I haven't really been active here for a good long while, so I guess I'll have another go of it..I'm feeling chatty. For now, a couple of pics.
That's some of us after the "Walk of the Dead" zombiewalk at the Monroeville Mall (site of Dawn of the Dead). I hear that we set a Guinness World Record for largest assembly of people dressed like zombies.
An old picture from the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette review of my restaurant. That's me on the left, holding Saumon au Beurre Blanc de Ciboulette with Saffron Rice Pilaf and Ratatouille, my dance partner Chris in the middle, and the owner, Frenchy McFroggerson, holding Vol au Vent aux Escargots, with Pernod Cream Sauce.
That's some of us after the "Walk of the Dead" zombiewalk at the Monroeville Mall (site of Dawn of the Dead). I hear that we set a Guinness World Record for largest assembly of people dressed like zombies.
An old picture from the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette review of my restaurant. That's me on the left, holding Saumon au Beurre Blanc de Ciboulette with Saffron Rice Pilaf and Ratatouille, my dance partner Chris in the middle, and the owner, Frenchy McFroggerson, holding Vol au Vent aux Escargots, with Pernod Cream Sauce.
One slow night at my restaurant, we were digging in the back of the freezer just to see what was there when, much to our surprise, we discovered SUICIDE CHICKEN.
Our acquaintaince with the doomed fowl began amiably enough. Mr. Chicken felt somewhat "less than fresh" after his long, long stay in the freezer, so we showed him to the loo, where he took a bath and relieved his chicken bladder.
We then engaged in a bit of whimsy: posing Suicide Chicken on our owner's car.
Something about this seemed to depress Suicide Chicken, however. Perhaps some of his relatives had been killed while attempting to cross the road. He retired to the bathroom mirror to ruminate upon his miserable life.
He then seemed to make a decision. He asked to be shown to the office, where he perched on the owner's computer and looked up suicide methods.
His plans made, Suicide Chicken calmly smoked his last cigarette and prepared to die.
Finally, with some help from a server's tie, Suicide Chicken hung himself by his fucking neck in the urinal.
Actually, that's not the real end of the Suicide Chicken saga. We tried to help him die by fire out back in the alley, but 1) it was way too dark for good pictures to come out, and 2) that motherfucker would not light for love or money. Seriously, we doused him with Cognac and held a blowtorch to him for like 5 minutes with no result whatsoever except for a lovely fried chicken smell. One of the servers even breathed fire on him. Nothing. So, suffice it to say, if we'd had a few lights, and if the chicken wasn't wet and half frozen, you'd be looking at some wicked sweet pictures right now. Oh, and we forgot the chicken outside that night, leaving a feast for the rats. The remains the next day were not remotely fun to dispose of.
And on an absolutely unrelated note, I saw this sign in a supermarket recently:
It's a crappy picture, but the second line on that sign is "NEW AGE BEVERAGES"
I don't know what a "new age" beverage is. I don't WANT to know what a "new age" beverage is. It just makes me a little sad that this sign exists.
Our acquaintaince with the doomed fowl began amiably enough. Mr. Chicken felt somewhat "less than fresh" after his long, long stay in the freezer, so we showed him to the loo, where he took a bath and relieved his chicken bladder.
We then engaged in a bit of whimsy: posing Suicide Chicken on our owner's car.
Something about this seemed to depress Suicide Chicken, however. Perhaps some of his relatives had been killed while attempting to cross the road. He retired to the bathroom mirror to ruminate upon his miserable life.
He then seemed to make a decision. He asked to be shown to the office, where he perched on the owner's computer and looked up suicide methods.
His plans made, Suicide Chicken calmly smoked his last cigarette and prepared to die.
Finally, with some help from a server's tie, Suicide Chicken hung himself by his fucking neck in the urinal.
Actually, that's not the real end of the Suicide Chicken saga. We tried to help him die by fire out back in the alley, but 1) it was way too dark for good pictures to come out, and 2) that motherfucker would not light for love or money. Seriously, we doused him with Cognac and held a blowtorch to him for like 5 minutes with no result whatsoever except for a lovely fried chicken smell. One of the servers even breathed fire on him. Nothing. So, suffice it to say, if we'd had a few lights, and if the chicken wasn't wet and half frozen, you'd be looking at some wicked sweet pictures right now. Oh, and we forgot the chicken outside that night, leaving a feast for the rats. The remains the next day were not remotely fun to dispose of.
And on an absolutely unrelated note, I saw this sign in a supermarket recently:
It's a crappy picture, but the second line on that sign is "NEW AGE BEVERAGES"
I don't know what a "new age" beverage is. I don't WANT to know what a "new age" beverage is. It just makes me a little sad that this sign exists.
Not that a whole hell of a lot of people are paying attention here, but there is a new update in the works. It will tell the tale of my restaurant's recent press (and I'm just enough of a dork to be stoked about getting my picture in the paper, especially since it's me cooking), as well as the heartbreaking saga of.....Suicide Chicken?
So I started a new job a couple of weeks ago, and it seems to be working out ok. I was just so fucking bored slinging hash at what is basically a glorified diner, so I took a job at a new French bistro. It's an absurdly small kitchen, with only two stations, but I guess it's adequate to the task of a 40-ish seat floor.
The owner is a slightly eccentric French guy who constantly has one of those ear-mounted cell phones that make you look like Locutus of Borg
(his inexplicable ringtone, "Hollaback Girl," is the subject of much speculation and amusement), but he's very laid-back, knowledgable about food, and genuinely wants us to learn as much as possible while working there. This last is nice, since neither I nor my dance partner (the only two full-time cookies in the joint) know jack shit about French food.
Interestingly, more than half of the employees are former employees of my last kitchen, so I was already friends with the majority of the staff before I started.
The food is so good and honest. Everything is real--very little is frozen, almost everything we use is bought fresh in the Strip markets daily, EVERYTHING is made from scratch. We slam through more Bordeaux in a week than we used in 3 months at my old job.
The other day, I made veal demi-glace from scratch. All told it took more than 24 hours.
Goddamn, I finally feel like a cook.
The owner is a slightly eccentric French guy who constantly has one of those ear-mounted cell phones that make you look like Locutus of Borg
(his inexplicable ringtone, "Hollaback Girl," is the subject of much speculation and amusement), but he's very laid-back, knowledgable about food, and genuinely wants us to learn as much as possible while working there. This last is nice, since neither I nor my dance partner (the only two full-time cookies in the joint) know jack shit about French food.
Interestingly, more than half of the employees are former employees of my last kitchen, so I was already friends with the majority of the staff before I started.
The food is so good and honest. Everything is real--very little is frozen, almost everything we use is bought fresh in the Strip markets daily, EVERYTHING is made from scratch. We slam through more Bordeaux in a week than we used in 3 months at my old job.
The other day, I made veal demi-glace from scratch. All told it took more than 24 hours.
Goddamn, I finally feel like a cook.
Two tidbits from work.
1) A (admittedly quite pretty) server was working a wedding rehersal dinner table last night, when the fucking GROOM passes her a note that says "You have gorgeous eyes. Call me. 412-XXX-XXXX." I'm not a professional marriage counselor or anything, but something tells me that these two should NOT be getting married.
2) Another server has a "Nazi Purse." Apparently, it belonged to the grandmother of a friend of a friend (who is Jewish). Apparently his grandmother was a Nazi, and by Nazi, I mean that she lived in Germany in the 1930s and 40s, and was an enthusiastic supporter of National Socialism. So, the bitch croaks, and the FoaF calls up everybody he knows and says, "Hey, the bitch is dead..if you want anything she ever owned just come over and take it." So, the server ended up with a nice leather purse, several Hermes scarfs (I have no fucking clue what this means, but she said it in a way that means that they're expensive), and some other shit. And, yes, she refers to the purse as her "Nazi Purse" in casual conversation.
It occurs to me that I never include any kind of image with my posts, so, for no particular reason, here's a picture of Jesco White.
Jesco is a god among men, whose "mountain dancing" skills are legendary, as is his propensity for "raising hell." He is from very near my hometown, and you can find out all about him in the Jacob Young documentary Dancing Outlaw.
Later
1) A (admittedly quite pretty) server was working a wedding rehersal dinner table last night, when the fucking GROOM passes her a note that says "You have gorgeous eyes. Call me. 412-XXX-XXXX." I'm not a professional marriage counselor or anything, but something tells me that these two should NOT be getting married.
2) Another server has a "Nazi Purse." Apparently, it belonged to the grandmother of a friend of a friend (who is Jewish). Apparently his grandmother was a Nazi, and by Nazi, I mean that she lived in Germany in the 1930s and 40s, and was an enthusiastic supporter of National Socialism. So, the bitch croaks, and the FoaF calls up everybody he knows and says, "Hey, the bitch is dead..if you want anything she ever owned just come over and take it." So, the server ended up with a nice leather purse, several Hermes scarfs (I have no fucking clue what this means, but she said it in a way that means that they're expensive), and some other shit. And, yes, she refers to the purse as her "Nazi Purse" in casual conversation.
It occurs to me that I never include any kind of image with my posts, so, for no particular reason, here's a picture of Jesco White.
Jesco is a god among men, whose "mountain dancing" skills are legendary, as is his propensity for "raising hell." He is from very near my hometown, and you can find out all about him in the Jacob Young documentary Dancing Outlaw.
Later
So I started working on my home bar today.
I'm not building one or anything--just stocking up on liquor. I couldn't really do that with her here, cause of money and whatnot.
Just made myself a double white russian..god it feels good to be single.
I'm not building one or anything--just stocking up on liquor. I couldn't really do that with her here, cause of money and whatnot.
Just made myself a double white russian..god it feels good to be single.
alright..so no particular reason for this post..i mean..who reads this, right?
but to let the world know..the girlfriend and i are no more
moved on to greener pastures i s'pose
if anyone should happen across this..thank you for reading..
i imagine this space will get a lot more interesting without the old hammer and sickle around..
but to let the world know..the girlfriend and i are no more
moved on to greener pastures i s'pose
if anyone should happen across this..thank you for reading..
i imagine this space will get a lot more interesting without the old hammer and sickle around..
Seems kind of pointless to be writing this, really. But everything has to start somewhere, so suppose my odyssey will begin with this pathetic little bit. Happy trails.
MAY 2007
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
APRIL 2007
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
MARCH 2007
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
FEBRUARY 2007