Every once in a great while that elusive meal, that rare plate, the impalpable evening that you swore doesn’t exist, happens. That cosmic occurrence when the planets align, the universe is on your side, and a beautifully prepared dinner is made just for you, perfectly cooked, by your very own chef. Contrary to popular belief, as I have said before, my chef doesn’t cook me amazing dinners every night. He can’t. However, there are those special nights when it happens. Sign of the apocalypse? Maybe.
Fluke was on the menu. If you don't know what fluke is, it's in the flat fish family. Similar to a flounder. And oh so delicious. It started earlier that day when he said to me,
“Don't worry about dinner tonight, I'll take care of it.”
Immediately my head starts spinning, wondering what that might mean.
“Does this mean he'll be the one to pick up the phone to order take out?” I thought to myself, or, “Is he going to be the one to pre-heat the oven for a frozen pizza this time?”
Getting a full dinner cooked from scratch from my chef is so rare an occurrence that these thoughts were completely valid.
But then I see the ingredients. Fresh fluke, white wine, saffron, capers, etc. etc. Then I understand that I'm in for a real meal. Not that I can't cook a real meal, I just don't cook like this...yet.
Seared cauliflower, then simmered in vegetable stock (which he happened to whip up a batch of earlier that day) with saffron. Fluke, lightly floured on one side before putting it in the pan with butter and white wine. Then a white wine reduction sauce with sautéed shallots and capers. This is what ended up on my plate. It was a simple meal and everything tasted amazing, not that I was surprised.
What was most important here was that not only did I get a kick ass dinner, it was that he took the time and planned things out to do something special for me. A meal cooked by your significant other may not seem like that big of a deal to most people, but for me, it's a rarity that I need to grab on to and appreciate because who knows when I'll be able to spend that kind of time, or share that kind of meal with him next.
Showing posts with label cooking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cooking. Show all posts
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Sunday, February 28, 2010
"Cheese, Swine, & Wine", Three of my Favorite Words
When you leave a restaurant with a stomach full with fine cheeses (of all three of the major cheese producing animals), sardines and their spinal cords, brussel sprouts, bone marrow, octopus, pork shoulder, ice cream, pastry, and chocolate, all washed down with a bottle of wine, you know you’ve had a good meal. This was precisely the condition of my stomach as I walked out of the Purple Pig the other night. Nestled behind an office building on Michigan Avenue’s Magnificent Mile, the Purple Pig is small and unless you know exactly what you’re looking for, you may walk past the small archway acting as a beacon of it’s existence without ever realizing at what close proximity you are to such an enjoyable meal.
Since it’s opening, I have heard nothing but praise for this increasingly popular hot spot, especially from industry workers who have quickly added the Purple Pig to their regular rotation of late night hang outs after they, themselves have wrapped up their last table, completed their sidework, and checked out from their own, possibly not as delicious, restaurant job. If there is one thing a fine dining server or bartender will appreciate, it’s a first class menu and libation list catering to the late night crowd.
The one downside (which was the only downside I found that night) is the lack of room while waiting for a table with the inability to wait outside in the harsh Chicago winter. I suppose that’s what I get for going during the dinner rush. But however tight it may have been, the staff at the Purple Pig never ceased to cater to the waiting crowd, offering to put in a drink order as I stand, pressed against the front window, my eyes growing bigger and my mouth already salivating by the looks and smells of dishes passing by me.
I’d like to point out that my chef and I don’t always make his profession known when going out. In fact, it’s often not known unless it somehow comes up during the meal (which it often does), we know someone who works there, or were invited to come in for the meal. While special attention can be nice, sometimes the experience is better enjoyed when his position and our food knowledge arrives incognito. Our connection to the restaurant world is usually discovered because the waiter recognizes our understanding of dishes, ingredients, and menu concepts; and with a server’s appreciation of a table that knows what they’re talking about, his chef identity is often identified. Such was the case at the Purple Pig.
All right, on to the food. I’d like to start by saying that there was not one dish I ordered that I did not enjoy which is a huge feat for any restaurant. Let’s begin with the highlights. Cheese. One of the fastest ways to my heart is a good goat cheese and fig compote. Add an aged cheddar and savory blue and you have our cheese plate, and one happy girl. That, of course, was just the warm up. With only a few bites left, the next dishes that came sweeping across our table were fried sardines and brussel sprouts. Brussel sprouts are, unfortunately, a much overlooked vegetable. There is a preconceived notion that brussel sprouts are “icky”. But believe me people, you must look past the mushy, stinky, over boiled brussel sprouts of your childhood. Give them a good sear then sauté them with garlic and prosciutto and you’ve got yourself a delectable side dish. Purple Pig does something really different with their brussel sprout anti pasta. Served like a coleslaw, the raw brussel sprouts are shaved, sprinkled with pecorino noce and parmigiano reggiano, and served cold. It’s different, refreshing, and ended up being the perfect accompaniment to the fried sardines.
Ah, sardines. In my opinion, the best way to prepare a sardine is to not mess with it. Yes, it’s got a real fishy taste, but its oh, so delicate and light on the taste buds. I believe it’s a crime to mess with that, which is exactly what the Purple Pig didn’t do. Simply a light fry and it’s off to the table along with the lightly fried spinal cord, which may not be something you’ll see often, but its crispy, light, and holds an explosion of flavor. All this served on top of a fresh fennel salad. When I asked my chef his thoughts, he simply said, “This is the perfect breakfast food”. That may sound crazy, sardines for breakfast. But the moment he said it, it made perfect sense. And hey, he’s a chef, so he must know what he’s talking about.
Milk braised pork shoulder. Need I say more? No, I don’t think I do, but I will. Anytime meat is served with a spoon, you know you’re in for a mouth watering, fall apart tender, plate of deliciousness. Which was exactly what was handed to me. Served on top of mashed potatoes, this dish may have topped the list of favorite dishes for the night. So simple, yet so intense, I could have ordered it three times over. There is nothing else to say aside from, order it.
Like I said before, I was not disappointed with any dish that I ordered. However, there are always ones that you liked, but probably wouldn’t order again. This isn’t because anything was cooked badly or that the dish didn’t work, it’s just something that you’d pass on to leave room to try new things the next time around. Those for me were the octopus and the bone marrow. The octopus was truly lovely and I would absolutely recommend it. It was perfectly cooked and sitting on a bed of acini de pepe and swiss chard, wonderful, yet I would have liked something on the plate with a crunch. The marrow on the other hand, well, ours was overcooked, therefore, not as enjoyable as I had hoped.
Verdict: I had high hopes for the Purple Pig based on all the hype. My expectations were met. The servers were knowledgeable, the atmosphere was warm and inviting, and the food was pretty good too. Our server did ask if my chef worked in the industry. Mostly curious because of everything he knew about the menu. When the check came, they knocked off a dessert. Getting a deal is not something that we expect, but it’s always nice. That’s the type of business it is. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. They know that if they came to my chef’s place, they too would have a great experience. Will I go back? Absolutely.
Since it’s opening, I have heard nothing but praise for this increasingly popular hot spot, especially from industry workers who have quickly added the Purple Pig to their regular rotation of late night hang outs after they, themselves have wrapped up their last table, completed their sidework, and checked out from their own, possibly not as delicious, restaurant job. If there is one thing a fine dining server or bartender will appreciate, it’s a first class menu and libation list catering to the late night crowd.
The one downside (which was the only downside I found that night) is the lack of room while waiting for a table with the inability to wait outside in the harsh Chicago winter. I suppose that’s what I get for going during the dinner rush. But however tight it may have been, the staff at the Purple Pig never ceased to cater to the waiting crowd, offering to put in a drink order as I stand, pressed against the front window, my eyes growing bigger and my mouth already salivating by the looks and smells of dishes passing by me.
I’d like to point out that my chef and I don’t always make his profession known when going out. In fact, it’s often not known unless it somehow comes up during the meal (which it often does), we know someone who works there, or were invited to come in for the meal. While special attention can be nice, sometimes the experience is better enjoyed when his position and our food knowledge arrives incognito. Our connection to the restaurant world is usually discovered because the waiter recognizes our understanding of dishes, ingredients, and menu concepts; and with a server’s appreciation of a table that knows what they’re talking about, his chef identity is often identified. Such was the case at the Purple Pig.
All right, on to the food. I’d like to start by saying that there was not one dish I ordered that I did not enjoy which is a huge feat for any restaurant. Let’s begin with the highlights. Cheese. One of the fastest ways to my heart is a good goat cheese and fig compote. Add an aged cheddar and savory blue and you have our cheese plate, and one happy girl. That, of course, was just the warm up. With only a few bites left, the next dishes that came sweeping across our table were fried sardines and brussel sprouts. Brussel sprouts are, unfortunately, a much overlooked vegetable. There is a preconceived notion that brussel sprouts are “icky”. But believe me people, you must look past the mushy, stinky, over boiled brussel sprouts of your childhood. Give them a good sear then sauté them with garlic and prosciutto and you’ve got yourself a delectable side dish. Purple Pig does something really different with their brussel sprout anti pasta. Served like a coleslaw, the raw brussel sprouts are shaved, sprinkled with pecorino noce and parmigiano reggiano, and served cold. It’s different, refreshing, and ended up being the perfect accompaniment to the fried sardines.
Ah, sardines. In my opinion, the best way to prepare a sardine is to not mess with it. Yes, it’s got a real fishy taste, but its oh, so delicate and light on the taste buds. I believe it’s a crime to mess with that, which is exactly what the Purple Pig didn’t do. Simply a light fry and it’s off to the table along with the lightly fried spinal cord, which may not be something you’ll see often, but its crispy, light, and holds an explosion of flavor. All this served on top of a fresh fennel salad. When I asked my chef his thoughts, he simply said, “This is the perfect breakfast food”. That may sound crazy, sardines for breakfast. But the moment he said it, it made perfect sense. And hey, he’s a chef, so he must know what he’s talking about.
Milk braised pork shoulder. Need I say more? No, I don’t think I do, but I will. Anytime meat is served with a spoon, you know you’re in for a mouth watering, fall apart tender, plate of deliciousness. Which was exactly what was handed to me. Served on top of mashed potatoes, this dish may have topped the list of favorite dishes for the night. So simple, yet so intense, I could have ordered it three times over. There is nothing else to say aside from, order it.
Like I said before, I was not disappointed with any dish that I ordered. However, there are always ones that you liked, but probably wouldn’t order again. This isn’t because anything was cooked badly or that the dish didn’t work, it’s just something that you’d pass on to leave room to try new things the next time around. Those for me were the octopus and the bone marrow. The octopus was truly lovely and I would absolutely recommend it. It was perfectly cooked and sitting on a bed of acini de pepe and swiss chard, wonderful, yet I would have liked something on the plate with a crunch. The marrow on the other hand, well, ours was overcooked, therefore, not as enjoyable as I had hoped.
Verdict: I had high hopes for the Purple Pig based on all the hype. My expectations were met. The servers were knowledgeable, the atmosphere was warm and inviting, and the food was pretty good too. Our server did ask if my chef worked in the industry. Mostly curious because of everything he knew about the menu. When the check came, they knocked off a dessert. Getting a deal is not something that we expect, but it’s always nice. That’s the type of business it is. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. They know that if they came to my chef’s place, they too would have a great experience. Will I go back? Absolutely.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Moving Day
A lot has happened since the last post, which is the reason there has been such a delay between entries. Namely, the Chef and I moved. Not a big move, we’re still in the same area, just a change of apartments. Moving is hard work, I should know, we do it every year. Every new place we move to ends up having something significantly wrong with it. A lot of planning and organizing needs to happen when you move. You can’t just throw things in a box. First you must organize things you want to get rid of, then the actual packing of boxes, which also needs to be highly organized. There is also hiring the movers, changing addresses, switching utilities, making phone calls, emails, etc. etc. etc. It’s a lot.
Let’s reflect back to my first blog entry and the whole, “not seeing your chef boyfriend because he works so much.” While that can be a total bummer in regular, ordinary life, it becomes especially stressful in situations like this, picking up your life and moving. On the plus side, he has access to a large stash of boxes which can really come in handy in the moving process. But the benefits end there.
In the week and a half or so leading up to the big move I found myself responsible for the bulk of the work. That’s a lot of stress. Granted, I am the one that handles the everyday tasks of running the household, however, moving puts my responsibilities at an all time high. I am the one who went out apartment hunting. I am the one to organize our stuff. I am the one who packed boxes. I am the one who organized the logistics of moving day. I had to do it all. Now, I don’t want to make this sound too negative. I’m not bitter about this. And it’s not that I couldn’t handle the job. It’s just that I am one person, I am 50% of a partnership who at times must take on 100% of the responsibility.
On the actual moving day, the chef really came through. In fact, he used to work as a mover so delegating the job to the hired help was his time to shine. I couldn’t have done it without him. However, once the possessions were safely transported his ability to assist was once again non-existent. Of course it’s not his fault, he’s not choosing to slack on helping, but his work and long hours comes first. In fact, his hours were so long in the days following the move that he would come home nearly incoherent.
It’s not the physical work that is frustrating, it’s making the decisions of where things should go, how to decorate, how to make your house a home, and having to do it solo. Once unpacking is complete it’s time to make yourself comfortable. However, it’s supposed to be OUR space, not MY space. But how can I do that when I’m the only one home, cooking dinner for one, sitting on the couch by myself, going to bed alone?
And how long will this place last? What are the chances he’ll get an offer somewhere else, maybe in another city all together? I work for myself, and work is slow. Our lives are currently dependent on his career. Our first apartment together didn’t last long. The moment we got comfortable we had to pick up and move half way across the country. Who’s to say that won’t happen again, and happen quickly.
For the time being, I’m plugging away, trying to make things cozy, trying to make it a home. But no matter what, a part of my mind will remain antsy, wondering when the restaurant business will once again turn my life upside down.
Let’s reflect back to my first blog entry and the whole, “not seeing your chef boyfriend because he works so much.” While that can be a total bummer in regular, ordinary life, it becomes especially stressful in situations like this, picking up your life and moving. On the plus side, he has access to a large stash of boxes which can really come in handy in the moving process. But the benefits end there.
In the week and a half or so leading up to the big move I found myself responsible for the bulk of the work. That’s a lot of stress. Granted, I am the one that handles the everyday tasks of running the household, however, moving puts my responsibilities at an all time high. I am the one who went out apartment hunting. I am the one to organize our stuff. I am the one who packed boxes. I am the one who organized the logistics of moving day. I had to do it all. Now, I don’t want to make this sound too negative. I’m not bitter about this. And it’s not that I couldn’t handle the job. It’s just that I am one person, I am 50% of a partnership who at times must take on 100% of the responsibility.
On the actual moving day, the chef really came through. In fact, he used to work as a mover so delegating the job to the hired help was his time to shine. I couldn’t have done it without him. However, once the possessions were safely transported his ability to assist was once again non-existent. Of course it’s not his fault, he’s not choosing to slack on helping, but his work and long hours comes first. In fact, his hours were so long in the days following the move that he would come home nearly incoherent.
It’s not the physical work that is frustrating, it’s making the decisions of where things should go, how to decorate, how to make your house a home, and having to do it solo. Once unpacking is complete it’s time to make yourself comfortable. However, it’s supposed to be OUR space, not MY space. But how can I do that when I’m the only one home, cooking dinner for one, sitting on the couch by myself, going to bed alone?
And how long will this place last? What are the chances he’ll get an offer somewhere else, maybe in another city all together? I work for myself, and work is slow. Our lives are currently dependent on his career. Our first apartment together didn’t last long. The moment we got comfortable we had to pick up and move half way across the country. Who’s to say that won’t happen again, and happen quickly.
For the time being, I’m plugging away, trying to make things cozy, trying to make it a home. But no matter what, a part of my mind will remain antsy, wondering when the restaurant business will once again turn my life upside down.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Dinner Party
It happens every time. A friend or a family member invites us over to eat. Something simple, a dinner party maybe, or just a casual get together with a few friends. And then it occurs to them, “Oh no, we’re making dinner for a Chef!” Immediately, the host panics, okay, maybe not a full on panic, but a fear sets in. “What is he going to think of my cooking? He’s going to think it’s horrible.” It doesn’t matter if you’re actually a good cook; you get self-conscious anyway. So maybe you scramble a little, scour your kitchen for extra spices, dig through old cookbooks, throw some parsley on the plate for a little garnish, try to fancy things up a little bit…
I recall a dinner party my friend threw years ago. A few of my friends and I would alternate houses and throw some kind of theme night. Tea parties, wine gatherings, cheese bingeing (I may have to go into more detail on the cheese binge night another time). But this particular night was hot dog night. And I don’t mean some Oscar Meyers and mustard. These were more than just hot dogs, they were HOT DOGS! Big, meaty, juice dripping down your chin when you bite into it kind of hot dogs. And the spread, oh, the spread of vegetables and condiments varying enough that even a Chicagoan would approve of the smorgasbord present that night.
When I very enthusiastically accepted the invitation to that night’s festivities I inquired about bringing along my new chef friend, who I had only known for a couple weeks at that time. My friends, of course, were very open to new guests. But then it sets in, the realization that someone who cooks at one of the best restaurants in the city is coming over, it’s the first time you’re meeting him…and you’re feeding him hot dogs. Then doubt sets in, maybe you should renege on the invitation; invite him on a night when you’ll prepare something a little fancier. But no, it’s too late, he’s accepted. What do you do now? The answer is that you don’t do anything. You sit back, you enjoy the evening because once everyone has arrived you nervously watch as the chef opens his mouth and throws more hot dogs down the hatch than you could ever imagine one person doing. Result: your evening as a host is a great success.
Here’s the secret. You invite people over for dinner, the chef included. The menu for the night is steaks on the grill, veggies dripping in delicious butter sauce, a home made chocolate cake for dessert, and you’re scared he’s going to think its awful. Let me tell you why it’s not. Aside from the fact that a good steak on the grill is pure ecstasy, the reason that he’ll love the meal is because HE DIDN’T COOK IT! He cooks for people all day and yes he enjoys it but you gave him the opportunity to put the knife down, sit back with a beer in one hand and a fork in the other and enjoy that rare occurrence of someone else cooking, which is probably the best night you could give him.
So, now you know; now you can relax. Go ahead, plan those dinner parties, take a deep breath, and stop worrying, because we’ll be there, alcohol in hand, ready to enjoy a home cooked meal.
I recall a dinner party my friend threw years ago. A few of my friends and I would alternate houses and throw some kind of theme night. Tea parties, wine gatherings, cheese bingeing (I may have to go into more detail on the cheese binge night another time). But this particular night was hot dog night. And I don’t mean some Oscar Meyers and mustard. These were more than just hot dogs, they were HOT DOGS! Big, meaty, juice dripping down your chin when you bite into it kind of hot dogs. And the spread, oh, the spread of vegetables and condiments varying enough that even a Chicagoan would approve of the smorgasbord present that night.
When I very enthusiastically accepted the invitation to that night’s festivities I inquired about bringing along my new chef friend, who I had only known for a couple weeks at that time. My friends, of course, were very open to new guests. But then it sets in, the realization that someone who cooks at one of the best restaurants in the city is coming over, it’s the first time you’re meeting him…and you’re feeding him hot dogs. Then doubt sets in, maybe you should renege on the invitation; invite him on a night when you’ll prepare something a little fancier. But no, it’s too late, he’s accepted. What do you do now? The answer is that you don’t do anything. You sit back, you enjoy the evening because once everyone has arrived you nervously watch as the chef opens his mouth and throws more hot dogs down the hatch than you could ever imagine one person doing. Result: your evening as a host is a great success.
Here’s the secret. You invite people over for dinner, the chef included. The menu for the night is steaks on the grill, veggies dripping in delicious butter sauce, a home made chocolate cake for dessert, and you’re scared he’s going to think its awful. Let me tell you why it’s not. Aside from the fact that a good steak on the grill is pure ecstasy, the reason that he’ll love the meal is because HE DIDN’T COOK IT! He cooks for people all day and yes he enjoys it but you gave him the opportunity to put the knife down, sit back with a beer in one hand and a fork in the other and enjoy that rare occurrence of someone else cooking, which is probably the best night you could give him.
So, now you know; now you can relax. Go ahead, plan those dinner parties, take a deep breath, and stop worrying, because we’ll be there, alcohol in hand, ready to enjoy a home cooked meal.
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