for the first time there's a cuss word in my story.  I'm quoting someone, but if that would offend you consider skipping this post]

The best stories, like the best food, often come from things familiar and at hand.

When I’m hungry and don’t want to leave the house I open and close the refrigerator a half-dozen times repeating a desperate mantra: “there has to be a meal in there someplace.” Hunger and creativity often collaborate to come up with a pretty good meal. I suspect that having a culinary background helps – but I started playing to this suit long before I cooked for money. Familiarity with my pantry, ingredients on hand, and the tools in my kitchen is key.

I got my hair cut yesterday. Luckily, that experience had nothing to do with food. It did get me headed down the stream of consciousness path to a place where stories and food are related.

Every time I get my hair cut I know that Marissa will nurture me. And, if I play our conversation in my head a few times (like re-opening the fridge) I know that there’s a story in there someplace.

Marissa has beautiful skin and hair, exercises a lot, laughs generously, and cusses really well when she has a mind to. One recent afternoon she was at home exercising. There was a knock at the door, which she chose to ignore. She is not the least co-dependent, so she was disinclined to enable the person at the door.

The knocking persisted. It got louder and made her worry. Maybe it was a neighbor who needed help? She checked through the peephole – and saw a man who looked like one of her neighbors. She opened the door to find a man who identified himself as being from the nearby Baptist church. It’s not her church, she didn’t know him, and she assumed that some proselytizing was about to begin.

Then it happened. Marissa’s 8-month old cat ran out the door. At that moment Marissa said three things in just four words. This was a near-perfect word-recipe. (Please note that I’m about to cuss and repeat the violation of a commandment – so if such things offend you – even if they’re just being repeated – you might want to stop reading).

The first thing Marissa yelled was “Christ.” This was an expression of frustration at the cat running out of the house. The last thing Marissa yelled was “fucker.” This was another expression of frustration … also at the cat. That’s 2 words and 2 thoughts. In between these words Marissa yelled the cat’s name. In cooking terms this was that perfect ingredient that made her remarks special. It was the cream in the Oreo.

The presumably nice Baptist man – who did not see the cat run out — was greeted by a panting, sort of sweaty woman who, upon his introduction screamed: “Christ … Jesus-Bob … Fucker!”

In case you’re wondering, those 4 words, if yelled just right, will get a grown man proselytizing on your doorstep to turn tail and run.

The recipe for quiet enjoyment of your home starts with a cat named Jesus Bob. Add to that a bit of self-assurance and a good adult vocabulary. Finally, like all good recipes, season to taste. In this case a dash of peppery sailor talk and a little honest sweat.

Epilogue: Jesus Bob came home. Marissa and Jared have not joined that church.

There’s nothing wrong with a vegetarian diet. In theory and principle vegetarianism has many virtues.  The real issues for any deliberate eater aren’t about vegetables; they’re about the politics of a person’s protein – and moderation.

When I teach people to cook I witness the convergence of vegetarianism and what regular people like to eat.  A few months ago we started Meatless Monday classes.  This was due in great part to Sandy Liberman – my sous chef and a vegetarian.  She wanted to go hard-core – with lots of vegan options.  I suggested (OK – I insisted) that she teach recipes with broad appeal. I wanted recipes that meat eaters would like – and could easily pair with a piece of chicken or fish.

For a long time I referred to vegetarian classes as the “kiss of death.”  I’ve always liked vegetables.  Even okra and Brussels’ sprouts taste good when cooked right, but they’re a hard sell.  When it comes down to putting your money where you’ll be putting your mouth most people like some meat on the table.   That’s my take on the matter of meat (based on 13 years during which I’ve cobbled together menus to teach).

If you’re planning to take a cooking class – maybe your first ever – choosing the actual class is like choosing your entrée at a restaurant.  A lot of people opt for meat and potatoes and a rich dessert – even people who want a healthier diet.  Learn to make comfort food today and eat healthy tomorrow.

The Meatless Monday movement is a wonderful convergence of good nutrition and good marketing.  We should eat more vegetables.  Once a week isn’t so hard.  If the Catholics can skip meat once a week so can we.

Why Monday?  Because to have a food movement you need to get chefs involved.  Monday is a day many restaurants are closed – and for those that are open it’s likely to be a slow day.  If having meatless options on Monday brings in more customers why not?  Besides – the fresh fish comes on Tuesday… And, I don’t know of any restaurant that stops serving meat on Monday – they just have more meatless options.

We are born moderates (except for elected officials).   Moderation in what we eat is akin to flexibility – and that helps us survive.  Darwin alert: if you don’t believe in evolution you might want to stop reading now.

Our ancestors had a pretty hard time finding food.  Even when they had a good day (like bringing down an aurochs) they didn’t have many ways to preserve their food.  They ate a lot of meat when they could.  Hunter-gatherers had a varied diet over the long term, but on a day-to-day basis there was often a lot of monotony.  There was also a lot of hunger.  I suspect that the average cave-kid didn’t say things like “I don’t want mammoth – we just had it last night.“

Our ancestors ate what was abundant.  If the hunting was poor we were vegetarians out of necessity.  If it was winter and we couldn’t forage we lived on meat.  We may have had seasonal iron deficiency or scurvy, but we survived.

Over time we learned to farm.  We planted crops and raised animals and eventually got pretty good at it.  We got so good that we had the luxury of attaching political or religious meaning to food choices.  On occasion, sustenance became a secondary consideration.  In ancient Mexico only the aristocracy and the priests could eat cacao (chocolate).  Christians didn’t eat meat on Friday.  Jews and Muslims said no to pork – while the French invented charcuterie – which, when done right, is a kind of pork-centric religious experience…

Charcuterie Platter from Hearth - NYC - 8/11

Now we have an abundance of food movements to keep our global supermarkets busy.  There’s the Raw Food Movement and Meatless Monday.  We have vegetarian, vegan, and gluten free options on most restaurant menus.  Does this mean that we’re moving toward a more vegetable-based diet?  I think the answer is no – at least for the most part.  Americans have been told for decades to eat more vegetables.  If it hasn’t sunk in by now something else (like personal preference) is at play.

Most people are not willing to live on raw food when they have access to an oven and a stove.  Raw food means no bread (it’s baked), no pizza (and definitely no pepperoni), no pretzels with your beer, no caramelized anything, and no BBQ.  It doesn’t mean just salads – but it means a kind of culinary sacrifice that the average person is not willing to make.

In terms of evolution it hasn’t been that long since we lived in caves.  Eating your fill of meat gave you more calories than eating berries.  If both options were available meat was the best choice.  Fat and cholesterol were non-issues since no one lived long enough for plaque to line his arteries. We still crave calorie dense meat, but we don’t have to work nearly so hard for each bite.  We overeat because we’re genetically wired to eat when the times are good. The economy has been tough, but we still have food in abundance compared to our ancestors.

Ultimately, the decision to eat or not eat a particular food, or class of food, is pretty personal.  If you’re open-minded you probably don’t that much about what other people eat.  For the record, that’s not the same as caring about the wholesomeness of the food generally available, or about the viability of the food chain.  You don’t have to be a vegetarian to be ticked off about someone eating an endangered species.  You might need to be a liberal or a moderate, but that’s a whole different fork in the road.  And, even a proud carnivore can aspire to eat more vegetables and grains.

A clear upshot of a vocal vegetarianism is the awareness it’s generated about all sorts of good veggie options and accompaniments.

The father of a friend used to talk my ear off about the bell curve.  He was a scientific type and believed that the answers to all of mankind’s great problems are waiting to be found in the bell curve. I believe that the bell curve can be turned into a healthy diet.

The bell curve diet is a mandate to eat things at both ends of the buffet table – and sample a little of everything in between.  How great is it to eat like a moderate?

Everyone’s messy – trust me. Some people wear their messiness on their sleeves, for all to see. Others are sly about their detritus.

Sometimes there’s a cultural imperative to be messy – like tossing confetti on New Years Eve. There are times when, though not necessarily encouraged, messiness is sanctioned – like in hotel rooms where we use a lot of towels that we leave on the floor.

Then, there are kitchens. By definition cooking means making a mess. The question about whether or not a cook is a slob has a lot in common with the philosophy of finding order in chaos. Is there a method to the madness, or are the patients running the asylum?

I’m asked almost every time I teach a class if it bothers me when people make a mess in my kitchen. The answer is no, I’m almost never put off by the mess. Generally I am amused.

But, there are two significant reasons I don’t fret about the mess.

First, AndyFood is not my house. It’s a kind of homey place, but it isn’t my home. If 20 people were trashing the floor in my house I’d be a little ticked off. Actually I’d be a lot ticked off. But, I built AndyFood as a place to teach groups of people – and a mess is part of the gestalt of group cooking.

Second, at AndyFood I’m not the one doing the cleaning. I pay my assistants to clean – before, during and after class. I do my best to organize a class in a way that minimizes mess. Still, I have the luxury of not scrubbing.

What kind of people make a mess?

Splatterers.

It doesn’t rain inside, so when I had the distinct sensation of light precipitation I looked around and put my hand on my wet ear. In case you ever wondered what it feels like to have tomato seeds land one-by-one on your head and shoulders – it feels like light rain. It’s not exactly a déjà vu moment, but it is mildly disconcerting, like waking up in a rain storm and thinking that you’re in a theater and people are applauding (maybe that’s only me…). Still, when something wet and red comes off your ear there’s a moment when “how did I cut my ear” runs through your head. It turns out that it is possible (but not recommended) to dice a tomato by the projectile method.

The Indifferent. Yes, indifference is one of my categories of mess.

I say “I think it’s time to clean your work area – there’ a lot of garbage on your cutting board.”

He says “just slide it on to the floor then?”

I use all the good-host charm I can muster to say “No, not on the floor. How about scooping it into the bowl for scraps…”

Then I think “what a pig…” but, I say “thanks…”

The Clueless..

1. If you talk with your hands that’s OK. But, please, please, please put the raw chicken breast down first.

2. If food sloshes out of the bowl every time you stir, EVERY TIME – that is not good. You need a bowl bigger than 4 cups to stir 4 cups of food. The idea is to mix the ingredients AND –keep them in the bowl during the process.

3. Pam (and it’s vegetable oil brethren) isn’t good for the floor. A thin layer of oil on the stove doesn’t make it easier to clean. Hold the pan in the sink to catch the over-spray (better yet, hold the pan in the dishwasher so that the excess oil gets washed away when you push the start button).

4. Chicken is scary but sponges are terrifying. There’s always someone who tells me that cooking a boneless chicken breast at 375 °F for 22 minutes is not long enough to ensure the safety of the loved-ones for whom the chicken is being cooked.  It is.  Then, when I tell her that I never use sponges in the kitchen – because they’re germ havens – she gets bent out of shape. She likes sponges and has a sincere belief that wringing hers out in hot water cleans it thoroughly. This is a person who has an innate ability to touch every part of a counter with either the raw chicken breast or her chicken-juice hands. Raw chicken I can handle – but a dirty sponge has no place in a kitchen.

Little Donnie Dark always said “there are none so blind as those who will not see.” Sometimes the trick is learning to see what we don’t want to acknowledge. If you wash your hands before you cook, but have a fondness for your brownish-gray sponge that used to be green or yellow – you’re in denial. If you can’t see tomato juice spraying four feet across the counter maybe you shouldn’t be using a knife (buy canned tomatoes). If you think it’s OK to sweep food scraps onto the floor – cook outside.

Most of the time I like to let each person have his or her own little mess. Sometimes a little scattering of one’s own bits and pieces is simply a way of staking a claim. It marks someone’s space on the counter – so that he has enough space to make his contribution to the meal.

In this light the mess doesn’t seem so bad. Thanksgiving wouldn’t be possible without a mess. Neither would good homemade pizza, or any tailgate party.

The mess is actually part of the recipe.

AndyFood Embellished by Yarnbomber

I got yarnbombed last week.  Apparently some radical granny who goes by the name Knit Knack felt that the potted acacia in front of AndyFood was in need of a sweater.

Until my tree got its Christmas-in-July treatment the only bombes dropped at AndyFood were for dessert.

The sweater on the tree got me looking on line for similarly clad flora and other inanimate objects.  Apparently yarn bombers have a lot of time (and yarn) on their hands.

All that yarn-turned-lawn-art made me think about our desire to embellish.  In food we call it garnishing.  The addition of style to something otherwise utilitarian goes way back.  I’m not an anthropologist (and I didn’t stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night) but I know that our ancestors were decorating their caves over 17,000 years ago.  I imagine that in the Paleolithic Era it was pretty hard to get enough to eat.  Despite long days hunting and gathering the urge to freshen up the appearance of one’s cave was obviously strong.

The most famous of the decorated caves are in Lascaux, France. I think that it’s more than a coincidence that the birth of good taste in home decor began in France.  The French decorate their caves … so it’s only natural that they garnish their food with abandon.

Frilled drumsticks and racks of lamb are fussy and French (and fun).  We get our knife cuts from the French: julienne, chiffonade, batonnet, and brunoise are all precise shapes achieved with a knife.  Even roughly chopped vegetables sound good when you call them concasse.

The French are the people who taught the western world how to make stuff look better than it looks in nature.   They drizzle a ridiculous number of sauces on and around their food.  My first meal in France was in a truck stop – and the food was pretty – and it was pretty good.  I’m not making this up.  I was with my friend Gary.   We’d driven from Brussels and were hungry.  He insisted that we stop at  the “next place” which was a truck stop.  I did a little kick-and-scream and over-my dead-body number – but he won (which is fair since it was the one of the two times he got his way on the trip).

So there we are at a truck stop someplace in France.  It reminded me a little of a Furr’s Cafeteria only it was the French, not my grandmother, blowing cigarette smoke in my face.  I remember really nice – French cut – green beans and passable (not dry) chicken.

We all garnish and/or embellish.  Even the military decorates and stylizes … especially the military – with badges, medals, braids, epaulettes, and uniforms for every occasion.  (All those accessories and they just repealed don’t-ask-don’t-tell … a policy that, coincidentally applies to food – especially stew and soup – at trucks stops).

The next time you see a steak with a sprig of parsley think of it as an everyday uniform.  Parsley is to steak what fatigues are to a marine.  Now make it a steak au poivre, or better yet forrestiere, or even better yet covered with truffles – and you’ve got a five-star general garnished and ready to serve.

I think that I can turn just about anything into a food or cooking analogy.  And, I can usually work in a reference of Steele Magnolias if I try.

So, I’ll conclude by quoting Olympia Dukakis (as Clairee, the character most likely to drop a bomb):  “It’s our ability to accessorize [or garnish] that separates us from the lower species.”

How French is that?