Pleasant House

juneberry pie

Here it is, the grand finale. Let’s get one thing straight: juneberries are a crop. These bushes yield so much fruit that you would need a crew of workers to pick, sort, and process all of them. Chelsea, her mom, and I decided to end the season with a bang and headed out the night before the fourth to collectively harvest as many berries as we could. We picked and bagged and picked and bagged until the heavy-duty plastic shopping bag I was carrying was so heavy it started to make my fingers numb. The next day we picked out the stems and leaves, made juneberry pancakes, baked a gigantic pie, froze more berries for pie, and stirred up a batch of jelly. While on a walk that morning past the scene of our berry raid, the same trees hung heavily with rich, purple fruit glistening in the sun as if they hadn’t even been touched and were begging us to pick more. In these times of deficit, it’s pretty cool to see such an organic surplus that is free for the picking. If only money grew on trees.

sorting the harvest

seemingly untouched juneberry bush, after the harvest

I’ll cut to the chase. I wasn’t asked back.

Well, not directly, anyway. As the chef darted out in a hurry, I was hunched over my toolkit in the corner, largely out of view. Part of me wanted to pop up and approach him, as he had done to me at the end of my previous two stages, to confirm that I would be returning the following week. But I hesitated.

This restaurant offered the potential for learning, and the validation of being asked back had been an ego boost during this fledgling stage of my career. I was gaining confidence with simple triumphs, like choosing the right container or completing a task quicker than expected.

Still, it just didn’t feel right.

The sous chef wanted to know if they’d see me again. “We could always find something for you to do,” he offered. “Just call us when you’re available.”

I thought about this for a minute. Truth was, it was time to move on, to keep pushing myself toward the ideal restaurant experience. More than a one-off stage, I’m looking for an environment where I will be challenged, engaged, and encouraged. Above all, I’m looking for a restaurant where the chef and I share the same food philosophy, and where camaraderie is pervasive. I could stay, I would learn, but it would be too convenient and safe.

I realize that turning down any opportunity, especially in such a competitive field, could be viewed as self-entitlement. I still have so much to learn; why should I expect to do more than make chocolate-chip cookies? (To be fair, I was also asked to make coconut cookies and madelines.) Why should I want to be asked to share my opinion, and why should the environment be anything other than a frenzied, stereotypical boys’ club? In my day-to-day job, I have been frustrated by coworkers with far less experience than me who have balked at doing less-glamorous tasks or getting their hands dirty. Why should I expect more?

tasty mistake

I have decided that there is a difference between self-entitlement and entitlement. With the former, someone feels she is owed something, often with very little effort required; the latter keeps the ego in check while searching for, and earning, every opportunity to be the best–and then achieving it.

I know where my heart is, and it’s emblazoned with a big, red “H”–for humble. My head is also in the right place. While I welcome every chance to do even the most basic task repeatedly until I master it, I also want, deserve, and expect to be challenged and to grow. While I likely will not be back to this specific restaurant, I can take pride in knowing that I could return, because I earned it, but that I instead choose to push myself to do more. I’m ready as ever to get my hands really dirty–and to have something to show for it.

06/13/09

With growing efficiency, I whipped through a series of recipes. I also did a variety of basic tasks, like rolling dough and filling tart shells, finding comfort in the repetition and a strange sense of inner competitiveness and pride in doing the next one better than the last. I really do love learning, and every movement is a new lesson. Now I need to be challenged and to feel the energy of a team.

Staff meal: On offer was a mysterious meat-filled ravioli, sans salad mix, the only evidence of which were a few stray leaves in the lettuces container; instead, I ate two plated desserts that the girls on the line deemed not-quite-perfect for customers. Lucky for me!

1. Let them eat (their own) cake.

No matter how elaborate or delicious your creations may be, some people will still want to bring lame cakes to your restaurant for their birthday. Stop trying to understand them; they don’t understand you.

2. Know your second move…

Before you finish the first. You won’t find yourself running for cover after the ball has already dropped.

3. It’s the simple pleasures.

No matter how many exotic ingredients you use or how inventive your staff may be, you will inevitably turn more heads in the kitchen when you make chocolate-chip cookies.

windmills on the plains

I will not rest until I glorify every Midwestern state that I can. And not to leave any states out, I will not rest until I glorify every state–there. A quick weekend trip, organized around a wedding, to the Kansas City area and central Kansas resulted in an amazing few days of friends, family, scenery, and food.

After landing in KC, Chelsea and I rented a car and headed into the center of the Sunflower state to visit her mom and grandpa. The air was thick and hot, and the countryside was vibrant and technicolor green. I needed a physical and mental break from the grind; as soon as we hit the road I cleared my head and opened it to all that was around me, which to the closed mind might not seem like much.

The rolling Flint Hills near Topeka got me thinking about the Wild West, Native Americans, and cattle drives. The best beef cattle still come from herds that graze these lands. Giant, space-age windmills dotted the landscape like ominous UFOs and sparked the idealistic side of my brain.

The landscape turned considerably more flat as we headed west, but the purple, yellow, and green swaths of wildflowers and prairie grasses made it the stuff of a masterpiece painting. This sight was particularly evident near the Cheyenne Bottoms wetlands, the country’s largest inland marsh, near Great Bend. I’d love to drive back later in the summer to see the giant fields of sunflowers.

Cheyenne Bottoms

Chelsea’s mom’s garden and her grandpa’s horseradish patch were growing by leaps and bounds. Chickens were warbling and putting out some of the prettiest eggs I have ever seen. Grandpa told stories about the old days as we cleaned horseradish and swatted mosquitos on his front porch.

digging horseradish

araucana chicken eggs

Grandpa

We headed back to “the city” to visit Chelsea’s hospitable aunt and uncle Chris and Miles, and to reconnect with an old childhood friend of mine over some KC-style barbecue at Gates, a KC institution that is pretty inspirational in the barbecue department.

Jason and Art

In the name of research we would eat barbecue not once, not twice, but three times on the trip: once at Gates, once in a Walmart parking lot, and once at the wedding. (After we returned to Chicago, we ate the leftover Gates ‘cue with whole-grain bread and grandpa’s horseradish, accompanied by lightly steamed green beans from Mom’s garden with a squeeze of lemon, cracked pepper, olive oil, and a sprinkling of truffle salt.)

Eating ‘cue:

1.

Gates

2.

Walmart parking lot

3.

the wedding

4.

the leftovers

The morning before the big wedding, Chris took us to the KC City Market, a year-round, indoor-outdoor farmer’s and ethnic market in downtown KC. I’ll be talking about this one for a long time. This market should serve as a model for any other city that is thinking about establishing one of its own. It reminded me of the new Ferry Plaza Farmer’s market in San Francisco but with a very Midwestern feel. The energy coming from the people there was contagious, and the excitement created by the market itself was overwhelming.

KC City Market

Finally, we headed to Chelsea’s cousin’s wedding, an hour and a half outside of KC at a big lake in the country. It was a beautiful outdoor wedding that managed to miss the rain when it needed to; we, on the other hand, missed a series of tornadoes that occurred around the same time back in Great Bend. The family made the appetizers, Chelsea’s aunt Mary Jane made the cake, and the barbecue was catered by Wyandot BBQ out of KC. It was nice to end our getaway by seeing so many happy people. Check out all the photos of the trip here. Thanks again, Chel, for coming into my life and inspiring me with this side of yours.

KC City Market

We had a couple hours to spare before the wedding, so Chel’s aunt Chris offered to take us downtown to the City Market, an everyday, year-round, ethnic and farmer’s market. There were so many people here and the energy was amazing. On hand were an amazing amount of fresh produce from area “truck farmers,” Asian greens from the local Laotian population, permanent produce stalls, eateries, and ethnic groceries with everything from fresh pita to Indian spices and canned ackees.

I wish we had more time to enjoy this market, but like a good meal the experience has left us wanting to come back for more.

black currants

Family, scenery, food, fun. Through the lush and rolling Flint Hills to the green, gold, and purple prairie, we headed to Chel’s childhood hometown, where her mom and grandpa live.

We toured the garden, lush from tons of rain, nibbled rich black currants, and dug up some of grandpa’s horseradish rootstock to plant in Illinois.

We had dinner at a local Vietnamese steak house where Chel’s brother Morgan worked in high school and spent the evening on grandpa’s porch, cleaning horseradish and talking about how spicy it is.

The next morning we headed to Kansas City with five dozen of grandpa’s pastel-hued araucana chicken eggs and a mess of fresh herbs for family.

It’s a little hot and humid, but it’s a beautiful time in this part of the Midwest. From the sound of it, folks back home in Chicago could use a little normalcy in the weather department, as they are being inundated with rain and pelted with hail.

UPDATE: We would miss a tornado that touched down the following day, just a mile and half from this garden.

Chelsea and I visited Mado last night to see what kind of local and seasonal goodies they had to offer. There was one dish (among others) that stood out and, to me, was symbolic of the seasonal and local movement that is building momentum and becoming more obvious in the places we eat and shop.

photo: in praise of sardines: creative commons license

The dish was a simple plate of cured smelts. This may not sound earth shattering or even mouthwatering to those who have grown up in the Midwest scarfing up the deep-fried version of these freshwater bait fish. But what’s important to those who are interested in taking full advantage of their local terroir is showing everyone with an open mind how versatile their local produce can be.

Eating relatively raw fish is not a new phenomenon. European immigrants brought pickling techniques to the Midwest and have used them to preserve locally caught fish. African-American fish houses in Chicago are well known for curing and smoking freshwater fish. Mado’s approach to preparing and serving local smelt is a Mediterranean one that speaks to the restaurant’s overall style of cooking. In certain parts of Italy, near the coast, fresh seafood is often simply prepared by salting it, dousing it in citrus, and serving it cold. This is called crudo–a sort of Mediterranean ceviche. The fish can be completely cured with salt and citrus, or just lightly salted and dressed with citrus and olive oil, and are meant to be consumed raw.

What interests me about a preparation like this is the idea that cooking can be a universal language. Instead of using words, we pair our local vocabulary of ingredients with our familiarity with another culture to speak that other culture’s language, which is then represented on the plate. Another example of this is exemplified by the folks at La Quercia, in Iowa, who are eloquently transforming their Midwestern pigs into world-class prosciutto–meat crudo, if you will. Mike Gebert, of the Sky Full of Bacon documentary series,  has a great way of capturing this philosophy on video with his “Prosciutto di Iowa” piece. The fact that both the smelts and the pork are transformed by the simple addition of salt and time serves to remind us that we do have pristine ingredients in our region, and how through very little adulteration, a little skill, and a little (relatively speaking) time we can showcase them in such a luxurious way.

Even if everything on the smelt plate is not “local local,” like lemon, sea salt, and olive oil, they can be sourced from the same country and are, arguably, not entirely necessary to articulate the idea of a Mediterranean crudo. The dish also was to have included cattail shoots, which would have bolstered the local slant even more, most likely lending a favorable crunch to the dish. But the identity to me was clear: Midwestern crudo, global in spirit, local incarnate.

Calçots a la graella 2007

photo by bernatff: flickr creative commons

On my second trip to the farmer’s market this spring I snatched up some red, white, and yellow spring onions that were stacked in giant piles. Inspired by the Calcotada festivals, which take place in Catalonia every spring, I set out to treat these pungent bunches of onions in a similar fashion.

red, white, and yellow spring onions, Daly Plaza farmer's market

My urban grill is of the propane variety, so in order to achieve a wood-grilled flavor I simply toss some wood chips on the grates and close the grill lid so that smoke permeates whatever I am cooking.

The technique for these spring onions is quite simple. First, trim the root hairs from the onions, lop off some of the excess green tops, and rinse the onions. Then, douse them in olive oil, season with sea salt, and place them on a preheated grill. Add some wood chips to the grill, and close the lid. Let the onions get nice and charred, then turn them over to get an equal char on the other side.

"wood grilling" spring onions

At this point, the onions will have taken on a bit of a smoked tinge and will be al dente. The final step to finishing this treat will transform the onions into an unctuous state of smoky, sweet, salty, and melting. If this sounds good to you then let us proceed.

Wrap the onions in a neat pouch of aluminum foil and return them to the grill to steam for a little while. When you remove the pouch and open it, you will be inundated with a sweet-and-smoky aroma and the sight of the tender bulbs will speak to you, without even having tasted them. If you follow this technique with farm fresh spring onions, you will be rewarded with incomparable tenderness from the bulb to the green.

It’s up to you how you choose to serve them. They are delicious both hot and at room temperature. You can embellish them, like we did with a romesco-type sauce; Chelsea made our sauce with tangy peppadews. The onions are great as a nibbler or a perfect accompaniment to pretty much any meat, fish, or fowl that you decide to grill alongside them. We enjoyed ours as part of a tapas-style brunch with a Spanish tortilla and farmer’s market vegetables, as well as with homemade tacos al pastor that evening for dinner.

farmer's market plate with "wood grilled" spring onions

I have touched on Mugaritz restaurant in previous posts, but after watching a movie that Mugaritz recently posted on its Facebook page, I couldn’t help but mentally revisit our experience at this amazing, 2 Michelin-starred restaurant in rural Basque country. It is fitting that Mugaritz made a movie about a day in its life because I still think about that one day that Chelsea and I spent there, from beginning to end.

When you eat at a good restaurant, you can be truly overwhelmed by the experience. The food, drink, service, and surroundings can be breathtaking and delicious. You live for a moment like that. I walked away from Mugaritz satisfied and still thinking about it as I would a great movie. But there was something deeper to this experience, and over time, I would continue to digest and decipher its meaning.

I came away with the impression that Mugaritz has a deep connection to culture, “country,” and nature, and these are the things that inspire the restaurant. That inspiration is translated onto the plate; it is up to you to interpret it. One interpretation could be, “what a great meal, that was really delicious.” Another might be, “I really enjoyed that, in addition to tasting really good, the food was incredibly sophisticated and humble at the same time.” My biggest personal “ah ha” moment came more than a year after my meal at Mugaritz, while thumbing through Chef Andoni Aduriz’s book, entitled Clorofila. This book highlights the flora and fauna, in an almost naturalistic, field-guide fashion, that Aduriz forages for near the restaurant and the dishes in which they become a part.

What makes this film so worthwhile is that it IS dramatic. So, too, was my experience and impression of Mugaritz, and also my experience in Spain and the Basque country overall. If you watch this film you may feel the need to experience the energy of this country and region for yourself in order to understand it.

Life-changing moments can happen for a reason, and if it weren’t for certain people I may not have had the opportunity to experience some of them. For this reason I owe Chef Roland gratitude for recommending Mugaritz as a stop on our Basque tour and for introducing us to Linda Milagros Violago, the sommelier of Mugaritz and our friend. Linda is pictured in the slideshow above.