Parisian Bakery (in NYC)

The CC doesn't even like desserts, but he does confess a hankering for both croissants and baguettes. Preferably, the former for breakfast, and the latter any time of the day. Preferably, to excess. Preferably. to serious excess!

Sadly, what passes in this country for either, would earn a place against the wall in the benevolent czarship run by the CC.

But NYC is different, right? We all knew that, right?

There seems to be this rocking place in Harlem by French-Senegalese escapees (aka immigrants) from Paris. My friend who flies to Paris every two weeks claims it's better than anything she ate/eats/has eaten in Paris (and she, my good friends, is a foodie.)

There's only one way to convince you, my gentle readers, there's only one way!



So if you want a taste, you'll just have to visit.

Tomato Soup (in winter) - Part 2

Just so you know, I cheated, but I cheated less than the current breed of drug-addled Olympic athletes.

Did I have a choice?

NO!

Tomatoes in this country, for the most part, suck! They suck so much, that the CC will take good tomatoes over sex in this country. (*)

In every other afore-mentioned "good-tomato" country, the CC will take sex over tomatoes.

Anyway... back to business. The soup, and how did I cheat?

A large spoonful of home-made summer "Heirloom-tomato" paste was used. But, that's it. No more tricks except good old-fashioned technique.

The soup rocked even with the pathetic "I-just-flew-in-from-Israel" tomatoes. Nothing against Israel. Nothing against flying. Certainly, nothing against the sucky-ass tomatoes.

Why do they have to pick the tomatoes in perfectly warm countries with great tomatoes while they are still raw? (Answer: to fly them across continents.)

This globalization stuff is beginning to suck, at least for food.

But, the CC doesn't mean to rant, and the CC has to consume some of the afore-mentioned tomato soup so as to get in to work in on time tomorrow, so tune in to hear the exciting saga of the "Tomato soup." (**)

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(*) Some prefer chocolate but "de gustibus non disputandum est."

(**) Assuming you find it exciting.

Tomato Soup (in winter)

So now that everyone knows that the CC is a strange breed, a well-trained Indian chef-wannabe, etc. (Not that there were any losers reading this blog who didn't know that!)

The CC ventured out to make that age old hoary "Raj" relic known as "tomato soup" (perhaps we should call it "a la indienne"?)

Let's get down to the details.

Tomatoes in winter suck, so why the hell is the CC making "tomato soup" in winter?

Two reasons.

One, my hand was forced (more on this below.) Two, any retard (*) from Italy, India, Mexico (**) can make good "tomato anything" in summer. So there's a challenge, and never let it be said that the CC has ever shied away from a challenge!

More on the forced hand. The Chinese wife of an Indian ex-colleague wanted to know how tomato soups tasted so good in India. The CC quizzed her, and he quizzed her hard till she cried out, "I don't know."

Of course, at that point, the CC knew what she wanted.

She had tasted the vision, and I'm sure you, gentle readers, and one insane bitch, want to partake of the same.

At this spot, the CC has decided to borrow from the grammar of television. Namely, watch this spot for more...

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(*) I'm not PC. There are too many retard-chefs and chef-wannabes with no technique.

(**) The only countries that I know that have good tomatoes, in alphabetical order.

Crappy Valentine's Day

So the CC decided that a few days after the annual massacre of roses that yields men their annual blowjobs, it was time to rescue the roses for a higher cause.

Yes, the goal was cooking, and the object was to find organic, unsprayed roses to cook with.

My Persian cookbook had long been languishing in the boudoir (*), and every once in a while she made seductive noises while shaking her silky spine. She had earned her roses.

The first few places were rather uneventful. They didn't carry organic flowers.

Finally, the CC arrived at a store that sold organic flowers. The conversation is reproduced for your infinite amusement.

"So why do you want unsprayed roses?"

"I plan to eat them."

(Pause in conversation.)

I rapidly realized that I should've said, "I plan to cook with them", and so hastily corrected the awkward slip.

(More pause.)

"Not the roses, just the petals."

(Pause while giving me the "cretinous wanker" look.)

Somebody was clearly not having a good day but it's not like I said that I was planning to gamahauche her dead grandmother!

"So what kinda food is it?

"Persian."

(This was clearly becoming a waste of time.)

"So are you Persian then?

Jesus wept.

This woman in New York City had all the cultural sensitivity and intellectual depth of a lobotomized amoeba.

The question, "Are you from Oklahoma then?" floated through my mind but then realizing that all major religions have prohibitions against mistreating the mentally-deficient (particularly lobotomized amoebas), I just smiled beatifically.

Plus, I needed those goddamn roses.

I have just one question for this woman, "Do you have to be Austrian to like Mozart? Irish to like Joyce? Do you? Do you?"

It turns out she didn't have those roses.

In retrospect, I should've realized that this was an "X factor." The chromosome strikes back! No male florist would've followed this line of conversation.

You ask why, gentle reader? Do you? Do you?

Firstly, a male florist would be gay. Secondly, given the afore-mentioned attribute, they would've had a larger universe of edibleness. After all, if you include edible underwear, mere flowers can hardly be surprising! Thirdly, they would flirt with you which would both be good for business, and who knows if you might get invited to the dinner of the roses, and who knows what other friends there might be at that dinner, and who knows if you might find yourself romping later that imagined night in Persian (or non-Persian) delight?

No, it was definitely the "X factor."

As I walked home, mildly miffed and definitely dejected, I would love to tell you, kind reader, that a gentle drizzle commenced as if to commiserate.

But, no!

It was a gorgeous New York night, mild weather, gently darkening skies. Precisely, the kind of night that makes girls from Oklahoma on their first church trip to New York fall in love with the city, and find a rental, and call mamma to say that they ain't coming back.

In short, the gods are not without a sense of irony!

As for my sweet rose of Persia, she has been banished to the bookshelf, and the quest for organic, unsprayed roses continues...

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(*) bouder (v. intr. Fr.), to sulk, to be sullen.

Sliced Apples

The New York Times has an article on pre-sliced apples "bathed in an all-natural flavorless sealant" so that the apples "won't turn brown".

It turns out that the apple "is simply too poorly designed for today's busy eater".

Doesn't Mother Nature realize how busy today's eaters are? And why doesn't she figure out that limp-wristed modern Americans can't summon up the wrist-actions to actually cut up an apple?

I mean, how lazy do you have to be so that you can't cut up an apple into eight pieces, slice the seeds off, and put it on a plate? (The assumption is that for various reasons, say, dentures, braces, etc. you can't just wash it and bite in.)

Here is the stroke-by-stroke action:

[1] The first cut halves the apple. (1 stroke.)
[2] Lay each half down, and slice again (2 strokes.)
[3] For each quarter, two more strokes for eighths (4 strokes.)
[4] Hold each piece up, and slice the crap off (8 strokes.)

That's 15 strokes, and only because you want each piece to look nice.

The CC just wants to vent spleen at the fools.

A Note on Technique

So everyone rants on the French for their high-fat food. Bullshit!

There are two things that Americans (and all non-French, in general) need to learn. Technique counts!

Yes, there's a lot of butter in French cooking. But, there's also a lot of skimming in French cooking.

In order to understand my rather incoherent point, we need to understand a few basic chemistry facts.

Firstly, fat and water do not mix. Secondly, they will mix if you beat them up real fine. This is called a suspension. They haven't really mixed, it's a bit of an illusion. Think vinaigrette!

Anyway, French cooking calls for stuff to be heated on a very low flame after a point. This is very, very important.

The fat and the starch bind and rise to the top, and therein lies the skimming part. This is as true of classic French Onion Soup as of Bombay's Pav Bhaji.

Americans suck at patience, and in this specfic case, the lack of patience translates into fatty food. Heating your food at high heat breaks up the fat molecules, and suspends them into tiny globules into the water.

Anyway, the moral of the story is to enjoy your fat, and then heat stuff real slow (yes, it will test your patience), and skim away.

The French know a few things, and patience is one of them!

Today, I saw an almost perfect book concept. They had the "Collected Works of Joyce" in these little itty-bitty volumes. Perfect for slipping into a winter jacket.

Never mind the Joyce part. I think the idea is really cool. You can slip it into your pocket, and read it on the subway, etc. The shape and size of standard books is too inconvenient as far as both portability and jackets are concerned. (This is the main reason I like the concept of e-books; not the sucky-ass current implementations thereof nor the cryptographic aspect!)

If the books hadn't been on the "Gifts for Valentine" table, I would've bought them.

I mean, who the fuck buys Finnegans Wake (split up into itsy-bitsy pieces) for their valentine? (and that too for a fucking holiday invented by a greeting card company early last century, before Joyce wrote his masterpiece!)

It was packaged for a New York Irish audience, and they'll never read the books either! There was even a fucking shamrock on the covers.

Haul me to the porcelain goddess already!

On Orgies

So I woke up this morning feeling vaguely dissatisfied, and thought to myself that it had been a while since I'd indulged in an orgy. A blizzard was coming, and the thought of being sequestered in my apartment all alone was unbearable.

Naturally, I hauled my ass (sic) down to Union Square, home of the nubile NYU hipster-wannabes (and their aviator glasses) even though gentrification seems to be taking its toll on them.

After two hours of delicious delight, eyes glazed over with happiness, I hauled my treasure trove of books back to my apartment, Yes, it had been an orgiastic display of inconspicuous consumption (*) at Strand Bookstore.

Now, I'm ready to face the blizzard holed up in my apartment armed with everything from Buñuel to Baking. I even bought myself a book of food porn (**) on impulse, and another which is intelligent food porn (***)

My wallet feels lighter but I feel strangely euphoric!

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(*) Something most Wall Streeters wouldn't know about.

(**) Yes, this exists! Food porn is to food what regular (or irregular) porn is to regular (or irregular) sex. You should learn how to drop it in casual conversation like, "My friend has a fabulous kitchen but all she does is reheat pizzas because except for the cookbooks I gave her, all she owns is food porn." (No resemblance to living characters.)

(***) Intelligent food porn is porn, of course, but it may teach you a few new tricks (sic). Think of it as a Gastronomic Kama Sutra.