Just Cured - Experience Fine Foods

We were a party of eight in an upscale restaurant on a Saturday night in a resort city. Well, not exactly a resort city, more like the world’s largest retirement center. Although it was in season, the restaurant was not quite full at 7:30. That was simply one more sign to me of the troubled economy — as if mile-after-mile of “For Sale” signs on expensive beach homes wasn’t clue enough.

Our party ranged in age from 40 to 60. One couple were year round residents of the area, he a prominent public official; one snowbirds in residence from January 1 to April 30; two northerners escaping for a long weekend in the sun. Our table lowered the average age of guests by many years; every other table I saw was populated with octogenarians.

We were in festive moods. My wife and I only get to see the Snowbirds and the Other Escapees a few times a year. We were meeting the Year Rounds for the first time. The Other Escapees and Year Rounds have been friends for decades but hadn’t seen each other in several years. The Snowbirds and Year Rounds have become friends through their mutual friendship with the Other Escapees.

Our time at the restaurant started pleasantly enough. Our server took the drink order of the last arriving couple who were not served in the lounge and presented the wine list to one of the other men in the party.

As the server left, he announced loudly to the holder of the list, but directed to the entire table (and anyone else on that side of the dining room), “if you need any assistance with the list, I am fairly familiar with it.” What? This joint doesn’t have a sommelier. Isn’t his job to be quite snow angels dvdrip download familiar with the list? As I replayed his announcement in my head, I studied the words less and the tone more. There was something dark, almost malevolent about that tone. Uh, oh, I thought.

And sure enough, he re-appeared a few minutes later, nearly pouncing between two of the women who were in full catch-up conversation. Shouting to obtain the attention of the table. Shushing two others who did not stop their conversation immediately. And told us that when he had our full attention, he would then recite the specials of the evening. I felt like one of the nuns had rapped me across the knuckles for talking in class. And as I looked around the table, so did everyone else; seven pairs of confused eyes returned my glances.

The interval from dressing down to his return to take our orders seemed interminable. We were getting the cold shoulder for no reason I could discern. It was just as well, we had a chance to recover a bit of our light moods. The order taking proceeded without incident. And then our server simply disappeared, not to be seen until our meal ended. Someone else delivered our food and took our pastry order. It was just as well; no telling what his next trick might have been.

This server did reappear to drop the check without incident. One of the other men and I split the tab. I should have shorted the tip. In the end, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. My hosts have been fairly regular guests at this place, and I would never embarrass them.

On our way out the door, a manager complimented that she liked my new eyeglasses. I should have stopped and said something to her. As I was near the center of our group, I decided not to hold up our exit. I may still send a note to the restaurant about our experience.

I wasn’t sure the extent to which others in our party paid attention to the treatment we received from that server.† Because our hosts picked the restaurant, I certainly wasn’t going to say anything.† As soon as we got into the car for the ride home, the others commented on our server’s performance and the effect on our evening.† I needn’t have worried about embarrassing our hosts.† They were as appalled as I was.

I was, and still am, shocked at the contrast between the unprofessional conduct of this server and the service I wrote about in this post.† Perhaps the sole reason I decided to write about this experience was that I wrote about the other.† These two experiences occurred precisely one year apart in the same town.† Skeeter and Janet work in restaurants that can charitably described as dives.† And they deliver an unparalleled service experience to their guests.† On the other hand, a place with aspirations hires some jerk with an attitude to serve its guests.† Maybe I’ll suggest to the restaurant’s manager that he send his service staff to either Skeeter’s or Janet’s place for remedial training.† Or find a few employees who can find the word “hospitality” in the dictionary.

Postscript:† To close a loop from last year’s post, Skeeter did permit me to pick up the drinks tab at her place the previous night.

Although I have been around Over the Rhine as a guest, visitor and shopper for many years, I have been operating Just Cured from the neighborhood for just under a year now.† As a result, I am still becoming attuned to the changes in sights, sounds and smells of the area as the seasons change.† Regular readers of my musings on this blog will also understand my affinity for the neighborhood when all is quiet.

This morning, I walked the streets around Findlay Market shortly after daybreak and in a light drizzle.† The low overcast provided a diffused light, and the rain put the landscape into soft focus.† The rain evidently encouraged people to sleep in a bit this morning.† But for the cars parked along the streets, I could envision the neighborhood as it was 60, or 100, or 150 years ago.

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The quiet, the rain, the soft morning light all conspired to place my attention on the signs of early spring.† Some of the flowering trees are in full bloom, or even a bit past their peak.† Others exhibit full buds, days from bursting forth.† Many of the mature, non-flowering trees are yet to show any sign of life, while others sport tips flecked with green.

Daffodils bloom in small garden plots and perennials are in various stages of sprouting around the early blooms.† It is too early in the season for building owners to have planted their window boxes; the risk of a late frost is still too great.

At Liberty and Vine, a parishioner opened the front doors of St. Francis Seraph church.† The air along the sidewalk was infused with the powerful, sweet scent of the Easter Lilies surrounding the church’s sanctuary.

By the end of my walk, the 21st century had returned to Over the Rhine.† The rain had stopped, and the clouds lifted a bit.† Images snapped into sharp focus.† Auto traffic picked up.† A few men, young and old, congregated along the sidewalks.† Mothers and grandmothers were walking youngsters to school and daycare.

I am smiling — both at the memories of my walk through the neighborhood and at the messages and images I received by email during the few minutes I composed this post.† Others are obviously thinking and seeing the same things I saw this morning:

The banner photo in today’s issue of Soapbox Cincinnati features Over the Rhine from a different Spring perspective.

In this week’s Cincy Chic, Julie Niesen extolls her favorites at Findlay Market.† Click the links for a few Spring images of the Market.

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As I posted a few days ago,† I will be the featured chef, and Just Cured the host, for the second monthly wine dinner at City Cellars on Friday, February 27, 2009 beginning at 7:00 p.m.† Make your reservations by calling City Cellars at 513.621.WINE; hurry, space is limited.† The price for the meal is $35; and you may purchase wine and beer from City Cellars at retail prices.

The theme for the meal is “Meatless Doesn’t Equal Sacrifice.”† I put together a meatless menu that is as indulgent as it is good for you.† I hope the menu tempts you to join me for dinner that evening.

The menu:

Roasted beet and goat cheese salad

Risotto with asparagus and asparagus puree

Just Cured half smoked salmon cooked sous vide, wild mushroom and cabbage sautÈ, pinot noir butter sauce

Milk chocolate pretzel tart

For the vegetarians among us, I will offer a vegetarian option for the salmon course.† (Please advise City Cellars when making your reservation.)† Given the kitchen facilities available at the shop, I will not be able to offer a vegan option.

I have some wine pairings in mind.† If you have any ideas, post them as comments.

See you at City Cellars on the 27th?

The streets are freshly scrubbed; the sidewalks are clear; the parking lanes are empty; the crowd barricades are erected and set in place. It is dawn on the first official day of Spring in Cincinnati — not mid-March, rather the first Monday in April. Preparations are in place for the start of another baseball season and the Findlay Market Opening Day Parade.

My reverse walk of the parade route is notable for its peaceful solitude, interrupted only by the occasional police cruiser moving slowly, blue lights flashing and the whir and clank of the trucks towing the parking stragglers. The Market is equally quiet with the core parade organizers enjoying a hot breakfast before things get hectic.

Soon, horses and motorcycles, cars and bands, and people of all ages and backgrounds will queue up in the streets of Over the Rhine. Soon, the quiet will be broken with shouts and horns communicating frantic instruction. Soon, the whistle kicking off the parade will blow.

The streets that were so empty a short hour ago will soon be packed with fans young and old. Some will be here for the baseball. Others will be here for the party. More will attend to support their neighbors and community.

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And all will gather to welcome Spring’s arrival in the place they call home.

I have read this tired phrase in innumerable thriller novels.† As I have little experience with firearms, I have always considered the phrase to be a writer’s crutch.† Yesterday, I learned firsthand the report of a gun is very similar to the ring of a bell, each with an ascending start, a definite sustained center, and a decay to the ambient sounds.

Late yesterday morning, I left my production facility for a short walk and placed a call to a friend and colleague.† Wind noise interfered with our conversation, so I ducked into the narrow confines of Republic Street just north of Green.† As we continued our conversation, I heard first one loud bang, followed immediately by several more loud reports.† It took me just a beat or so to realize that I was hearing gun fire.† My brain told me I heard four shots in rapid succession; the newspaper this morning told me there were six.

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The shots were fired on Race Street just south of Green, perhaps 50 yards from my location.† I was quite surprised I could discern that the shots came from south of me around the corner rather than north.† I waited in my protected alcove for half a minute or so to determine if the shooter was heading my way.† I saw no one leaving the scene heading my direction, so I walked around the corner onto Vine Street as I completed my conversation.

As I replaced my phone and turned, I saw a young man I know fairly well holding a towel over his face and being helped into a borrowed car.† Marcus had been shot in the face for the offense of waiting for the bus in the wrong place at the wrong time — on the day after he ran the Flying Pig marathon.

A few minutes later, the neighborhood was awash in police cruisers, motorcycles, bicycles, and Segways, followed by camera crews, television reporters and other associated media.† I returned to the place I had stood a few moments earlier.† It was now occupied by a police cruiser securing the crime scene by blocking Green Street.† I handed the officer inside my business card, pointed out where I was standing, and told her what I heard and saw.

As I walked away from the cruiser, the bells of St. Francis church began to ring the noon Angelus.† Reflexively, I slowed my pace and whispered “The angel of the Lord declared unto Mary, and she conceived of the Holy Spirit.”† The peal of the bells bore sharp contrast to the report of gunshots, yet their similarities were eerie.

Just south of the crime scene tape on Race Street, I noticed a makeshift street memorial.† As I had never seen it before, it must be of recent vintage, bearing witness to some other tragedy only a few feet from the most recent.

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They say that violence is senseless.† It may be, but it is also calculated.† Calculated to exact retribution, to warn, to change behavior of a person or an entire community.† I wonder of the intended and unintended consequences of what I witnessed yesterday.

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Street Memorial, Race Street north of Liberty

On Friday, February 27, I will be co-hosting the second monthly wine dinner held at City Cellars on Race Street downtown.† I will prepare a four course meal for guests, and guests may purchase wines to pair with the menu from City Cellars’ extensive inventory.† I will have a number suggested pairings — or guests may go wild with their selections.

Now, I need to come up with a menu.† In recognition of the start of Lent that week and the desire of many to eat less meat, I am considering a meatless meal that doesn’t constitute a sacrifice.† Of course, there will be Just Cured salmon on the menu.

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I will post details, such as the full menu and cost very soon.† Make reservations through City Cellars, and please consult the City Cellars web site for additional information.

The masthead photo on the current issue of Soapbox Media’s newsletter and website is a landscape of Just Cured smoked salmon loin, parsley and a Just Cured EpÌ.† Thank you Scott Beseler for the fantastic photo — and for using it at Soapbox.

On the continuing topic of dining, and fine dining, in Cincinnati (on which I will write more in a day or so), the Soapbox issue contains an interesting article entitled “Foodie Feudies.”† The author takes readers on a tour of interesting dining options in Cincinnati, most run by independent chefs or restaurateurs.† His conclusion is that the dining scene in Cincinnati is vibrant even though the loss of Pigall’s is “regrettable.” 30mg prevacid

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After a quick read of the article, I have two initial reactions.† First, several of the chefs (or the restaurants they run) mentioned in the article (at least four by my count) are alumni(ae) of the Maisonette, Jean-Robert at Pigall’s or both.† I doubt the restaurants named in the article (even collectively) have the capacity to provide the sort of training that their fine dining uncles provided.

Second, I have visited all but one or two of the named restaurants.† While they are, in fact, interesting and enjoyable on their own merits, the greatest strength of the best of the lot is a subtle one.† Those restaurants have each implemented parts of the fine dining playbook, intentionally ignored other parts, and made something that works very well.† Diners enjoy one of these restaurants over another in large part based on how those diners value the fine dining pieces embraced or ignored.† Exposure to the fine dining environment provides the context with which to evaluate those other experiences.† Context that is only available in the likes of New York, Chicago, San Francisco, London and Paris is going to be out of the reach of many diners and the next group of aspiring restaurateurs.

It is 6 o’clock on the morning after Christmas, Boxing Day to the rest of the English speaking world.† Elsewhere in the city, shoppers are converging on the malls and shops and stores searching for bargains.† Here in my work neighborhood, it is silent.† I am certain that the mice — and their larger cousins, the shave-tailed squirrels — are stirring, but they are being very quiet about it.

I first break the silence with the clinking and clacking of the retracting overhead security door that fronts the warehouse, the racket masking the whir of the electric motor.† The beep-beep-beep of the alarm panel reminding me to disengage the system pierces the interior stillness.† Once I enter the alarm code, the building resumes its state of silence, the white noise of florescent lighting fixtures and basement and roof mounted refrigeration compressors accentuating the lack of any other sound.

I† have only 45 minutes of work to get ready for my morning television appearance.† The silence is comforting as I accumulate the tools and equipment I will require, dividing them into two stacks, one to take to the studio and one of things I will need before I leave.† The clicking of my knife blade against the cutting board ticks like a clock, on steroids and speed.† I complete my mis en place

more quickly than I anticipated, so much so that I have time to wash the few dishes I dirtied.

Sometimes I think I wash dishes constantly.† Without conscious thought, I begin: rinse and scrub all three sinks, close the drains, run hot water into each sink, squirt detergent into the left, drop sanitizer tablets into the right.† The running water rings against stainless steel; silence returns as I close the water valves.† Wash; rinse; sanitize; dry on rack.† My dipping of the dishes into and from each sink reminds me of a nearly still lake lapping against dock pilings or a boat hull.

In the silence of the warehouse, I am alone with my thoughts.† I find myself in this condition often.† Even when my landlord’s business is in full swing, my corner of the building is sufficiently isolated from his operations that I cannot hear his din.† I have gotten used to working alone and, most days, am at peace with the solitude and those thoughts.

On this day after the holiday, I reflect on the year past and ponder the future.† It was precisely one year ago that I registered the justcured.com domain name.† I shake my head and grin at the thought of some other names I considered.† The name seems so obviously right to me today that I marvel at how I struggled before landing on it.

I’ll save for a post shortly after the new year begins my scoresheet of successes and failures, of good decisions and bad, of triumphs and battle scars.† For this day, as I reflect on all those things, it is enough that I am happy — with my decision to enter this crazy business, with my execution of the start up, with my life.† Not satisfied; there is too much yet to be accomplished.† Just happy.

On the morning after Christmas, I did the cooking segment on the Fox 19 morning show.† I demonstrated a couple of smoked salmon appetizers appropriate for a New Year’s Eve celebration — using Just Cured smoked salmon, of course.

Here’s the video of the segment:

The Christmas party of my father’s family has been held on the Sunday before Christmas Eve for more than sixty years.† The first thirty or so instances were held at my grandparents’ home, and the guests included all the decendants of my paternal grandfather’s parents.† Although I recall bits of earlier parties, my first firm recollection of this party is from either 1964 or 1965.† My father and I made the 90 minute trip and attended alone, my mother having stayed home with my four younger siblings to whom I had given a Christmas gift of chickenpox.

After my grandparents sold the home in which they had raised their ten children, the party rotated for a few years among the homes of uncles living in Louisville, Kentucky.† It was at that time that the guest list was pared to include only my grandparents and their descendants.† I will admit to having missed one or two instances of the party when it was held at these temporary venues.

Twenty-plus years ago, my mother took over hosting this family party.† As my sisters and brother married, had children and moved from place to place, a rule developed, solely by operation of practice — celebrate Christmas in your own home and city, or anywhere else for that matter, but be “home” and attend “The Party” the weekend before.† I don’t recall any of us ever having violated that unspoken rule.† Over the years, the number of attendees from outside my immediate family has dwindled as the membership of my sisters’ families has swelled.

The constant feature of The Party (other than perhaps the menu) is a visit from Santa.† As the event is quite close to Christmas Day, the children have come to understand that The Party is neither the time nor place to present Santa with wish lists.† Rather, by tradition each child performs for Santa by singing a song, reciting a poem or telling a story.† For the past 7 or so years, I have taken on the role of Santa.

The Party was special this year as we welcomed a new generation to the family and to The Party.† Just before Thanksgiving, niece number 2 gave birth to a son; and, of course, baby and his parents made the 100 or so mile drive to attend.† Sister number 1, and grandmother to new baby, presented the newest family member to Santa while the family sang “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” in recognition of the reindeer slippers baby was wearing.

As I held that little child, it occurred to me that one or the other of my sisters with children would likely soon take over The Party.† The guest list will likely be pared yet again.† And something very old will be new again.† Life goes on.

Santa and Baby