October 2008 Archives

In our war room-esque planning meetings "Event Number 2," what we had unceremoniously anointed the 8 course-tasting menu for 60 people, was all about timing. At a predetermined time half of our 10 person crew and one of us would sever from the casual nuptial party, jet to the second location, and establish the scene for much more cooking than seemed possible in just shy of two hours.

Where we left off, Evan and Team Number Two (Lake, Jessie, Jennifer, and Matthew) were en route from closing down the Zen center while Team Number One (Molly, Madeline, Max and Meagan) set up the dining room. Alex and Michael had managed to negotiate all the heating that needing doing onto one of the Kosher Kitchen's two combo stoves. Huge bubbling pots of beans, blanching water, sauces and searing Seitan filled all six burners, giant pans of roasting squash cramped the oven, and the four pans of foccatia that had been in the making since six am were getting an extra blast of warm air resting on shelves atop the stoves.

Then the stove fell down.

The ensuing chaos lasted for fifteen minutes but it seemed like hours. We Knives dove screaming under the pans of bread that literally flew through the air, managing to save all four but severely deflating each one. Michael managed to block the huge pots of boiling water from scalding your dear writers, and we all nervously tried to communicate with the man in charge of kitchen maintenance. Discovering that our Spanish really is that bad we convinced the dude to focus on the stove that wasn't lighting instead of vainly trying to lift the fallen soldier back onto its jury rigged support: a greasy board.

With the heat back on, everything fell into place at a breakneck pace. With Michael gone, our kitchen mercenary Aubrey was fabricating tomatoes, when we made another startling discovery that the refrigerator we had stored all our greens in was a tad on the cold side. Lake and Max jumped into weeding out the frozen herbs and lettuces, while we pureed this and sautéed that, all the while going over our prep list out loud like freaked out monks speeding through their mantras.

At 6:30 all the mania was under our thumbs, and we went over the menu and service with the crew one last time. We opted to shave a server and take on another kitchen aid and Max, pictured below, rounded out the daunting task of making 480 perfect plates.

After the Tomato spoons went out the synergy of our machine was palpable. Heirloom tomato carpaccio looked like moist gems and the faint pillow of grated Reggiano made our diners swoon. "Mixed Green Soup," a hearty puree of arugala confused a few members of a particularly picky table but totally wowed the rest of the room. The bread turned out perfectly and the loaves that nearly fell to their deaths actually ended up with a superior crust due to their (terrifying) degassing. Smoked chevre infused butter had drunken diners bursting into the kitchen demanding seconds.

The evening pushed on, and the dishes got more complex. As the plates got bigger, we had to do second and third platings of courses, which kept us on the razors edge of having incorrect numbers...We had a brief meltdown in the salad course when we ran dangerously low on the Stuffing Succotash with one table of 8 still needing plates. Luckily they were the aforementioned picky eaters, and were glad to get a refill of foccatia to augment their slightly smaller portions of salad.

When it came time to plate the entrée the need for perfect timing was reified double-time. The plate had the most components: a mascarpone enriched white bean purée, soy and apple cider braised squash, seared seitan, a mulled wine reduction, and a slice of tarragon butter. More importantly the plate had to arrive hot. This required all four of us in the kitchen to work very quick and clean, and for the servers to whisk plates away as quickly as possible so we'd have room to mount the second and third waves. It went flawlessly. Barring one or two of the inevitable "where's the beef" comments, the food was lustily received and Seitan (the dark lord of the underbelly) pushed all our diners to the limits of their waistlines.

The entrée was out; out came the booze. Madeline had apparently bought some Tequila on the way to the hotel and the bartenders supplied us with cold beers. We leisurely plated the cheese course and gladly turned the reins over to the waiters for the final plating: a Chocolate Avocado pudding served parfait style in a coffee cup with fresh berries and mocha truffles. Between the onslaught of lactic oblivion and sugar overload, Tom and Andy called us out to the dining room to toast our labor. We put on the clean chef's coats we were too busy to think about when the evening began and humbly received the grooms' thanks.

Back in the kitchen we polished off bottles, patted each other on the back and took stock of the evening. We broke a few plates, and set a towel on fire. Lively renditions of Les Miserables (seriously) started up, and we trudged through the clean up that signaled the end of another triumph; our cookery on the largest scale we've ever attempted, with the unwavering and flawless help of our best and finest friends.

Here's to (back to right, top, down): Molly, Meagan, Lake, Max, Madeline, Jennifer, Jessie, Aubrey, Matthew, and Michael. We could not have done it without you!

Tom met Andy nearly 20 years ago. They're both vegetarians and practicing Buddhists. Both sweet guys with good taste. Tom and Andy met the Hot Knives blog about 2 months ago when they wrote to us about catering their wedding. We sat down for wine and menu chit-chat when they dropped the bomb, "It's not one event, but two... back-to-back... at two different locations."

Well, we lived to retell that unfunny punch line. Last weekend's festivities went off like a sometimes-terrifying, often beautiful, sweaty 12-hour dream thanks to the 10-deep crew of blank-clad darlings we hired for help. We'll tell it you in 2 parts using camera flashes from Molly and Aubrey.

There's a rolling green grass knoll behind their Zen Center where Tom and Andrew got married. Lady priests waved incense and robed friends hammered copper gongs. The weather was 75 degrees in the sun. Under white tents, Madeline and Jennifer mixed handmade ginger-syrup tonics with lime zest and poured spiced cider. Lake and Jess served oozey sheep and cow cheese from cold marble slabs. Evan and Alex, and our hired thug/sous-chef/lucky charm Mike D. put the finishing touches on the reception goodies in the zen ladies' full-service kitchen that sat not ten feet behind the raised platform where the guys were to wed. With the kitchen windows open we could hear them prepping for the ceremony while we rolled chevre in nutmeg and formed risotto-sage balls for frying. Ball jokes ensued. Right before the service, one of the buddhists told us, "Your big problem is going to be that we can hear everything you say in there."

When the last gong landed, we flung open the screen doors and shot out platters of Nicoise tapenade in potato cups, smokey Muhammara piped on lavash points garnished with pomegranate seeds, cider-rubbed goat cheese on apple slices and, of course, the infamous Risotto Arancini with molten fontina centers (every wedding has to have one dish that the waiters get assaulted in a corner over). Little angel-kids ran around the grass while middle-aged ladies in hats slurped ginger soda and older guys gorged on cocktail nuts. They cut the cake. That was our cue, so we started cleaning in a mad frenzy, flinging half-prepared pots of food into our cars along with 4, still-rising pans of perfect sourdough- herb Focaccia. It took 10 minutes, a cigarette and 2 pieces of wintermint gum, to burn down Wilshire to the Park Plaza near McArthur Park where the champagne was supposed to pop in two hours for the sit-down 8-course vegetarian tasting menu.

The first event had gone an hour longer than we expected. Our sous chef Mike needed to jet for a play production in which he stars as Frank Zappa. One of the hotel's ovens was kaput. For a while - just a second there - we looked in each others eyes and knew shit was close to going horribly wrong...

Cave-aged IPAs? OK, it's not doctor recommended, kid-tested or mother approved. Most brew hoarders go by the eenie-meanie-miney-mo-if-its-hoppy-let-it-go mantra, so they only age high-alcohol beers. And we're sure there's some scientific sense in that. But we also know that there are exceptions to every rule. So along with the bourbon-barrel 750 ml's that grace every beer collection, we stuck hop-heavy beers in our makeshift cellar. Talk about testing our resolve! Just imagine it: you make a beer run, scoop up a frosty cold bomber of your favorite high-grade hoppy strong ale only to file it away like a dusty library book.

In honor of our efforts (and in the hopes of heading off any unfortunate science experiments) this week we popped the caps on three of our oldest pale ales just to see if they were drinkable, or better yet, even more desirable than fresh. Ehhhh, no quite... Some tasting notes.

Cave-aged: 8 months
Eye: Redhead pubic amber
Nose: Bottled air, dead flowers
Tongue: Cider, soap suds, cinnamon-stick gum and amonia
Brain: Autumnal, the strong hopping process gives a lasting die-out affect...

Cave-aged: 6 months
Eye: Sun-kissed, slightly dead marigold, no spritz
Nose: nutty, sweet nuthin'
Tongue: caramelized sugar, no hops in sight!
Brain: A surprisingly close approximation, and great version, of a barley-wine

Cave-aged: 10 months
Eye: bone-gray and corduroy-brown
Nose: gamey funk, trash and stout
Tongue: pure beer bitter, baker's chocolate,
Brain: Aged beer in a classical sense plus the still bubbly brightness of hops

Trumpets please. Ahem. One year and a half after we first birthed this cacamamy scheme to cellar some of our beer purchases, our "Beer Cave" is finally mature (give or take a few repeat bottles, which will come in handy for taste-offs). That's right, our stash has finally surpassed the official "99 bottles of beer" threshold, which means we can start cracking these old bottles open and taste the fruits of our patience. That doesn't mean we're done of course, just that we can now rotate out some peak bottles for special occasions as we replace them with fresh purchases.

This week we're tasting the first batch, which we'll preface below. But first, without further a-do, Hot Knives presents -- the October roster of the 99 bottles of beer on our wall...

Not too shabby. In the months to come, expect to see posts and tasting notes on everything from year-old Christmas ales to face-offs between different years in Stone Brewing's Vertical Epic series. But for now, we have some dirty ol' IPA guzzling to do.

You see, this milestone has come not a minute too soon, because not all of the beers we have whisked off store shelves in the last 16 months are the kind typically recommended for aging: that is especially true of the small selection of India Pale Ales and Imperial IPAs that have been skunking up our shelves for months. Wish us luck, this could get stanky. Look for the results later this week. To be continued...

This will not top the soup that quasi-inspired it, let's get that outta the way right quick. That'd be the leek hash and pea soup with almond butter we had ladled for us tableside at Melisse in Santa Monica on a recent spat of pricey visits that we made for celebration's sake and to write up their formidable vegetarian tasting menu.

But that vision of blackened leek in a creamy soup recently came back to us, as if regurgitated in a food dream. The hallucination was powerful. So when the weather dipped this week, spitting out mist and rain drops on the way to a morning farmers market, we sprung for some beautiful baby-sized leeks with soup in mind.

First, leeks were roasted and some new potatoes were braised in a bath of stock and imperial stout and the two got added together and blended with a secret cream replacement (fresh chevre) and for chunkage, we sautéd carrots, leek ends, shallots and garlic. We gobbled it on a covered porch, served with a fresh crouton of whole grain farm bread slathered with more goat cheese. And whatever beer you didn't use for braising works as a liquid warmer.

2 leeks
2 cloves garlic
6 red-skinned potatoes
3 cups vegetable stock
1/2 cup stout
2 oz. fresh chevre
2 Tbs. olive oil
1 carrot
2 shallot
1/2 white onion
2 cloves garlic
1 small bulb ginger
1 tsp. cayenne
1 Tbs. sea salt
fresh ground pepper
1/4 cup fresh dill

1. Cut and clean your leek. On a oiled roasting sheet, splay out the leek and press garlic over the pan trying to evenly distribute it. Roast in the oven at 375 degrees until green edges get slightly crisp and black, about 10 minutes.

2. Half or quarter your taters, depending on size, and place in a deep roasting pan. Add 1/2 cup of stock and 1/2 cup of stout. Cover with foil and place in the oven for about 20 minutes or until thoroughly tender.

3. Remove both leeks and potatoes and add to a deep soup pot. Cover with the remaining veggie stock and bring to a near boil.

4. Meanwhile, neatly dice your other veggies into cubes (think of their shape like small pieces of ham) and toss in a pan on medium heat with oil, ginger sliced into thin spheres and cayenne. Season and toss in dill for a second and then remove from heat.

5. Once large pot has near a boil, get crazy with an immersion blender. Pulse until creamy and then add fresh chevre. Continue to blend until consistent. Add 2-3 tbs. of water as needed. Consistency should be airy and easy to ladle. Combine the sautéd veggies and return to heat for a few minutes. Garnish with bread and leek ends.

Beverage: Black Flag Imperial Stout
Soundtrack: Godspeed You Black Emperor's "Blaise Bailey Finnegan III"

We did not pull this name outta nowhere: The Frogs sometimes refer to their national salad as Insalata Nizzarda, more popularly known as the nicoise. The mother of all deconstructed salads. The Foucault of lettuce. With its cold, charred peppers, slim haricot vert, plump, briny olives. plus a starch and a protein to boot. We're huge fans of composed salads if you couldn't tell.

So we pulled one of the so-so ingredients out of this nicoise (potato)and used it instead as a vessel to make it party food. A familiar scheme at this point. We piped in a Dijon mustard and filled the potato with a small-chop mix of nicoise olives, shallots, roasted red bells, capers and thyme dressed lightly with, olive oil, white balsamic and ripped tarragon. And on top, for garnish, one thin green bean. The result is a room tempish salad bite that hits all the nizz notes without being obvious.

4 small potatoes
4 green beans
2 red bell peppers
1/4 cup Nicoise olives
2 shallots, peeled
1 Tbs. capers
4 sprigs thyme
1 Tbs. olive oil
1 tsp. white balsamic
2 sprigs tarragon
1 Tbs. Dijon mustard
Salt and pepper to taste

1. Make your potatoes into cups. Cut the rounded curve off of all sides of each, so you have a potato rectangle, and lay on its side. Then slice into three equal pieces, the width of a small sushi roll. With a teaspoon, spoon out the middle.

2. Take all of your potato cups and put 'em in a saucepan, fill it with warm water and place on high heat. Toss in a tsp. of salt. When the water hits a rapid boil, the potatoes should be done. Fork one to be sure. Before removing, toss in your green beans for 1 minute just to blanche. Remove all and drain, gently. Rinse with cold water.

3. Mix your chopped salad. First char your peppers and de-skin 'em. Dice all the fixings smaller than seems necessary (it will need to be fine to fit into your petite potato cup) and dress with oil and vinegar and herbs. Let sit for at least 20 minutes to marry the flavors. Meanwhile, pre-heat the oven to 350 degrees.

4. On a lightly oiled sheet pan, lay out your potatoes. Sprinkle with salt and pepper and roast for about 12 minutes or until slightly brown. Remove and let cool.

5. Spoon, or pipe using a pastry bag, a touch of Dijon to each potato. Then cram a Tbs. of filling into the tater. Garnish with a slice of halved green bean.

Beverage: Saison Dupont's Avril
Soundtrack: Stereolab's Refried Ectoplasm

One of us had our first taste of muhammara -- the nutty pink paste of walnuts and charred bell peppers -- on a dashing date with a gorgeous lady friend. The other one of us tried muhammara for the first time just two hours later eating take-out remnants from that date, out of a grease-stained Styrofoam container. We don't know whose experience was better.

Like most dips, muhammara gets better when it sits. And this week, we whipped up enough that it sat and sat and sat. Why so much? Smoked muhammara on pita crisps with pomegranate seeds is one of the seasonal appetizers we're planning for an October wedding catering gig, so we're dealing with school cafeteria-sized portions, in hopes of getting our multiplication right for shopping. Our advice: Even if you're making this for your own dashing date, make enough to pack for lunches with a coupla falafel balls or tahini rice.

3 red bell peppers
1 1/2 cups walnuts
2 Tbs. pomegranate molasses
3 Tbs. olive oil
1 Tbs. smoked paprika
1 tsp. aleppo pepper
whole wheat pita bread
1 Tbs. pomegranate seeds

1. Crank the flames on your stovetop and place each red bell pepper on direct heat to char the skin. As the pepper skin gets black turn with tongs until evenly roasted. Now place peppers in a brown bag and close. As it cools the skin will separate and should be easy to scrub off by rubbing between your fingers.

2. Dump the walnuts in a frying pan on high heat and toast until brown, not black, for about 3 minutes. Remove and let cool.

3. Meanwhile, if desired, roast off some eggplant slices. Start by slicing into thin rounds and salting on a plate. Let sit 10 minutes so extra moisture is drawn out. Then add to your frying pan and on high heat cook for about minutes with a touch of olive oil.

4. Remove pepper skins once cool and chop off pepper tops. Add to a blender or cuisinart with the walnuts. Add pom molassess, olive oil, spices and pulse until thoroughly pink and a consistent puree. Season to taste.

5. Bake or toast pita and cut into chip-sized pieces. Top pita with a dollop of muhammara and garnish with two pomegranate seeds each.

Soundtrack: Selda's "Selda"
Beverage: Avery's Maharaja Imperial IPA