I'm not sure if you know this or not, but The King does NOT like it when you use a cell phone at one of his concerts. Three nights ago I was on the front row, right under the King himself, when I made the mistake of pulling out my phone. I was going to send a text, maybe shoot a quick update to Twitter, when BAM! The King called me out. In fact, he took my phone away from me. Oh sure, he made it look like some playful banter to the rest of the audience, but I could see through those tinted shades and I tell you now, I saw anger. I mean, why else would he stop the show unless I had committed some major faux pas? I really don't see what the big deal was...after all, loads of people (including me-I got some great shots) were taking pictures. How could all those flashes not be distracting?
On top of that, I happen to have been seated next to his manager-slash-personal assistant type person, and she jumps all over my case too! What was that about? I tried to explain to her that it's the f'n King! Elvis Presley! Who wouldn't want to see him once, even if you're not the world's biggest fan? Hoping to quell her rage, I politely informed her I had been to Graceland, but she wasn't impressed in the least. She acted as if I didn't deserve to be there. We made amends though. After the show, my mom and I were treated to a shrimp dinner with the man himself. I would love to comment on the food, but I woke up before I even got a chance to sit down.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Hungry Kid
What is a pork shake? It is, apparently, a pork broth reduced slightly with a few chunks of shredded pork thrown in for good measure. Let me explain. Before you can fry pig ears, you have to slice them into strips then boil them in chicken stock or water. As a result, you're left with (slightly) tender pig ears and a crazy-flavorful pork stock.
In the kitchen where I work, one of the things we were using this pork stock for was to re-heat shredded pork for one of the appetizers. To do this, we kept a small saucepan on the corner of the grill all night. This way, the stock would stay hot enough to warm up the meat, yet cool enough that it wouldn't boil. By the end of the night, it had all manner of leftover swine product in it and had been reducing, ever so slightly, all night.
Enter that Hungry Kid.
A deal was offered: that Hungry Kid could have a biscuit and all the leftover pork he wanted...but he had to drink the rest of the pork stock to get it. He had to drink the pork shake. Of course, he agreed. A pint glass was procured and chilled. Then, for nothing more than a biscuit and some meat, I watched as a young man drank a pint of pork. As a bonus, if he chugged the entire pint in less than eight seconds, he would also receive a Miller High Life. I imagine it was the best beer of his life.
In the kitchen where I work, one of the things we were using this pork stock for was to re-heat shredded pork for one of the appetizers. To do this, we kept a small saucepan on the corner of the grill all night. This way, the stock would stay hot enough to warm up the meat, yet cool enough that it wouldn't boil. By the end of the night, it had all manner of leftover swine product in it and had been reducing, ever so slightly, all night.
Enter that Hungry Kid.
A deal was offered: that Hungry Kid could have a biscuit and all the leftover pork he wanted...but he had to drink the rest of the pork stock to get it. He had to drink the pork shake. Of course, he agreed. A pint glass was procured and chilled. Then, for nothing more than a biscuit and some meat, I watched as a young man drank a pint of pork. As a bonus, if he chugged the entire pint in less than eight seconds, he would also receive a Miller High Life. I imagine it was the best beer of his life.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Hungry Kid: Prelude & Backstory
Part I
Ok, where to start? I suppose I'll start, as they say, at the beginning. I work in the kitchen at a white tablecloth, upscale restaurant. We do our best to use as many local ingredients as possible, cook with the seasons, and make as much as we can ourselves. One of these things is stock. Stock is the workhorse and foundation of any good kitchen, and ours is no exception. It's a beautiful thing. A bad, greasy stock is still a good thing, and a great stock is something approaching ethereal. I won't wax too poetic on this subject though, because everything about stock that needs to be said has already been said, so I refer you to the masters. Here is what Anthony Bourdain said about stock in Kitchen Confidential:
"Stock is the backbone of good cooking...Life without stock is barely worth living."
In his awesome book about the fundamentals of cookery, The Elements of Cooking, here is what Michael Ruhlman has to say:
"In the creation of good food, no preparation comes close to matching the power of fresh stock. It's called le fond, "the foundation," in the French kitchen for a reason: stock lays the groundwork and will be the support structure for much of what's to come. Stock is the first lesson taught in the kitchens of the best cooking schools for a reason. The finest restaurants in the country are making stock all but continuously; were it not for this fact, they would not be the best restaurants in the country."
So that should be that. Stock is wonderful, but it's not the type of thing to just pour in a glass and chug...
Part II
Moving right along, another backbone of any good restaurant is it's WA's. Waiter's Assistants are the ones bringing you your bread, crumbing your table, making your cappuccino, and around a million other tasks you probably don't even think about. At the restaurant I work at, we have one in particular that is the point of this whole thing. He's still in high school, is only 17 or 18, and does a damn fine job. His hard work, however, is consistently overshadowed by his hunger. The kid is always starving and will eat anything you hand him. It wasn't long before he was tagged with the moniker "that Hungry Kid." The nickname stuck and he's currently known as either "Hungry" or the simplified "HK."
I honestly don't recall what started it, but a month or two ago, we started trying to get HK to eat a whole mess of butter. He finally acquiesced and ate the most massive spoonful of butter I have ever personally witnessed. He was rewarded with a Miller High Life for his efforts. As might be apparent, the professional kitchen at times might seem immature, or more like a high school locker room than a place of business. Perhaps it's a way of dealing with the potentially grueling hours or the relentless pace, stress and pressure of the job. For whatever reason, HK eating the butter became the stuff of legend and quickly deteriorated into a game of "What Will He Eat Next?" Well, tonight, we found out. That Hungry Kid drank a pork shake.
Ok, where to start? I suppose I'll start, as they say, at the beginning. I work in the kitchen at a white tablecloth, upscale restaurant. We do our best to use as many local ingredients as possible, cook with the seasons, and make as much as we can ourselves. One of these things is stock. Stock is the workhorse and foundation of any good kitchen, and ours is no exception. It's a beautiful thing. A bad, greasy stock is still a good thing, and a great stock is something approaching ethereal. I won't wax too poetic on this subject though, because everything about stock that needs to be said has already been said, so I refer you to the masters. Here is what Anthony Bourdain said about stock in Kitchen Confidential:
"Stock is the backbone of good cooking...Life without stock is barely worth living."
In his awesome book about the fundamentals of cookery, The Elements of Cooking, here is what Michael Ruhlman has to say:
"In the creation of good food, no preparation comes close to matching the power of fresh stock. It's called le fond, "the foundation," in the French kitchen for a reason: stock lays the groundwork and will be the support structure for much of what's to come. Stock is the first lesson taught in the kitchens of the best cooking schools for a reason. The finest restaurants in the country are making stock all but continuously; were it not for this fact, they would not be the best restaurants in the country."
So that should be that. Stock is wonderful, but it's not the type of thing to just pour in a glass and chug...
Part II
Moving right along, another backbone of any good restaurant is it's WA's. Waiter's Assistants are the ones bringing you your bread, crumbing your table, making your cappuccino, and around a million other tasks you probably don't even think about. At the restaurant I work at, we have one in particular that is the point of this whole thing. He's still in high school, is only 17 or 18, and does a damn fine job. His hard work, however, is consistently overshadowed by his hunger. The kid is always starving and will eat anything you hand him. It wasn't long before he was tagged with the moniker "that Hungry Kid." The nickname stuck and he's currently known as either "Hungry" or the simplified "HK."
I honestly don't recall what started it, but a month or two ago, we started trying to get HK to eat a whole mess of butter. He finally acquiesced and ate the most massive spoonful of butter I have ever personally witnessed. He was rewarded with a Miller High Life for his efforts. As might be apparent, the professional kitchen at times might seem immature, or more like a high school locker room than a place of business. Perhaps it's a way of dealing with the potentially grueling hours or the relentless pace, stress and pressure of the job. For whatever reason, HK eating the butter became the stuff of legend and quickly deteriorated into a game of "What Will He Eat Next?" Well, tonight, we found out. That Hungry Kid drank a pork shake.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
The Big Sandwich
Where was I? Oh yeah, I had just lost the mail bet to Craig and had to make the Big Sandwich. There shouldn't be a whole load of mystery about the Big Sandwich. It is precisely what it sounds like: one enormous sandwich. Dictionary.com defines a sandwich as "two or more slices of bread or the like with a layer of meat, fish, cheese, etc., between each pair." I want now to officially opine that, in my uninformed and generally misguided worldview, sandwiches have to be one of the most popular things to eat in the country. Using the above defininition, hamburgers fall into the sandwich category and we all know how much Americans love hamburgers, right? Right, America? Accordingly, I am doing my patriotic duty and loving sandwiches. So, on occasion, I have been known to make a large one and eat it.The recipe for the Big Sandwich is simple: take a large piece of bread, cut it in half and toast it, stuff whatever you want in the middle, eat, enjoy, talk about how much you love the Big Sandwich. I mix up the meat I use in mine, sometimes it's pork tenderloin, sometimes it's london broil. One thing that the Big Sandwich must have, however, is some variety of sauce or condiment. And it should be understood that the Big Sandwich can get messy. A good Big Sandwich will have sauce running out the back of it as you lift it up for that delicious first bite. A great Big Sandwich will have sauce running out the back and sides when you hoist it. I prefer a good aioli for maximum flavor and messiness. Horseradish for the beef, tabasco for the pork. I've used spinach and I've rocked with arugula. I like some braised onions on mine, but if you don't want the apples in your pork Big Sandwich, leave 'em off, people! It's not a big deal, the point is sandwiches rule and Big Sandwiches not only rule more, they rule more quickly and more efficiently. So go! Get out there and make a Big Sandwich, already!
The Mail Bet II
I lost the bet and have never felt less triumphant than I did on night 2 when I opened the mailbox to see the letter I myself had sent two days prior from a spot not 10 feet away. It all worked out though. I accused the roommate of cheating because he refused to agree that Sunday shouldn't have counted as a day. Incidentally, whether or not Sunday counted as a day or not had nothing to do with the outcome. I still lost. However, I was looking to weasel out of paying up and this was the idea that came to me.
In the end, we compromised. I agreed to make a Big Sandwich, as well as go to the grocery store and get everything we needed for said Big Sandwich, but I would use the money I owed Craig to buy said stuff. What's the Big Sandwich you ask? More on that soon.
In the end, we compromised. I agreed to make a Big Sandwich, as well as go to the grocery store and get everything we needed for said Big Sandwich, but I would use the money I owed Craig to buy said stuff. What's the Big Sandwich you ask? More on that soon.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
The Mail Bet
Courtesy of my insurance company, some super groovy address labels were waiting for me in yonder mailbox when I got off work tonight. And by "super groovy" I mean abysmal and like something a caricature of a grandmother would use in a bad, cliched movie. Which is to say, I loved them. Immediately I decided I would send as many envelopes as I could with a small piece of paper in each, bearing but a single phrase: "How do you like my new addresses labels?"
So I turned to my roommate Craig in a fever, asking him "Whose address do you know?" Between the two of us, we couldn't come up with a single address we knew. After briefly considering sending some type of mail with my new and flowery address label firmly positioned in the upper left-hand corner to a random name in the phone book, conversation turned to sending mail to ourselves. More to the point, conversation turned to how long it would take for a letter mailed here from the apartment complex to go to the Post Office then return to the apartment complex in our mailbox. I set an over/under of three days (the day the letter was mailed counts as day one) and Craig took the under with his guess being two days. The letter should go in the mail first thing tomorrow. We have 10 whole dollars riding on this. So in three days time, I assure you I'll be living it large. With 10 whole dollars.
So I turned to my roommate Craig in a fever, asking him "Whose address do you know?" Between the two of us, we couldn't come up with a single address we knew. After briefly considering sending some type of mail with my new and flowery address label firmly positioned in the upper left-hand corner to a random name in the phone book, conversation turned to sending mail to ourselves. More to the point, conversation turned to how long it would take for a letter mailed here from the apartment complex to go to the Post Office then return to the apartment complex in our mailbox. I set an over/under of three days (the day the letter was mailed counts as day one) and Craig took the under with his guess being two days. The letter should go in the mail first thing tomorrow. We have 10 whole dollars riding on this. So in three days time, I assure you I'll be living it large. With 10 whole dollars.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Project EIN(STEIN): A Status Update
Precisely one month ago, on Monday February 9th, I signed up and started this blog, started a play by play of my life on Twitter, and finally got my FaceBook profile updated; all of this was a part of what I was then calling Experiments in Nerdery (EIN), since renamed Project EIN(STEIN). It had come to my attention that while I had been an internet devotee for a while, the rest of the world was all on the same websites and I was on none of them. So I signed up to see what would happen when I joined the rest of the world to "network."
Since then I've began putting photos on Flickr, joined Classmates.com, LinkedIn, and tried my damn best to link them all together. Other than staying up too late playing on all these websites, nothing much has happened. My life hasn't changed, I haven't been discovered as a virtuoso talent at writing and photography (though I am...you'll see), and I currently am not boasting a single FaceBook friend. Not that I consider Project EIN(STEIN) a failure. I like having an online depository for all my stuff, and I actually am enjoying the thought that if someone finds this blog, they can likewise view my Twitter feed or FaceBook profile. These "networking" sites, I believe, are rapidly changing from a place for Miley Cyrus to post half naked pictures to a real community. Employers are looking at these sites now, not only to recruit but to check on applicants. I haven't begun delving into all the travel websites, but they are a fantastic tool for planning trips and even finding places to stay or meeting local guides. So Project EIN(STEIN) has not been a failure. I am going to continue putting pictures on Flickr and waiting for the right person to see them, I might actually seek out some folks I know on FaceBook, I'm definitely going to continue my non-stop stream of inane dribble on this blog, and I'll continue telling the world what I'm doing and thinking via Twitter. Time will tell if anyone is listening.
Since then I've began putting photos on Flickr, joined Classmates.com, LinkedIn, and tried my damn best to link them all together. Other than staying up too late playing on all these websites, nothing much has happened. My life hasn't changed, I haven't been discovered as a virtuoso talent at writing and photography (though I am...you'll see), and I currently am not boasting a single FaceBook friend. Not that I consider Project EIN(STEIN) a failure. I like having an online depository for all my stuff, and I actually am enjoying the thought that if someone finds this blog, they can likewise view my Twitter feed or FaceBook profile. These "networking" sites, I believe, are rapidly changing from a place for Miley Cyrus to post half naked pictures to a real community. Employers are looking at these sites now, not only to recruit but to check on applicants. I haven't begun delving into all the travel websites, but they are a fantastic tool for planning trips and even finding places to stay or meeting local guides. So Project EIN(STEIN) has not been a failure. I am going to continue putting pictures on Flickr and waiting for the right person to see them, I might actually seek out some folks I know on FaceBook, I'm definitely going to continue my non-stop stream of inane dribble on this blog, and I'll continue telling the world what I'm doing and thinking via Twitter. Time will tell if anyone is listening.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Superhero, Supercharged, or Super-screwed?
So one of three things is happening: I'm either a superhero, or I've become the mysterious source of an electromagnetic field even I don't understand, or my new car and my new shoes are in league against me. Let me explain...
Around two months ago, I was involved in a three car wreck, completely totaling my car (a "total loss" as the insurance folks would say). In one of those strokes of luck that comes around less than Haley's Comet, I had just purchased a new car and somehow wasn't driving it that day. So it would seem everything was going to work out and return to normal: no one was injured, the wreck wasn't my fault so the insurance check I received could be applied towards the new car's payments, and life would ceaselessly march on without incident. Or would it?
Flash forward a few weeks from the accident. I was going to work. Or I was going to get some beer. Or buy groceries. Or I was going to a crackhouse downtown to smoke PCP until my eyes bled. It doesn't matter where I was going, it was what happened as I reached down to open the door that is important. I got shocked. Bad. This was no mere tingle you get from wearing your fuzzy rabbit slippers around the house then touching a doorknob. This hurt. And I could see it. One time in college, my roommate and I were kicking the hacky sack around our living room and, whilst lunging to save the hack, I accidentally kicked one of those three extra outlet things we had plugged in. I swear blue flame shot out of the wall for a whole foot. The shock I received that day by my car wasn't that extreme, but it's definitely in the same ballpark. And it kept happening. Leaving work, leaving the gas station, leaving the grocery store, leaving the crackhouse, I continued getting shocked and it continued to hurt.
Naturally, I began to wonder why this new affliction was being visited on me. It was then that I began to formulate a few theories. What I came up with was the three possibilities above. I would like, if you'll indulge me, to discuss each one in the hopes that we can reach some conclusion together. So...
It occurred to me that I might be a superhero just a few days ago when I was unlocking my mail box. There was an audible pop and a blue light flashed as I put my little key to the lock. It was the same electric shock that had been happening as I touched my car. I know now how Doc Brown felt when he first conceived of the flux capacitor. For at that moment I accepted my role as a superhero. It all became clear: Somehow my wreck had bestowed upon me the power of electricity. Aren't most superheroes and villains born out of a dramatic or traumatic event? Surely a near death experience such as a car wreck has the right ingredients to spawn a super power, right? Obviously my power is being charged with electricity. Like an eel. Which leads to all kinds of decisions...what will my name be? How will I dress? Should I try to work cheesy electric jokes into my conversations like Vincent Price did when he played the Egg guy villain in the original Batman show? Maybe I could be the dreaded Electric Eel guy, slithering around with a faint phosphorous light kicking ass and fighting crime. Or, maybe I'm not a superhero. After all, who's ever heard of a superhero that doesn't know how to harness his own power? For all I know, I'm not Eel Guy at all, but something lame like the Human Generator: bound by duty to travel the night providing power to hurricane victims. It might be time to look at other possibilities.
So I'm not a superhero. I've accepted that now. But from whence and why has this mysterious electric field decided to surround me? Why does my mailbox and car continually try to shock me? I don't recall growing up directly under power lines and to the best of my knowledge, my current apartment isn't built on a former nuclear test site. Perhaps the ghost of Louie the Lightning Bug is trying to warn me of an impending tragedy? Who knows...there simply doesn't seem to be a logical explanation to this whole thing. Unless...
I guess it's that time to explore the possibility that nothing supernatural or superhero-esque is going on. Let's talk about my shoes. A few weeks ago (right around the time the shocks began, come to think of it) I bought a new pair of shoes. They're pretty plain looking: grey slip-ons with a fuzzy, fleece-lined interior. They're super comfortable, especially the fuzzy insides; it's like wearing house shoes all the time. They're almost as comfortable as the seats in my new car. Come to think of it, they're kind of fuzzy too. I haven't gotten completely used to them yet, so I generally have to squirm around a bit before settling in. All the squirming sometimes makes little crackling noises and makes my hair stand up. But what can all that have to do with me being electrified? Let me think...so I have fuzzy shoes, fuzzy car seats, I seem to get shocked and shock other things directly after being in the car...crap. I thought I had it but I lost it. There's obviously no connection here. Now that I give it more than two seconds of thought, it actually seems rather absurd that I would have even considered it possible that my shoes or the fabric in my car could be the source of friction, building up static electricity in a kinetic state, waiting to come into contact with a metal surface. I mean, put the dunce hat on me because that makes no sense at all!
I guess I was right the first time. I'm a Superhero.
Around two months ago, I was involved in a three car wreck, completely totaling my car (a "total loss" as the insurance folks would say). In one of those strokes of luck that comes around less than Haley's Comet, I had just purchased a new car and somehow wasn't driving it that day. So it would seem everything was going to work out and return to normal: no one was injured, the wreck wasn't my fault so the insurance check I received could be applied towards the new car's payments, and life would ceaselessly march on without incident. Or would it?
Flash forward a few weeks from the accident. I was going to work. Or I was going to get some beer. Or buy groceries. Or I was going to a crackhouse downtown to smoke PCP until my eyes bled. It doesn't matter where I was going, it was what happened as I reached down to open the door that is important. I got shocked. Bad. This was no mere tingle you get from wearing your fuzzy rabbit slippers around the house then touching a doorknob. This hurt. And I could see it. One time in college, my roommate and I were kicking the hacky sack around our living room and, whilst lunging to save the hack, I accidentally kicked one of those three extra outlet things we had plugged in. I swear blue flame shot out of the wall for a whole foot. The shock I received that day by my car wasn't that extreme, but it's definitely in the same ballpark. And it kept happening. Leaving work, leaving the gas station, leaving the grocery store, leaving the crackhouse, I continued getting shocked and it continued to hurt.
Naturally, I began to wonder why this new affliction was being visited on me. It was then that I began to formulate a few theories. What I came up with was the three possibilities above. I would like, if you'll indulge me, to discuss each one in the hopes that we can reach some conclusion together. So...
It occurred to me that I might be a superhero just a few days ago when I was unlocking my mail box. There was an audible pop and a blue light flashed as I put my little key to the lock. It was the same electric shock that had been happening as I touched my car. I know now how Doc Brown felt when he first conceived of the flux capacitor. For at that moment I accepted my role as a superhero. It all became clear: Somehow my wreck had bestowed upon me the power of electricity. Aren't most superheroes and villains born out of a dramatic or traumatic event? Surely a near death experience such as a car wreck has the right ingredients to spawn a super power, right? Obviously my power is being charged with electricity. Like an eel. Which leads to all kinds of decisions...what will my name be? How will I dress? Should I try to work cheesy electric jokes into my conversations like Vincent Price did when he played the Egg guy villain in the original Batman show? Maybe I could be the dreaded Electric Eel guy, slithering around with a faint phosphorous light kicking ass and fighting crime. Or, maybe I'm not a superhero. After all, who's ever heard of a superhero that doesn't know how to harness his own power? For all I know, I'm not Eel Guy at all, but something lame like the Human Generator: bound by duty to travel the night providing power to hurricane victims. It might be time to look at other possibilities.
So I'm not a superhero. I've accepted that now. But from whence and why has this mysterious electric field decided to surround me? Why does my mailbox and car continually try to shock me? I don't recall growing up directly under power lines and to the best of my knowledge, my current apartment isn't built on a former nuclear test site. Perhaps the ghost of Louie the Lightning Bug is trying to warn me of an impending tragedy? Who knows...there simply doesn't seem to be a logical explanation to this whole thing. Unless...
I guess it's that time to explore the possibility that nothing supernatural or superhero-esque is going on. Let's talk about my shoes. A few weeks ago (right around the time the shocks began, come to think of it) I bought a new pair of shoes. They're pretty plain looking: grey slip-ons with a fuzzy, fleece-lined interior. They're super comfortable, especially the fuzzy insides; it's like wearing house shoes all the time. They're almost as comfortable as the seats in my new car. Come to think of it, they're kind of fuzzy too. I haven't gotten completely used to them yet, so I generally have to squirm around a bit before settling in. All the squirming sometimes makes little crackling noises and makes my hair stand up. But what can all that have to do with me being electrified? Let me think...so I have fuzzy shoes, fuzzy car seats, I seem to get shocked and shock other things directly after being in the car...crap. I thought I had it but I lost it. There's obviously no connection here. Now that I give it more than two seconds of thought, it actually seems rather absurd that I would have even considered it possible that my shoes or the fabric in my car could be the source of friction, building up static electricity in a kinetic state, waiting to come into contact with a metal surface. I mean, put the dunce hat on me because that makes no sense at all!
I guess I was right the first time. I'm a Superhero.
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