Just Cured - Experience Fine Foods

If you have any interest whatsoever in cooking, its history and its social context, you will want to read the recently released Catching Fire: How Cooking Made Us Human by Richard Wrangham.  Wrangham is a professor of Biological Anthropology at Harvard University.

In Catching Fire, Wrangham presents and defends his thesis that the act of cooking drove the biological and sociological changes that made us human.  Contrary to the popular view among anthropologists that humans have been cooking food for 250,000 to 400,000 years, Wrangham has our ancestors cooking much, much earlier.  He makes a compelling case that cooking food is the only reasonable explanation for the physiological changes present in Homo Erectus when it emerged approximately 1.9 million (!) years ago.  Wrangham also covers the sociological changes that cooking permitted, evidence of which changes are with us even today.

Catching Fire is a fascinating read; I couldn’t put it down.  Too bad I didn’t get around to writing a bit about it until others started jumping on the bandwagon.

Link to page at Amazon.

Catching Fire: How Cooking Made Us Human

For those outside the region, our little bout with Winter consisted of 6 inches of snow Monday night and Tuesday morning, followed by sleet, freezing rain and rain Tuesday afternoon and overnight, and topped off with another 4 inches of snow this morning.† The roads were a complete mess; the weight of the ice is taking down power lines and trees; the trees are taking down more power lines as they fall.

Here are some views of the woods behind our home.† I wish the sun had come out some this afternoon.† The sparkle of the ice encrusted branches would have been spectacular.

With this article and this follow-on piece, the Cincinnati Enquirer announced the imminent closing of Jean-Robert at Pigall’s and Jean-Robert de Cavel’s resignation from the restaurant group heretofore bearing his name.† As much as I mourn the closure of Pigall’s, I mourn the end of an era of fine dining in Cincinnati yet more.

For the record, I define “fine dining” much more strictly than most others.† I use the term to refer to a restaurant that would merit serious consideration as a Michelin two or three star restaurant or as deserving a four star review from the New York Times.† As an additional reference, Relais & Chateaux uses the worthy of two Michelin stars standard for designating a Relais Gourmands restaurant, a designation held by Pigall’s for several years.

I know I will offend some (including several friends) when I state categorically that no other restaurant in our city meets that definition of fine dining.† That is not to say that those other restaurants are are not fine places, deserving of your patronage and dining dollars; those places simply do not have every element required to meet the fine dining standard.† They also do not carry on Cincinnati’s long and significant history of fine dining restaurants.

Most Cincinnati residents who are interest in food know that the Maisonette held Mobil’s five star designation longer than any other restaurant in the country.† Many can recount that Cincinnati had three Mobil five star restaurants for a year or two in the 1970s (the Maisonette, old Pigall’s and the Gourmet Room in the Terrace Hilton hotel).† Almost no one remembers that one year in the mid-1960s Cincinnati was home to three of the eight five star recipients or that the third restaurant (after Maisonette and Pigall’s) was the La Ronde restaurant in the Carousel Hotel on Reading Road.† New York City boasted only two five star restaurants that year.† (I wish one of the Adrian sisters would remind me which year this was by looking at their father’s scrapbook they so graciously shared with me a few years ago.)

Outside the regimented world of kitchens implementing the brigade system, the name of Pierre Adrian is virtually unknown.† But a generation of chefs working in America and throughout the world considered Chef Adrian a mentor and role model.† Chef Adrian was chef of the Maisonette through the 1960s and was the chef when the Maisonette began its run of consecutive five star honors.† Chef Adrian would likely be a household name along with the great chefs of history but for his death at an all-too-early age.

How does a city go from supporting three or more fine dining restaurants to none in just a bit over a generation, you ask?† Is the economy to blame?† The decline of downtown?† Changed dining habits?

All the above, yet none of the above.† I place responsibility in roughly chronological order on shopping malls, multiplexes, chain restaurants, cheap air travel, specialty catalogs, and e-commerce.

When I was young, Cincinnati was the commercial and cultural engine for a region extending to a 200 mile radius from the city.† The residents of the small cities and towns in that region flocked to Cincinnati.† The doctors, lawyers, accountants, merchants and teachers traveled here three or four times a year.† In the summer, they brought their children for a baseball game and a trip to Coney Island and in the winter to visit Santa and see the decorations.† In the spring and fall, they came as couples with friends.

They stayed in the hotels.† The Netherland Hilton and the Sheraton Gibson were packed on the weekends.† They shopped.† Their children were clothed from the racks of the four full service department stores within a three block radius of the hotels.† The women bought their finery at the likes of Giddings Jenny and Henry Harris.† The men purchased suits, shirts, ties and overcoats at Brooks Brothers, Burkharts, Dunlaps and the “hipper” place next door (Mr. T, please remind me of the name of the men’s store that is now JeanRo).

They attended the symphony, ballet and opera at Music Hall.† They watched acts at the Taft and the Emery and plays at the Schubert.† They went to first run movies at the Albee, the Keith’s, the RKO Palace, the Grand and the Capitol. azulfidine

And they dined, oh how they dined.† They ate at restaurants large and small for every meal of their visits.† The city was replete with choices unavailable in their towns at that time – from tea house to steakhouse to oyster house.† And at dinner, they splurged, the Maisonette, Pigall’s, or the Gourmet Room, how did one choose?† Well, each of these visitors had a favorite.† My maternal grandfather was partial to Pigalls, the original location at Fifth and Pike, thank you very much.

As the 60s became the 70s and the 80s, this version of the world went away.† Developers built shopping malls near these smaller cities.† The malls brought mutiplex theatres and sit-down chain restaurants.† Suddenly the gentry of these places didn’t need to travel for staples or even for luxuries.† And for the true treat, New York, Chicago, San Francisco and London were but a plane ticket away.† The places that relied on this regional business began to close.

I am not sure why, but the fine dining restaurants held on longer than any of the others — the hotels of that era are long torn down or substantially altered, the theatres are essentially gone, Music Hall hosts half empty concerts, the department and specialty stores are but a memory.† Fine dining restaurants struggled and survived as the others failed around them, yet finally succumbed.

Why did fine dining hang on longer than the others?† I have long espoused that fine dining represents the best value in restaurant meals.† The small price premium that one pays over the lesser competition pales in comparison to the effort, artistry and surroundings provided in the fine dining environment.† In this week’s New York Times review of Restaurant Daniel, Frank Bruni summarized my conviction well:

At restaurants considered much less exclusive, you could spend only $30 less on a similar amount of food, and you wouldnít get anything approaching Danielís bells and whistles. These flourishes make you feel that youíve slipped into a monarchís robes, if only for a night, and turn an evening into an event.

A fine dining meal is the equivalent of a two or three hour vacation — at a fraction of the price of the real thing.† The food nourishes the body, and the surroundings and service sooth the soul.

It is ironic that the Times effexor reaffirmed its four star rating of Daniel the day before the Pigall’s announcement.† In temperament and cuisine, Daniel is the New York four star most resembling Pigall’s.† Before Jean-Robert ventured out on his own from under the fame of the Comisar family and Maisonette, Daniel Boulud left Le Cirque and the shadow of the Maccioni family.† And it was Daniel’s departure from the Plaza AthÈnÈe to join Le Cirque that created a position for Jean-Robert to begin working in the United States.

The Times review is worth reading.† It is an informed look into fine dining in New York and represents some of Bruni’s best writing.† After March 1, dining on this scale will be a airline flight away rather than a short drive or walk.

And we will all be the poorer for its being so.

The screen capture below is the most unintentionally amusing thing I have seen come out of the credit crisis discussion this week.† This morning I called up the CNBC page listing credit spreads to see how the credit markets feel about the overnight news.† The banner ad across the page is for a free checking account at — drum roll, please — WaMu.

There was something in the air in my new work neighborhood yesterday, and in a good sort of way. It was hard for me to put my finger on anything specific, however, that made it seem that way.

It certainly wasn’t the morning of downpours that brightened anyone’s mood. And it could not have been the afternoon’s stifling humidity; the humidity only made the lower than forecast temperatures seem a lie. It wasn’t the air that was in the air.

Maybe I was struck by the sense of calm when I entered Tucker’s early in the lunch hour. The restaurant was packed, and Carla was off for the day attending to her mother’s knee replacement surgery. Perhaps the customers noticed her absence and were a little more patient and a lot less demanding. Certainly the staff stepped up to the short-handed challenge. They exuded that professional get-it-done attitude that I expect (but rarely actually experience) in restaurants with much greater aspirations. Well done, guys and gals; I was so proud of you –† you were certainly affected by that something special in the air.

Maybe it was the concentration of “good mornings,” “good afternoons,” nods and smiles that I received as I walked through my Over the Rhine neighborhood. Perhaps I am becoming accepted as part of the urban landscape. Or perhaps there was just something in the air.

Yesterday was National Night Out, and our local festivities were held at Findlay Market. Law enforcement arrived with police cruisers, a crime van, a horse mounted officer, bicycle riding officers, a D.A.R.E. vehicle and a fire engine from the Cincinnati police department, the Hamilton County sheriff’s office and the Cincinnati fire department.

The neighborhood turned out in force, families, kids, couples, singles, you-name-it. I enjoyed watching the kids climb on and around the fire engine, pet the horse and ask questions about him, and beg to borrow an officer’s bicycle “for a quick spin.” Even with something in the air, the answer to borrowing the bike was firm “no.”

I am not sure whether the neighbors visited for the education, the entertainment or the free dinner. When I turned my head to the food line, I saw T.O., the nominally full-time waiter at Tucker’s, manning the grill and in the weeds. The menu consisted of burgers and hot dogs from the grill, chips and pasta salad contributed by the Tucker family, plus soft drinks and bottled water. The food line was 20 deep; the guests were orderly and extremely polite. You see, there was something in the air, even if it was only the smell of grilling meat.

For the next 45 minutes or so, I helped T.O. at the grill, in charge of the hot dogs and putting burgers on buns. The line of guests never got shorter, but the tempers didn’t either. The grill was always packed with food, yet we barely kept pace. T.O. claimed this morning to have cooked 800 burgers and dogs in the two-plus hours of the party. I wouldn’t be surprised; the air was full of hungry, happy souls.

The most eye-opening part of my evening was T.O.’s running commentary on the people coming through our line — this transvestite hooker, that pimp, the other drug dealer all making nice to the cops, the absent father of many families, the inattentive mother, which kids were good citizens, which were already in trouble and those who were on their way there. Everyone was in such a congenial mood, it was almost easy to ignore the challenges that these people, these families, face every day — almost. Some things the air can only disguise.

Earlier in the day, as I do many days, I walked to and through downtown for a meeting there. As I passed the corner of Seventh and Walnut, I saw not the anonymous office building on the northwest corner; rather, I saw the imposing facade of the Schubert Theater that once inhabited that corner. Off and on throughout the afternoon, I reflected on the plays I attended in that space in the early and mid 1970s (for only a dollar or two a ticket) courtesy of a student program, the name of which I have long since forgotten, and of a girl who introduced me to the program.

As I left the Market mid-party, a song and a scene from one of those plays (that I am nearly certain I saw at the Schubert) popped into my head. I suppose that the sight of the neighborhood kids’ with few advantages gleefully playing at any opportunity reminded me in some way of Fagin’s gang in this scene. In any event, here is the scene from the glizty movie that I have never seen. My memory is of the lower production value, but higher energy, version of a touring company. As I said, it was something in the air.

(On another note, I just took a look at my LP copy (the big vinyl record with the little hole) of the original cast soundtrack from 1962. It contains a caution for those few listeners in stereo that voices may seem to move from side to side.)

There are a couple of sentences that consistently remind me what life is about. Unrelated events of the past couple of days have me thinking about them more than usual. First, I came across the card handed out at the most recent funeral I attended when I took the jacket I wore that day to the dry cleaner. The words were on this card. Second, the shuffle songs feature of my iPod jumped this morning to a friend’s choral group’s rendition of these words.

A few years ago, some fellow made a small fortune with a book that took approximately 200 pages to explain that the author learned everything important to know in Kindergarten.

Poor St. Francis almost certainly earned not a penny for these words, everything important to do in 42 words:

. . . [G]rant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; . . . .

Is there anything else — or a more elegant way to express it?

About a month ago, I wrote about the repair, or disrepair, of the retaining wall behind our home.† Today is day two of the wall replacement project.

We decided to replace the wall in its entirety with a wall built from engineered stone.† I’ll try to remember to post photos of the new wall as it goes up.† In the meantime, here is a photo of one partially disassembled wall.

Over the course of the last week or so, I have been privy to many conversations on the subject of respect. Invariably, it has been the speaker who deserves more or has been shown too little. I was not a part of any of these conversations; I was simply an observer. As a consequence, I was not in a position to give advice or render an opinion. This is my forum for doing so.

I wish I could have told each of the complainants this simple truth — the shortest path to receiving respect is by showing respect.

To the guy shouting his carryout order over the heads of the half-dozen guests in front of him: Please recognize the principle of “first come, first served.” The people in front of you in line are deserving of your respect, as is the woman taking your order and to whom you exhibit this behavior several times each month. Her demand that you abide by the rules is not disrespectful to you; it is a sign of respect to those you are mistreating.

To the woman talking on her cell phone while the store clerk attempted to wait on her: Just because the saleslady is not trained in mind- or mime-reading does not mean that she is both stupid and deaf. We all understood, however, the rolling of your eyes and your loud sighs. We also heard you tell your friend what an idiot the saleslady was. Funny, she got really smart and efficient when the man behind you made eye contact with her, smiled and (imagine this) spoke his requests clearly and concisely to her.

To the gentleman who upon arriving at the business lunch placed his BlackBerry on the table right in front of his potential client: No, I am not shocked that you didn’t get the contract. Do you have a clue what you told your client with that one gesture? You told him that the person calling or emailing was more important to you than he was, regardless who happened to call. Without a word you told him he was the least important person in the world to you. You could have made a show of turning it off. Better yet, you could have left it in your pocket or your briefcase.

To the person who hung up on the restaurant reservationist: Do you really think her job is to keep you from dining in that restaurant? Or that your bullying will magically make the dining room a hundred square feet larger just for Saturday night? In fact her job is to fill that restaurant to capacity as many nights as possible. And when you threaten to call your “good friend” the owner, you are more credible if you can correctly pronounce your good friend’s name.

This weekend I received further evidence that joy breeds more joy and spreads to those nearby. My recent exposure to this phenomenon came in the form of a church group on an evening outing.

My friend Joe Tucker received a midweek call from the pastor of a church located in a town about 45 minutes from here. His church was arranging an outing for members to attend a weekend gospel music concert at Music Hall that was to begin at 6 pm. They wanted to have a bite to eat nearby before the concert, and they insisted on a non-chain restaurant. They found Tucker’s on the internet. The group would total around 55 guests. Joe explained that he closed at 3 pm, but would reopen for the group. The pastor called back later and said they would love to visit — they would arrive around 3:45.

When I arrived for breakfast that morning, Joe was a bit nervous about the size of the party. He borrowed extra chairs, plates and silverware from the Catholic church next door. The Franciscan Brothers even offered their dining room for the group. Joe was also worried about getting killed after a busy Saturday and before opening for their first Sunday (10 am to 2 pm) the next day after many years of being closed Sundays. Finally, he was worried about being short handed as one server was out of town for the weekend.

I had no plans for the afternoon, so I volunteered to pitch in. Prior to the arrival of the party, I prepped some food, cleaned a bit, fetched borrowed items from next door, and did my side work.

The group arrived just before 4:15. A party of 53, consisting of families from grade school children to their grandparents (and maybe a few great-grandparents). It was a tight squeeze; Tucker’s is normally configured for just under 40 guests.

This group’s joy suffused the restaurant. They were excited about the concert they were attending; they were belatedly celebrating one child’s birthday; they were thrilled to be dining together as a group. The six of us working were immediately caught up in their joy. Our apprehension melted away in an instant. The restaurant was filled with 59 big smiles.

I was assigned a section of four booths, plus served the food to three more. Take drink orders, recite the specials (shrimp and grits, huevos rancheros and vegetarian huevos, oatmeal, grits, only two orders of biscuits and gravy left). Not a single person ordered a special; they had studied the menu on the bus and all knew what they wanted when they arrived. Take orders. A dozen tickets hit the pass within 5 minutes. Coffees, waters, soft drinks, fill, re-fill. The food starts to come to the pass. Several guests have switched tables; no problem, it’s a small restaurant. Everyone loved it all; the smiles got yet broader, the conversation more animated.

“And how would you like your check at this table?” I asked at table 1. Single. Single. Couple. Single plus child at the next table, a child at the counter, the pastor over there and the bus driver. Every table was like that. Their joy was contagious; I couldn’t have cared less how they wanted their checks. I just re-wrote every dup for every table in the restaurant (someone else did the counters) into as many checks as they wanted.

Exactly 75 minutes after arrival, the bus pulled out from the parking lot. 53, very full, very happy guests to go, please. Their joy kept me smiling for the remainder of the weekend and into this morning. I only hope the concert exceeded their expectations by the margin that Joe, Carla and their team did so.

We have a stone retaining wall behind our home. This particular wall keeps the hillside from creeping down and pushing our house away. For 33 years, the wall has performed its assigned duty. And now, the wall requires some repairs. Unlike many other things, walls such as this one have no periodic maintenance program; they appear to demand no attention.

And yet, over the years, the elements have attacked our wall and done their share of damage. Water draining from the hillside has pushed against the back of this wall. Little droplets of water have found minute cracks in the wall. These droplets have infiltrated the mortar that binds together the rock-fabric of the wall. And through many freeze and thaw cycles have managed to break that once strong mortar into grains of sand.

We have two options for fixing this wall:

First, we could chip out all the damaged mortar and replace it with fresh mortar. Several years ago, my wife painstakingly performed just this sort of repair. The fresh mortar she so carefully placed has, for the most part, held. It is the adjacent areas that now show signs of deterioration and damage. This option will require constant vigilance over the mortar joints that were not repaired and serial repairs as new damage becomes evident. Moreover, it does nothing to fix the root problem — the water seeping into the wall. Nothing can be done about the water from the face side of the wall.

Second, we can tear the wall down and rebuild it in its entirety. This option has the advantage of fixing, more or less permanently, the water drainage problem. Within this option are two additional choices, we can rebuild the wall using the same stones that make up the present wall, or we can opt for a brand new wall using an “engineered” stone.

A wall rebuilt from the same stones has two advantages. First, the look will be familiar, and therefore comfortable. Second, it would not involve carting off a massive weight of stone. That rebuilt wall, however, will still have the mortar joints necessary to tie the stones together and give the wall its strength. Once again, the elements will attack these joints, and the cycle will begin anew.

An engineered wall will give a fresh look; and that has some appeal to us. These walls have a face that looks exactly like natural stone, in a variety of shapes, colors and texture. Behind that beautiful face, the blocks interlock with one another, a bit like a big, heavy jigsaw puzzle. The strength of the wall comes not from a glue of sorts rather from the nature of the stone itself and the relationship each has to the other.

We are presently inclined to rebuild our wall but have not yet decided which kind of new wall to build. Whichever wall we decide on, we will take great care in the unseen area behind the wall. We will capture all of that water, moisture and seepage and divert it away from our new, strong wall, thereby protecting it from harm for a very long time.