The Spanish-American War: Columbia Restaurant

Okay, I think I’m ready to talk about it. It’s been stewing in my mind for a few months now, while I thought of the right words to describe what happened. I’m not sure why it seems like a big deal, or why I felt so much trepidation in exploring my inner-most feelings about the experience, but nonetheless, it has been a journey. I have had to come to terms with myself, the horror and the pain, over the fact that I had a bad meal.

It sounds silly, perhaps, that I’ve battled with myself so much over this one dinner at a mediocre restaurant in a beautiful place serving bad food. I went to St. Augustine, Florida, on a long-weekend with my best friend and dining partner, Veronica. After asking locals where they liked for dinner and getting tepid responses, we chose a place called Columbia in the heart of the historical district on St. George Street, a bustling pied-a-terre full of tourists wearing fanny packs and buying faux antiques. Excited about the prospect of Spanish food, we made reservations at peak hours.

I like to eat at the busiest time of the night, especially when I plan on reviewing a restaurant. In Europe, peak restaurant hours fall between 8 and 10pm. In America, it’s between 5:30 and 7pm. At these times, the restaurant shows its true colors, and you can judge the place easily on three main symptoms of peak hours: attendance, service time, and food quality.

Walking into a restaurant at 6pm and seeing it packed with people eliminates the possibility of the restaurant being bad. I use “BAD” as a general term describing the décor, atmosphere, service, and food, the four things reviewers generally use to rate eating establishments. The logic is simple, there are many people, thus something about the restaurant is attractive – usually one or more of the four categories. Columbia was jammin’. Glancing at the reservation books as I made my way to the maitre’d station, they would be full all night. We were led to a table on the third floor of the restaurant, overlooking a balcony and a courtyard. The ambiance and atmosphere of Columbia is breathtaking. The walls are textured yellow and orange on beige, the woodwork is left exposed with high ships-beams on the third floor ceiling. The building is old-Spanish style with the dining rooms like a hollow cube, all looking over a flowering Spanish courtyard. It was clear that the beauty of the restaurant was a major draw for clientele, mostly in their 30s and 40s, donning sport coats and light wraps. I hoped that the food would be as exhilarating.

After a visit from our blonde, pigtailed server, we took a look at the expansive menu. Very few restaurants I have been to that have menus spanning more than three pages have actually had good food. I have learned early, short menus generally mean more-carefully prepared food. Even the oldest restaurants in Paris, La Tour d’Argent and Le Grand Vefour, both temples of haute cuisine, have two-page menus displaying two or three entrees, appetizers, salads, and then desserts. I was completely overwhelmed and unable to make a decision. I did the unthinkable.

I have rules for when I go out to eat (but that’s another blog entry), and I broke an important one. After telling our server twice to “come back in 5 minutes” and still being unable to shy away from Veronica’s impatient glances and my seemingly chronic indecision, I asked our server what she liked. I never do this for two reasons. First, I don’t care. Second, I’m a classically trained chef*. I know what I like. I should trust myself when making decisions about food. I’m not sure what possessed me to ask our server this question, perhaps I felt so nihilistic as to think that I might be eating my last meal. Maybe I needed affirmation. Whatever it was, I will never do it again.

Generally, I don’t order shrimp at restaurants. I never feel full when I eat them (unless I happen to be in the Chesapeake Bay, and 3 pounds of steamed, spiced, seasoned shrimp are laid before me on nothing but a cafeteria tray), and so when the crab-stuffed shrimp with rice and vegetables was suggested to me, I was hesitant, but decided to risk it. Hey, I’d already ordered a four-dollar bottle of imported Spanish water, I might as well live. Veronica (wisely, it turned out) ordered a meat version of paella with chicken and chorizo and pork instead of the traditional seafood. I knew I should have ordered the paella.

After 45 minutes (we were warned that that’s how long the paella took to make), our plates were placed before us. All the anticipation in the known universe couldn’t have made my food taste good. My shrimp were overcooked and rubbery (I had a chef instructor in culinary school tell me that there was nothing worse than an overcooked shrimp. There is – an overcooked mussel.) and the crab stuffing tasted like cornmeal. I searched the stuffing for a red pepper or a shred of onion with no luck. Trying the “saffron rice”, I found no rich smoky flavor associated with both saffron rice and the deepest of Chardonnays. There was about a cup of it on my plate, so I forked around in it for a saffron thread. If they had really used saffron, there would at least be one scarlet thread. Nope. No thread. I had to conclude that they used the spice Turmeric instead of real saffron. Turmeric is a yellow powder used in some Indian and Middle Eastern cuisines. It’s often called “poor man’s saffron” because it’s much less expensive than real saffron threads (an ounce of saffron is about $8, an ounce of turmeric is probably $0.0001) but still gives the yellow color associated with the spice. Paying $34 for an entrée that advertises saffron rice but uses turmeric is appalling to me. I bit into a broccoli floret. It was cold and tasted like the Sysco box it had just come from. At this point, I’m mad.

Maybe I’m a pretentious snob (I am, no question about it) but bad food ruins my day. I also hate to send food back to the kitchen. But I did. The dining room manager came to our table to see if he could do anything. I told him it was just all wrong and I would help Veronica eat her paella.

The paella was fine. In paella, one uses short-grain Arborio rice, which takes longer to cook than regular long-grain rices like jasmine or basmati. It was slightly undercooked, but at least it was hot and not straight off the delivery truck.

I feel bad about rejecting food that’s placed in front of me. It’s an inner struggle between the critic (my chosen profession) and the chef (my other chosen profession). The critic in me relishes the ability to have people scurry about trying to appease me. It is the voice that tempts me to answer the question “how would you like that cooked?” with the smartass answer, “expertly.” But the chef in me knows the turmoil of the kitchen, the stress that comes with food being sent back, and empathizes with the sous chef that has to deal with it.

Regardless, pass up Columbia. Unless you get the paella. Or if you’re really acquainted with your inner demons.

*accredited to Veronica Curran

Mixing the Empty Bowl, Full of Dreams

I wonder what he sees as he pistol-grips the whisk in the red plastic bowl. The big Jewish eyes, the big Moroccan eyes with the long eyelashes that span the Atlantic see more than I do as we cook together on the white tile floor. I wonder what the little girl, almost young enough to be unable to form words and ending her broken sentences with sweet sounds that should be words sees in the blue bowl she is banging with the wooden spoons. Does he see the beige batter, the crystals of brown sugar that we try to break apart with our fingers and unstuck them from the whisk. The hazelnut sized pieces are not sugar to him, they are tiny blue beetles that smile and watch Pixar films with him from dawn until dusk. The little girl with the soft black curls and delicate red mouth that opens wide for black grapes and yellow cherries blushed with red is stirring pink tulle and lace and Barbie heads in the bowl while her brother and I add the chocolate chips.

In France, I teach a little boy, whom I loathe, to make chocolate mousse in tiny glass cups from IKEA. I whip the egg whites into meringues after he cradles the yolks in his 5-year-old hands as if they were the fuzzy yellow chicks they would have become. We save the yolks for no reason and I battle the decision to tell him what they really are. He watches intently as the chocolate melts on the double boiler and his eyes widen as we softly fold the melted bliss into the stiff peaks of the meringue. I believe he knows what is happening and is present for the moment, but I also believe he is buttoning up his white lab coat and heating a blue chemical in a Bunsen burner, mixing with the green slime and waiting for the explosion of foam – like meringue. I know this because he brings me a bowl of rocks and chocolate syrup and plastic bath toys and jam in the morning to show me his “invention.” Then, he brings me a flower for lunch.

On the white American floors, we spill a few chocolate chips as we pour cup after cup of them into the cookie dough. I teach him how to snatch a little bit of it before spooning it onto the greased sheet pan. He grabs the spoon delicately looking up at me with a “like this?” look. I nod gently and smile as I heap the dough onto my own spoon, setting an example. His cookies turn out perfect – next time more egg for more chewyness – but they taste like innocence. They taste like the exact measurements that the recipe called for: two cups of imagination, melted hearts, and a tablespoon of reassurance. We sprinkle walnuts on half of the cookies and he presses each one into the small mounds like we squash the ants on the picnic table on the patio.

The little girl with the black curls and red mouth stirs her Barbie heads and makes sweet sounds that I wish were words.

Weed Whacking

I generally have a hard time admitting when I’ve bit off more than I can chew. So, when I agreed to make more than 1,000 pastries for a 300-guest wedding in addition to my full-time job as pastry chef at a renown restaurant and my part-time job as a corporate coffee barista, I figured that a few more hours in the kitchen could only be a good thing: more practice, more catering, and, most importantly, more money. I took it on without thinking twice or looking back even once.

The wedding reception was set for July 7^th, 2007. Thirty-three percent more couples got married on triple-seven than any other day of the year, so I felt pretty special to be a part of the whoop-la. The chances of my being wed on 07/07/07 were less than zero, so catering was my only in. Besides, as I always say - those who don’t wed, cater.

Catering is one of my favorite things. When I attended culinary school, I never intended to work in a restaurant, even though Fate had different plans. I am, and have always been, deeply interested in catering small dinner parties and events. The intimacy of the interaction with customers, getting to know their personality to create a menu distinctly for them, has always held such appeal for me. Living in France, I was able to cater a few small formal dinners and to this day they remain the most fun work I have ever done. Except for rolling out 300 buttermilk biscuits every morning for six months. That’s the apex of fun. But when I got the opportunity to be the pastry chef for this huge wedding event, I jumped at it.

I received the e-mail with the seemingly innocuous dessert menu four days before the event. On first glance, it was pretty straightforward: mini key lime tarts, petit fours, éclairs and profiteroles, mini flourless chocolate cakes, and mini cheesecake bites. After three hours of math (figuring portion size, ingredient amounts, components, temperature and time for baking, etc), I deemed it a surmountable task. What I didn’t take into account was the inevitable time crunch. Whip 1,000 servings, 7 different pastries, and 2 other time-devouring jobs until fluffy. Fold in endless fatigue, a sick pet rabbit, and gallons of sweat and bake. A recipe for disaster.

On the morning of Saturday the 7^th, my best friend and I had our pet rabbit euthanized. The ordeal took more than the three hours out of my day. It also took all of my emotional commitment to my work and threw it in the incinerator with our white-and-tan bundle of joy. In the restaurant business we use the term “in the weeds” or “weeded” to describe a situation in which there is no way (short of a foodservice miracle) that all the food will be at the ‘ready’ stage on time. Saturday morning, I was past the weeds and into the rainforest. To get out of the jam, I would have needed more than a Troy-bilt lawnmower chipper-shredder. I needed a team of Amazon indigenous persons with machetes in hand and blowdarts to fend off Poison Dart frogs.

By 7:15pm, guests began arriving at the historic Exchange office building in Thomasville, Georgia – 45 minutes to the north on armadillo-strewn County Road 319. Two buffet tables sat in the middle of the rococo ballroom drenched in magenta and black flowers and ribbons and candles. After 2 hours of fretting over melted ganache, bruleeing the meringue on top of the key lime tarts, barking out orders to my impromptu assistants, filling the profiteroles, and topping the cheesecake with finely-chopped strawberries, we overflowed the tables with beautiful platters of sandwiches, fruit, and sweet things.

Taking some trash down the elevator, I ran into the bride’s father, a tall, handsome salt-and-pepper gentleman with a genuine smile and ice-blue eyes that glistened with tears. He thanked me for making his daughters wedding great. “We have been to 6 weddings this summer alone, and we had the best food at our own. We were so blessed to have had you. Thank you.”

At the end of the day, as the last guests danced to Don’t Stop Believin’, everyone was happy. Backbreaking and heartbreaking though it was, no one noticed that there was not marzipan on the petit fours, the ganache on the éclairs had melted into almost non-existence, and the meringue on the key-lime tarts had begun to weep. The bride and groom were off to Jamaica, and Steve Perry was on the speakers. It couldn’t have been better.

Looking back, I probably should have looked before I leapt. I probably should have taken into account that the restaurant was going to be closed for a week and would reopen on the Friday before the wedding – doubling my workload at the restaurant and leaving me little time to get anything done for the wedding before the night-crew came into the kitchen and usurped my stove and convection oven. But I didn’t. Through my tears, I lit my blowtorch.

Hollywood Goes Back To the Kitchen: Ratatouille

“Have you seen Ratatouille?” That’s how my conversations have started for the last two weeks since the movie about a rat-chef in Paris came to theatres. Here is the answer for all of you. Yes. I have seen it. Yes. I loved it.

For my readers who haven’t seen this movie yet, Ratatouille is about an unusual rat in the French countryside who longs to live his dream of being a great restaurant chef in Paris. Events transpire in the luckiest and unluckiest of ways, and he gets his wish. It’s a hilarious and touching Pixar film about how by small means, great things can happen if you just have a little faith in yourself and your friends. Spend the $9 and go see it.

The thing that impressed me about Ratatouille was not the storyline (predictable as it was), or the humor (a typical Pixar mix of adult themes and Stooges-esque slapstick CG antics) – it was the accuracy and delicate nuances of restaurant kitchens that they magically captured. The restaurant kitchen is a highly complex and fluid environment. When one works in a restaurant kitchen for an extended period of time, one develops what Bill Buford, author of Heat, calls the “kitchen sense.” You become finely attuned to the way things move, smell, and feel in the kitchen and eventually become an integral part of the whole. The restaurant kitchen is a living thing, the cooks are its organs, and together, we create a separate entity – fuller, richer, and more complete than the sum its parts. Ratatouille did so much to portray this. The smallest details – the dish machine, the call of “coming down the line!!” in the background, the stacks of eggs on the pastry station – it was all so tangible that it made going to work the next day like stepping back into the movie.

Of course we all have our favorite parts of the movie. The best line, of course is when Remy says to his brother, “You don’t know what it is…and you’re going to EAT IT!? You can’t just HORK it down!” Perfect. I have to remind myself to not hork down the gorgeous plum-glazed lamb shank I plan on eating this weekend. But, bar none, the best moment in the movie is when the cooks find the rats in the restaurant for the first time, and they all grab a weapon with which to fend off the vermin. The pastry chef (second to the left in the still), true to form, grabs the blowtorch. It’s true – it’s real – and it’s spot on.

I can’t imagine the amount of time that the animators at Pixar had to have spent in restaurant kitchens in order to do the research necessary to make the movie so incredibly accurate, and not just within the restaurant, but in Paris in general. Down to the street signs, the rendition of Parisian landscape, skyline, street layout, and ambiance was incredible – down to all of the patrons of the restaurant, at the parties, or on the streets wearing black. They really do. The plating of each dish in the movie was enough to make any chef take notes and sketches.

But perhaps the best thing that came from the release of the movie is that when I buy eggplant, zucchini, squash, bell peppers, and tomatoes, I won’t hear a chorus of “Rata-WHAT?” when my friends ask what I’m making.

Whatever: Valentine's Day At A Semi-Dysfunctional Restaurant

This blogpost was originally written on Tuesday, February 20th, 2007. It was deleted, revised, and then reposted due to popular demand and lots of whining from On Food And Eating fans. Enjoy.
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It is well documented that every line cook in every slightly dysfunctional restaurant has a "whatever" stage. It usually arrives at the tail-end of a disastrous dinner service, around the third or fourth hour, and may or may not be accompanied by the phrases, "Fuck this place," "I'm finished," or, on rare occasions, a walk out the back door.

Many things can trigger early onset of the "whatever" stage. Too many orders coming into the kitchen at once, repeatedly being ignored by either clueless servers or disinterested kitchen staff, and so on. It's different for everyone.

My recent trip to the "whatever" stage came on Valentines Day of 2007. Valentine's Day is the busiest day of the year for the restaurant industry after Mother's Day. Our executive chef decided to leave at 8:00. Orders were piling up on both hot and cold sides of the line. Everyone was yelling for everyone else to "shut the fuck up, for fucks sake." I think we all got to "whatever" at the same time.

Isaiah, our appropriately-named, indescribably-quirky grill guy usually gets there first, bemoaning the inevitability of there not being enough filet mignons cut for the night. Tonight is no exception. Being Valentine's Day, there is the clichéd Surf & Turf on the menu, comprised of (you guessed it) a lobster tail and a filet mignon. However, many patrons decide (for whatever reason) that they prefer to order Surf & Surf (two lobster tails) or Turf & Turf (two fillets). In a really hot, really noisy kitchen, this could be a problem when yelling out orders. "Surf" sounds a whole lot like "Turf." Some would say that they even rhyme. Isaiah was unable to handle this. After a 25 minute argument during the busiest dinner service of the year about the nuances of the word "surf" as opposed to the word "turf," and incessant bitching about what the servers could write on their order ticket, Isaiah uttered the first "whatever" of the night. He then went back to making all of his steaks medium-to-mid-rare, regardless of the specification on the order. Isaiah's "whatever"s are generally followed by two or three "don't talk to me"s in rapid succession.

Jim, our diminutive-but-capable sous chef, got there next. Working the saute/fish station, Jim often has the pleasure of dealing diplomatically with questions about vegetarian preparations, monosodium glutamate, replacing side dishes with other ones (usually ones we don't have), and inventing child's plates. On a normal day, when the entree menu is mostly static, this is tolerable. But not on Valentine’s Day. After the 6th can-we-replace-the-Jerusalem-artichokes-for-fried-green-tomatoes question, Jim throws his hands up, tongs in the right hand, towel in the left, shakes his head and says loudly (but not yelling, Jim is not a screamer), "Whatever, man. Whatever." He says this defeatedly to ex-acting-student-turned-possibly-career-server Will, who saunters away, inevitably feeling guilty. Jim takes a sip of his "Pepsi" and begins the dish: rosemary-scented lamb rack with cranberry Israeli couscous and, now, fried green tomatoes. Jim's "whatever"s are usually followed by hearty, "I hate this fucking restaurant," and then "but you know -," then a half-furtive-half-impish glance over at me across the food window at the pantry station, "whatever," he finishes.

I hardly ever get to the "whatever" stage of the evening. This is due to several things. 1.) The ease of the pantry station. Three salads, maybe two appetizers, and then the desserts. Boring. 2.) My high tolerance for the stress, the yelling, and the bitching. But not on Valentine's Day 2007. Tonight, I am getting sick. I have been feeling it coming for weeks now, and I can't fight it any longer. I have to listen to Dan, our expediter (he's the one who calls the orders as they come in from the dining room), a testosterone-laden, chain-smoking, 19-year-old Italian, flirt with the new hostesses that Chris, our general manager, hired because they're hot - not because they can read, which, it's obvious by this time, they can't. I also have to listen to Isaiah continuously bitch about the Surf vs. Turf ordeal, and listen to Jim tell Isaiah to "shut the fuck up, for fucks sake." Yes, it's ten o'clock and we're still taking appetizer orders when we're supposed to be closed at nine. Shut up. Make food.

I am about to lose it. I have been quiet all night. I have been telling myself silently for the past 4 hours that if I have to fucking work this fucking station one more fucking time, I'll fucking kill myself. Salads are piling up on the food runner's table next to me, impeding my progress on the next order. None of them are being acknowledged but any food runners/hostesses/servers/anyone with arms, when I finally yell (I AM a screamer), "Is ANYONE with ears working in this restaurant, or am I just -- god DAMMIT. WHATEVER. I don't give a fuck anymore." And that's what my "whatever" is always followed by - a very loud, very sincere, "I don't give a fuck."

"Whatever-stage reached!" Isaiah announces to the kitchen. We are all ready to give up and walk out - except for Dan. He will futilely keep hitting on hostesses (who are all, inevitably, named Leslie) until they finally realize that he's serious and will avoid him for the rest of the night.

Isaiah is really the only one with a stage past "whatever." After that, he goes into hysterics. Everything makes him laugh. The laughing is mixed with something that's supposed to be "hell yeah" but just ends up sounding like "Eleagh." Listening to Isaiah laugh makes me even more angry. I have to go into the walk-in freezer and consort with the vegetables to calm myself down.

At 11:30pm on Valentines Day 2007 , there are still people in the dining room. A girl server comes in and tells me that her table wants a creme brulee and a cheesecake. I take off my apron and say, "tell someone who cares." I walk out the back door.

"Goodnight, sweetheart," Dan says as he puffs on the evening's last cigarette.

"Fuck off," I mutter in his general direction.

"Whatever," he replies.

Frog Legs and Fine Fare: Catfish Johnny's

Under a few hundred live oaks, their mosses dragging the ground under a cool October sky, is the town of Lake Panasoffkee, Florida. Only 900 residents populate the town. It is not even a dot on the map compared to its neighbors – Orlando to the south, Tampa to the east. But while diminutive in size, it holds the secret of a regional style of cooking found from Biloxi to Nashville to Charleston. Traditionally, the line of Southern cooking has been drawn at the Florida/Georgia Parkway. However, the breadth of Southern lifestyle, ingredients, method of preparation, and culinary personality crosses the border and extends as far south as Gainesville, 200 miles into the state of Florida.

While commercial chains like Cracker Barrel attempt to hone in on this down-home, rustic style of food preparation, no restaurant I have found comes close to the level of mastery, the cornucopia of ingredients, and the comfortable ambiance of Catfish Johnny’s in “Lake Pan.” Catfish Johnny’s is a low-key, casual dining restaurant, boasting indoor seating for 50, outdoor patio seating for 25, and a dance hall with a bluegrass band every Saturday night. It preaches the gospel of Southern cuisine – fry everything.

A typical Southern meal includes generous portions – no one is to leave the table hungry. At the end of the meal, third or fourth glasses of sweet tea are poured into Styrofoam cups, topped with lids, and sent home with each guest – a typical gesture of Southern hospitality.

An assortment of fried seafood is always available in the South, especially freshwater fish and reptiles. Catfish Johnny’s is no exception. A typical combination plate includes piles of gator nuggets, fried oysters and clams, fried catfish fingerlings, and, yes, fried frog legs, which I love. For the less adventurous Southern connoisseur, fried chicken, grouper filets, and butterflied fried shrimp are also available.

Vegetables get simple treatments, the preferred method of cooking being frying. A hot plate of fried okra is always on hand, ready to be smothered in Crystal Hot Sauce, straight from the plant in New Orleans, Louisiana. After Hurricane Katrina, the plant was utterly destroyed, sending lovers of the hot sauce scrambling to buy water, batteries, and cases of Crystal. But, I digress. Another time, perhaps.

Johnny is there, too. He’s always occupying the table in the corner of the restaurant. There’s only one corner, really. His table is guarded by at least five of his close friends and a petrified alligator head from a 12-footer that Johnny ‘wrassled’ in his yesteryear. His white beard, silver hair, and rosy, bespectacled cheeks make him the jocular personality you would expect from a man bearing a nickname like, “Catfish.”

Dine indoors or out under the live oaks, and Catfish Johnny’s will be an authentic Florida experience. All it really needs is a swamp. But you wouldn’t want 6-inch dragonflies as dining partners.

Real Mexican

Alan’s blonde hair, hanging in tousled curls, was spattered with blood. He clumsily fumbled with his white Hanes undershirt and worn khaki cargo pants as he crossed the rocky clearing toward our primitive campsite. The dark scarlet streaks that hideously painted his clothing belied the grin across his boyish face.

“He skinned that thing in three strokes. It’s grotesque. He’s trained for this one ceremony all his life, and performing it is his sole purpose in the tribe,” Alan said, never wiping the sparkle from his eyes.

Thousands of miles high in the Sierra Madre mountain range, our camp was in the tiny settlement of Rowerachi – a home for 200 Tarahumara Indians, and our domicile for the past two weeks.

After the blazing sun and work gloves and repetitive 50-pound lifting, we were all tan, tired, and happy. We had painted schools in Chihuahua city, installed a shower and sink in an albergue (homeless shelter) in Cuatehmoc, and planted crops with the Tarahumara. Our service to these people was about to be rewarded with some hearty Mexican fare.

A boiled goat.

And home-made tortillas – which are, by all means, transcendental pillows of rough cornmeal and fat.

Served with a boiled goat. A whole one.

Alan had been among the few of us brave enough to watch the killing and blood-letting ceremony. The tribe had prepared an all-night gathering to commemorate our service and thank us in a formal way. Medicine men and tribal elders danced and struck goat-hide drums adorned with silver trinkets and dried nuts and seeds until the sun came up. The donkey that stood guard next to our camp brayed excitedly, waking us at odd intervals as we slept next to a dying fire under the trillion stars that shimmered above us.

The goats neck was sliced with a sharp blade with a bone handle, supposedly painlessly and quickly. The blood from its carotid artery was quickly clamped by a pair of rough, tan hands, but not before it sprayed abhorrently in all directions, as Alan’s formerly pristine undershirt attested. One of the elders dipped his small hand into the clay pot used to collect the syrupy lifeblood from the goat. He chanted a blessing of thankfulness and commitment to the Tarahumara gods and released the goat's animal spirit to them. He deftly flicked drops of blood to the cardinal points of the compass in order – north, south, west, east – in the sign of the cross.

After the final repetition of the ritual, the goat slinked lifelessly away in the arms of two men in identical plaid shirts and yellowed jeans. Their besandaled feet were rough and calloused from work, the way mine should have been inside my high-end running shoes and triple layered socks. I silently cursed my fifty-dollar pedicure and longed for a pair of black, rubber tire-soled sandals held on by quarter-inch rope straps. I watched them saunter away and hang the goat by the neck to a thick log rooted into the ground by thousands of years of tradition.

The goat’s eyes stared through their opalescent sheen straight into the distance, to a point invisible to everyone except dead goats. Another man in a flannel shirt with straight black hair and a wide nose approached the upright animal with macabre familiarity. In three quick flashes of his blade, the goat was skinned naked. Completely exposed, the body was rubbed with oils and spices as it was prepared for boiling.

My travels in tourist-free Mexico had lead me to eat things I never thought I would eat, nor think I will eat again. In a cubbyhole taqueria in Chihuahua City, I was in the mood to try something new – tripas, or “tripe” in more familiar terms – was the taco of the day. Bathed in spices and masked by red cabbage, queso fresco, and lime, the innards were a new texture – soft and chewy – probably not an everyday staple, but not vile enough to be passed by without thought. Cuahtemoc afforded us the best roasted chicken I have ever eaten. Juicy and tender, crisp and flavorful, served with verdant salsa verde, it was a treat each of the five times we visited La Albergue de Pollo.

Goat, however, was not on my to-eat list. At 9:00 am as we said adios to the Rowerachi settlement, its sparse landscape and parched buildings, its people warmed our hands and hearts with handshakes and smiles, leaving our insides as glowing as our skin. We watched as they extracted the whole goat – head, innards, and hooves – out of the steel cauldron. We watched as the women in vividly colored dressed pulled off the grey meat in large hunks and thrust it toward us gratefully, robed in a fluffy tortilla.

Our first shower in two weeks awaited at the bottom of the mountain, in the logging town of Creel, twenty miles – and four hours – down a rocky, steep grade. And while we packed our gear into the black SUVs we arrived in, the bitter, gamy taste of the goat, so graciously prepared, was the sweetest memory.

Gnocchi with Mom

My mother did not teach me how to cook. Unlike most students at culinary school, I didn’t stand next to my mom and stir the pot of simmering sauce. I didn’t watch my mom bake peach pies from a 5,000 year old family recipe. I was off playing with my chemistry set, or practicing the piano, or writing and illustrating a book of poems. Food was necessary, but if my mom had just served us a plain Ball Park hot dog on a plate, I would have bee happy. There was no family restaurant, no gourmet dinner outings, and no storytelling in the kitchen. My mom, whom I know recognize as an amazingly intuitive and instinctive cook, never taught me a thing in the kitchen. The lessons she did teach me, however, have carried over into my culinary life and have made me a better chef.

The one time I do remember cooking with my mom was upon the arrival of our new cookbook series, “Look and Cook,” a marvelously detailed and photographic set of instructional books from TimeLife. These cookbooks were truly idiot-proof. Mom told me to pick out a recipe from the “Italian Country Cooking” book and we would make it together. Most of the recipes from the book were fairly simple, lots of pastas, pizzas, and some antipasti – but, being Holly Kapherr, I chose the hardest, most time-consuming recipe in the book. Spinach gnocchi.

Gnocchi is a small nugget of potato pasta that is rolled into long, inch-thick logs and then cut into inch-and-a-half pieces before being thrown mercilessly into a pot of boiling water. I have seen old Italian mamas (and Mario Batali, who might as well be an Italian mama) put the dough in a garbage bag and cut off the tip to make an enormous pastry bag. The gnocchi bag is put under their arm like a bagpipe, and squeezed with the elbow. The gnocchi come out as cute little tubes, and are met with the mamas thumb or a pair of shears to cut the gnocchi right into the boiling water. I have not been able to do this, nor will I ever, most likely. This kind of advance gnocchi-making is not for the “Look and Cook” home chef. You can add lots of things to the dough, including lemon zest, figs, or, as in this case, spinach. Gnocchi is probably one of my favorite things, but now it carries a history behind it. I will probably never make gnocchi (or its tinier cousin gnocchetti) ever again. After spending five hours rolling the dough and cutting the little gnocchis and watching most of them disintegrate into nothingness in the pot, my idea of gnocchi is that they should, and for me always will, come frozen and parboiled.

All through the grueling tedium which was our gnocchi adventure, I never once (and never have since) saw my mother throw up her hands in despair and defeat. She is the kind of woman who takes a step back, takes a deep breath, assesses the situation, and comes up with a more efficient way to deal with it than throwing a tantrum (the option I usually choose, along with a pint of ice cream and mindless television). I thought about this today, being Mother’s Day, the day after I ruined eighteen crème brulees in the space of 4 hours (in 4 batches) by leaving them in the oven too long and curdling them into cheese and whey. I was about to cry, give up, and walk out, when I thought about the way my mother dealt with our gnocchi. Our feet hurt that day, and my seven-year-old attention span was drained to empty, but my mom kept going. When a gnocchi fell apart, she spooned it out gently, rolled it in some flour, and dropped it right back in.

I want to handle my life like my mother handled the gnocchi. I love you, Mom.

Oven Jockey

According to Chef Tom Beckman, a medium-bald, bespectacled bread-maker in Chicago, there are two kinds of chefs in this world – those that have a secret affinity for the baking and pastry arts and those who want nothing to do with it at all. The former enjoys the world of the savory – the smell of caramelizing mirepoix, the sizzle of the salmon as it lies prostrate in the pan – but quietly shivers with anticipation as he watches the chocolate soufflé rise or smells the rosemary as it browns on top of the focaccia. The latter, however, replaces that quiet shiver with a gag reflex and a cold sweat.

I am happy to be a part of the first group. Since Cypress Restaurant has eliminated the lunch service, my usual station as sauté cook has been relinquished. I will never again make a Monte Cristo sandwich, I will never again cream rice into mushy, mushroomy bliss, and I will never pour two-hundred degree Cream of Artichoke soup on my hand ever again. Actually, I probably will. But in the meantime, I will be over at the pastry station. I will be rolling dough into perfect circles for flaky biscuits. I will be whipping chocolate and butter into devilishly rich flourless chocolate cakes. I will be covered in flour, and, when I itch my nose (which, inevitably, will itch), I will look conspicuously like a cocaine addict.

It has only been a week since I started my new, sweeter life at the much cooler end of the kitchen. And yet, I have already gained new pastry awareness. I can put a tray of pecans in the oven and not set a timer. 13 minutes later, I will smell their toasted doneness wafting out of the steely convection oven, and my clothed hand will reach in and deftly pull them out. I can smell the cornbread croutons crisp and brown. I know the amber color of the caramel when it is ready to be made into brittle. I know the slam-slam-flip sound of the pizza dough banging against the side of the mixer when it is set to be slid into a cold, oiled bowl, covered with film, and placed on top of the oven to rise.

The greatest thing, to me, about being a pastry chef – and also probably my downfall – is the ability that the mind has to wander. When working a culinary station like grill or sauté, it’s BAM BAM BAM. Your mind never has time to slow down. While your body is sweating and shaking, your mind is also sweating. You must remember what’s on the stove, whether that salmon was medium or medium-well, whether it’s going on a salad or as an entrée, what the side dishes are, what needs to be fired next, whether it gets blackening spice or not, how long it’s been – HOLY SHIT – HOW LONG HAS THE FUCKER BEEN IN THE OVEN!?

That’s what your mind sounds like. Culinary stations are an uphill battle. And all the while, the ticket machine goes chik chik chik onto the next table’s order.

But while you’re working your forearms rolling 144 tiny biscuits, which are affectionately known at Cypress as “flat nasties” because they’re, well, flat, and “nasty good,” you can think about so many other things. What you have to do that day, your plans for the future, whether or not to break up with your boyfriend, and so many other random thoughts. Singing along with the Eagles “Tequila Sunrise” is also acceptable while cracking and separating 40 eggs for four measly quarts of crème brulee custard that will be gone the next day.

There is a science behind the cracking and separating of the eggs. Gloves, of course, are essential – no one likes an eggy hand. Crack the egg on a hard surface and pull it apart (over the trashcan) into two separate but equal hemispheres. Catch the yolk gently in your left hand as the mucus-esque white dribbles through the slivers between your fingers. I love how heavy the yolk feels by itself and how delicate it is in my palm. Don’t make this too automatic though – I often find myself cracking the egg into the trashcan – white and yellow – and then cursing at myself and thinking about how much that single egg cost and how much money we could have made from it. That’s what restaurants do. Everything – every last raspberry – is a lesson in food costs.

I am quite surprised that I am so enamored of the baking arts. My first exposure to real baking was right before Christmas in my Intro to Baking class at culinary school. Getting the basics right – creaming butter and sugar to the right consistency, whipping meringues until they are shiny and stiff, and thwapping the back of a baguette to make sure it’s hollow inside – were not such a problem. The problem was the oven.

I don’t want to seem too self-deprecating, but I’m not the most graceful woman in the world. As my boyfriend Gordon puts it, gravity doesn’t look good on me. Nor does it like me very much. Gravity, coupled with heavy objects and several hundred degrees of heat, on the other hand, is a shoe-in for complete disaster. I’ve had several unfortunate experiences with ovens, not the least of which includes grabbing a 500 degree plate with my bare hand, feeling it stick to the flesh on my fingers, and then throwing it eight feet across the kitchen. I had three beautiful blisters develop directly after the five minutes I spent crying in the walk-in freezer. But the first time I ever became truly afraid of the 8-foot-tall convection oven monster was in that first baking class.

Becoming too comfortable with heat was my first mistake. Underestimating the weight of a full sheet tray laden with white chocolate and cranberry biscotti was the other. The rack that the sheet tray was on was about five feet high, and grabbing it with my right hand, covered with a cloth, was proving to be difficult. I am also about five feet high. The tray slipped off the rack and hit me square on the side of my chin, scorching the skin and giving me a nice looking scar that remained for months – turning from red, to blistered, to dried-up skin, to scab over several weeks. My boyfriend at the time, Cory, started calling me the “oven jockey” and made fun of my battle scar for weeks. He didn’t last much longer than that.

It’s a sweet life, I have to admit. Working from eight until two, smelling the chocolate in the oven and knowing the exact moment when the finished cake cracks, pouring cream over butter and chopped chocolate to make a satiny ganache, and discovering the endless combinations and cooking methods that make the coupling of cream, eggs, and sugar into thousands of different things – lemon curd, pastry creams, crème brulees, ice cream – is enchanting. But while I try to tame the oven, and while I learn the hard way not to overcook custards (so they don’t end up as Grand Marnier cottage cheese), I’ll be thinking about where this will take me, how much more desirable I will be as a chef with pastry experience, and what color I should paint my toenails.

Little-Known Fact

I thought this was fantastic. Something I just learned...

The term "biscuit" comes from the French meaning "twice-cooked."

Bis - twice
Cuit - cook

The term also originally referred to any bread or pastry that are baked until dry and hard (a la biscotti) - but has evolved into the American morsel we love - full of solid fat, baking soda, and buttermilk.

That, my friend, is our heritage.

Pour THIS over your biscuits this time around:

Southern Oyster Gravy

4 oz. bacon lardons (or streaky bacon, coarsely chopped)
1/2 c. chopped leeks
1/2 t. garlic, minced
1 1/2 c. heavy cream
8 shucked oysters, drained and rinsed
Salt and Pepper, to taste

In a hot pan, drizzle 1 teaspoon olive oil and add the bacon lardons, cook until fat has been extracted and bacon is crispy.

Add leeks and garlic, and saute until the garlic is fragrant and the leeks are transparent.

Gently pour in heavy cream and add oysters.

Reduce until thick, about 1 minute. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Pour generously over fluffy, hot biscuits and garnish with chopped fresh parsley.

Grandma Food

Three seventy-something-year-old men break into a chorus of “Daddy’s Little Girl” as they cradle their vodka tonics in their hands reverently. In the pastel light of the retirement community-style living room, full of white-washed oak furniture and sea green carpet, the Master’s tournament glows on the television and murmurs in the background. A tan woman with squinty eyes and a brusque Long Island accent bastes a massive ham covered in dried fruit: apricots, pineapple, cherries, and – appropriately – prunes. The smell is almost as overwhelming as the rousing baritone coming from the trio; we are all laughing through our tears.

“Did you bring your Tupperware, Veronica?” Grandma asks. Our care package is already being planned, the remnants of the feast are already being packaged up in our minds eye, ready for the three-hour trip back to Tallahassee. There will be creamy peas and mushrooms, prosciutto-wrapped asparagus, au gratin potatoes, slices of the massive ham, and an incredible sweet potato pie with golden raisins and spicy ginger (“I’ve never made it before. I hope it’s good,” Grandma says furtively of the delectably transcendental and utterly perfect pie).

The dinner begins with the pouring of wine, of course. White Zinfandel for the older ladies, Merlot for the rest of us. After appetizers, none of us are willing to wait very long. Along with the customary chips and salsa and crudités, buttery crackers accompanied an unusual layering of cream cheese, cayenne pepper, apricot preserves, and sliced almonds. Unexpected, crunchy, creamy, sweet, and spicy. After that, our appetites are ready – we need Grandma Food.

We pass the bread around as the virtues of Jonathan Winters are extolled, John Travolta’s home is admired, and more wine is poured. We laugh, we pray for rain, we talk about Passover dinner, and the old times in New York. We pass the pie. We drink from our wine glasses with palm trees etched in the frosted glass. We talk about the Clintons, Obama, McCain, Edwards, and the Kennedys. We pontificate over Frangelico, Kahlua, and a three-layer sorbet bombe.

Grandma Food is always the same – comforting, homemade, unmarketable, and perfect. It always fits in the Tupperware. It always tastes the same when you heat it up. Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter are all Grandma Food holidays. After the egg hunt, we all sit down in at the lace-covered table and pray that allergy season will be over soon. But it’s Florida, and there will always be pollen. And there will always be Grandma Food.

Comfort Me With Collard Greens

There’s no denying it, residents of Tallahassee need comforting. Traffic is stagnant, weather is unpredictable, and exams are constantly looming ahead. It’s a good thing, then, that many of Tallahassee’s best restaurants offer comfort food to assuage our troubled souls. There are staples on every menu, from grits to greens, all singing the praises of the Southern grandma, cooking diligently over the stove and reminding us of happy times.

The term “comfort food” typically relates to any food that grants the eater a sense of security, contentment, and nostalgia. These foods are the ones we turn to in order to find respite from high-stress situations. Tallahassee’s local restaurants have taken the “comfort food” to new heights, as many of our upscale restaurants offer them in innovative ways. Southern comfort food can be broken down into three loosely-delineated categories: white food, fried food, and long-cooked food.

White foods continue to make appearances on menus all over the country, but in the South, they are special. Of course, the most regional of them are grits – coarsely ground corn kernels made into a kind of porridge – which have affectionately been given the acronym: Girls Raised In The South. Grits typically serve as a vehicle for cheese, butter, and cream, which are also white and therefore fall into the group. Also included are mashed potatoes, biscuits, creamed vegetables (including, but not limited to, spinach and corn), macaroni and cheese, and rice.

Nothing is more Southern, or more Tallahassee, than dipping a juicy chicken leg in a thick, viscous batter and deep-frying it until it is golden and crunchy on the outside and juicy and flavorful on the inside. The process of deep-frying is simple, the oil in the fryer repels the moisture in the food, and the oil heats the moisture in the food, steaming it from the outside in. Frying foods has been a Southern tradition for decades, and the distinctive flavor of the crunchy crust imbues us with a sense of home. Fried chicken and catfish reign king and queen of this category, along with their courtiers: fried green tomatoes, pork skins (“cracklins”), fried pickles, fried okra, and, of course, French fries.

Long-cooked foods are those that involved one or more ingredients and a significant cooking time. These foods are usually stewed, braised, or boiled, and end with concentrated flavors. An example of this is the traditional preparation of collard or mustard greens, which are cooked until completely tender, generally in conjunction with bacon. Other examples are stews (jambalaya and gumbo are included), chitlins, boiled peanuts, and beans.

These three categories are best found together, making the quintessential Southern meal. Try Mozaik’s Pecan Crusted Grouper, served with grits and collard greens, or Cypress’ Oysters and Biscuits appetizer for a comforting, but classy, dining experience.

Cheap Outs: Tallahassee's Best Under $15

Summer is America’s vacation time. With all the cashflow going to airline tickets, cruises, or hotel stays, eating out on a budget can be difficult when you’re looking for more than a burger and fries. But it can be done! You can eat great food for a great price here in Tallahassee. Here are five fantastic finds for under $15 that will appease your appetite without breaking the bank.

Po’ Boys –

Unpretentious and comfortable, Po’ Boys has perfected the art of the Big Sandwich from the Big Easy. The fried pickles are not to be missed, and check out the Buffalo Chicken Po’ Boy sandwich, a great option for those opposed to the classic oyster or shrimp versions. Expect a crowd during lunch, but make an effort to visit during a Sunday brunch on a lazy mid-morning. $8-$12, three locations, call (850) 224-5400 for information.

Fusion: Lunch –

Lunch at Fusion on N. Monroe and Sixth is an upscale choice without the upscale price. Flavors are sophisticated but forward and the dishes are expertly prepared. Favorites like the smoked tomato and vanilla bisque and roasted vegetable pita make Fusion lunches a refined alternative to fast food. $10-$15, call (850) 222-4956 for more information.

The Main Ingredient –

There is no dearth of choices at The Main Ingredient, located at the intersection of Tharpe and High, where patrons build their own meal from a flow chart of decisions, starting with the selection of “the main ingredient” (ranging from eggplant to chicken breast), and ending with accoutrements. All of the steps put together can end up being pretty pricy, but it’s guaranteed that you will not leave hungry. The ability to personalize your meal and the virtual inability to order the exact same thing twice makes The Main Ingredient a fun and innovative dining experience. $10-$15, call (850) 383-8333 for more information.

Gordo’s –

Hot, pressed sweet bread, smoky ham, melty Swiss cheese, tangy pickles and mustard – the Media Noche at Gordo’s Cuban Café is a mouthful of flavor. Start with the unbelievable croquetas, hot and filled with ham. Add a side of spicy French fries with Cuban sauce and you’ll end up very happy. Cuban food is a way of life at Gordos on Pensacola. Finish your meal with a steamy café con leche (coffee with sweetened condensed milk) and a creamy flan. $6-$10, call (850) 576-5767 for more information.

Pitaria –

Don’t be put off by the spit of roasting, revolving meat through the kitchen window – it’s only gyro, packing a fantastic roasty-meat flavor and stuffed into a pita. Eating at Pitaria calls back memories of European street food, but for Tallahassee residents, Pitaria is a healthy option for Mediterranean food lovers. The casual atmosphere (Pitaria is most frequented by between-classes students and faculty) and affordable prices puts Pitaria high on the Tallahassee foodie’s guilty pleasures list. Don’t pass up the stellar Fozi’s Falafel pita and the homemade baklava. $5-$9, call (850) 412-7482 for more information.

The Mortality of the Critic: Cypress

It hits you when you look at the last stringy strand of turkey on the Thanksgiving plate. You are surrounded by laughing family, telling stories of Thanksgivings past when Uncle Harold forgot to stuff the bird or when Cousin Laura forgot the milk in the pumpkin pie. You look at the last bite. You have been eating for 2 hours. You cannot see your feet under your enlarged girth. It’s over. You acquiesce. You lay down on the couch. Unable to move. A champion eater in your own right – you are defeated.

Cypress defeated me this weekend when I went with Veronica for dinner. The rosy walls and ten thousand palm tree paintings stared at me with a challenge. I am usually able to eat anything without feeling uncomfortable. I can go to all-you-can-eat night at Sonny’s and leave ready to get to Coldstone for a Gotta-Have-It sized Birthday Cake Explosion. After Cypress, though, I finished my entrée (and the four courses and two drinks prior) and barely forced down two ounces of espresso, all the while longing for the pear galette served with bleu cheese ice cream and candied walnuts that I would never be able to experience - at least not in the next few hours. Cypress brought me to my knees and reminded me of my own gastronomic mortality.

I thought it couldn’t get any better when I wanted to lick the plate that the amuse bouche was served on. A tiny stack of grilled foie gras sandwiched between two rounds of savory sweet potato bread pudding and topped with fig preserves and drizzled with exquisitely tart green apple gastrique tantalized me and dared me to call it out into battle. I mopped the last of the vivid gastrique up with my slice of ciabatta and washed it down with my green-appletini. Executive sous chef Brian Knepper came out to say 'hello' and Veronica informed him that he was "the only man who could get [her] to eat goose liver." This was quite a feat for Chef Knepper, being that Veronica's main staples include cheese, ham, and tortilla chips.

My mother tells me to worry about my cholesterol. She’s probably right, but I figure that my stubborn abstinence to egg yolks will cover me. But when a sea-glass green plate was set in front of me with three cheeses, I couldn’t resist. After living in Paris for more-than-a-few months, my inability to refuse cheese has grown steadily worse. On the left was a Green Hill double-crème, which was a half-brie/half-Camembert hybrid that had already half melted on its way from the kitchen to my table. In the middle was a “drunken goat,” an aged goat cheese cured in red wine, giving its rind a beautiful purple hue. My favorite was on the right. I have to admit, there is something romantic in a deep, flavorful moldy bleu. Cabrales is a Spanish bleu, milder than Gorgonzola, but still carries that signature tang. The cheese plate was drizzled with balsamic vinegar reduction and included a small mount of dried golden raisins and cherries. Twenty minutes later, the plate was empty, and the chance of Lipitor being in my future has increased significantly. And then I helped my best friend finish her artichoke and kalamata olive piadini, which was, of course, covered in melty mozzarella.

I could have stopped there and been comfortably full.

But the promise of a grilled-to-medium-rare full lamb rack was too much. It pulled me in. My plate was placed in front of me – a stack of perfect chops on a bed of roasted white asparagus and potato, celeriac, and spinach gratin, topped with daikon radish sprouts and drizzled with whole grain mustard vinaigrette. I chose an Argentinian Malbec, not-too-tannic yet still fruity and smooth, as a perfect complement for this unbelievably beautiful and exciting dish. The lamb was beautiful, the asparagus was crunchy, the gratin had an exciting Parmesan aroma, and I finished it. All of it. All that was left when I was through were six clean bones.

And I couldn’t move.

It took all I had to sip on the single espresso I ordered.

I was defeated. I couldn’t order dessert. But I was defeated with honor.

I lay down on the couch when I returned home and fell asleep.

It was 9:30.

For more information on this fantastic restaurant, visit www.cypressrestaurant.com. Believe me, you want to eat here.

A Refreshing Understatement: A Review of Fusion

It’s like a really big box. A grey steel box. The décor is sparse, modern, or almost non-existent - I can’t really tell. The only light that glows in the room is the one coming from the kitchen. Against the darkness of the dining room, it is like the ethereal light of 10,000 blinding fluorescent bulbs. But in grander terms, it is the light of inspiration – the focal point of the restaurant. For decades, restaurant kitchens have remained tucked away, making food preparation like a magical illusion. At Fusion, in Tallahassee, the kitchen is on display. A testament to the restaurant’s main point – the food IS the magic.

The nouveau cuisine restaurant on the corner of Monroe and Sixth Avenue concentrates inspiration. The star is the food. It is not hidden or disguised. There are no flashy furnishings or fanfare to be distracted by. Fusions message is simple: Focus on our food. That’s what we care about here.

At lunch, the only glow comes through the two front glass doors. The long, ashen corridor leads to the large grey room – the dining room. The tables are casually set. The menu is full of attention grabbing descriptions of vegetable filled tortillas and half-pound roast beef-and-swiss sandwiches. For the most part, the lunch menu isn’t ostentatious. Sandwiches, wraps, salads, and an incredible smoked-tomato-and-vanilla soup (that I now occasionally dream about) dominate the list of lunchtime comestibles. Fairly straightforward, but expertly executed.

Lunch began with the aforementioned impeccable smoked-tomato-and-vanilla bisque. The rich red flavor of the tomato hits the palate immediately. After the swallow, the smoky essence and creamy vanilla floats upward, into your nostrils backwards – like the long finish of a good wine. It is, quite literally, bewitching. The turkey sandwich is fantastic and comes with tomatoes that have been macerated in citrus, leaving you with a splash of pungency that only the squeeze of a juicy lime, and no ordinary turkey sandwich, can deliver. The veggie tortilla sandwich is an explosion. Fried marinated artichoke hearts and other veggies are bound by a thin slice of melted provolone for a refreshingly cheesy package. Lunch at Fusion fulfills the Refreshing Lunch requirement to the letter.

Order a cocktail if you come for dinner. Fusion hosts a hip bar (open from 6pm-2am) with equally hip, young barstaff, willing to please the ultimate cocktail junkie’s palate. The same rule applies to beverage as well as the food – pungent and minimalist. The martini menu is extensive, boasting concoctions like the Bluetini (blueberry vodka, blueberry juice, and skewered blueberries) to the Mangotini. The cocktail list will have you salivating long before appetizers are a glimmer in your eye.

When food starts to arrive, the minimalist style is showcased. It’s like a reverse fanfare. There is so little showiness to the food that it contains its own flourish, no sassy plating required. The butternut squash dumplings are a burst of autumn in each bite. The creamy squash is pureed and mixed with a hint of curry – an aroma that slips into your mouth through the backdoor. The dumplings are both flavorful and mellow, even if they are a bit greasy for my tastes. The cumin sauce drizzled around the dumplings gives a nice round feeling of September to the dish. Fusion also puts an innovative twist on classic bruschetta pomodoro. The crostini at Fusion are topped with broiled, smoked Gouda (an often overlooked Danish cheese that releases an understated smoky flavor when heated) and citrus marinated tomatoes with a hint of mint.

Inconspicuous is a good word to describe Fusion’s entrees. My dining partner ordered a gorgeous medium-rare New York Strip, flavorful and well-prepared. My choice was a crab-and-corn-stuffed snapper with drawn butter. The fish was flaky and the skin was kept on the meat, allowing for the juices to gather between the meat and the skin, making it extra moist. The stuffing, however, was forgettable.

The only problems with the entrees at Fusion are the accoutrements (what comes with the dish). Or lack of. My snapper was served with two halves of a fried green tomato – a Tallahassee staple. The steak came with five (5) battered onion rings. Where was the roughage? The lack of greenery and the prominence of fried things was disturbing, and rather upsetting after such a great start. However, it is almost (stress on the almost) remedied by the complimentary salad that precedes the entrée – choice of three, all delicious.

Desserts aren’t made in-house, and thus aren’t worth a mention – or an order. Go to Bruster’s Ice Cream on Tharpe Street for dessert.

The wine list is beautiful, infusing classic flavors with New World styles. Wines are mostly American in selection with some funky Argentinian, Australian, and Chilean choices. For the most part, the staff is untrained on wines, so knowing what you like ahead of time will save some ungainly fumbling. However, if your order includes a heavy fish dish, like my crab-stuffed snapper, order the last Chardonnay on the list, it is a full-bodied, smooth white wine that holds up to the serious flavors of the snapper and corn-crab stuffing.

Service at Fusion is very hands-off, even when a little help is requested. Your server is virtually invisible, replacing silverware, dropping off cocktails, and clearing plates without a word. The college-age staff is a sophisticated and unpretentious group, carrying on the theme of the restaurant.

The experience at Fusion illustrates a point that has gone well unheralded in the restaurant world. Minimalist doesn’t have to mean boring. Flavor is the main attraction at Fusion, and it is clear that the restaurant demonstrates strict observance of that rule. In a restaurant where garnish is almost non-existent, the actual eating must carry a tremendous weight – and it does.

Fusion is open Monday-Saturday for a delectably exciting lunch, and Tuesday-Saturday for dinner. Average dinner check with appetizer, entrée, dessert, and tip will be approximately $35-$45. Make reservations on Fridays and Saturdays. Prepare to be impressed by a grey box.

Wine Trek: The Big Six

Recall the scene in the 007 classic “From Russia, With Love.” After sitting down and ordering dinner on the Orient Express with the assassin Donald Grant, who is posing as James Bond’s informant (who he has actually already killed), Bond feels suspicious of Grant, and pulls a gun on him. Grant catches Bond by surprise and, after a short grapple, he knocks Bond to the floor by a blow to the back of the neck. Bond looks up at his attacker and says (in true 007 fashion): “Red wine with fish…well, that should have told me something.”

Choosing a fantastic wine to accompany a great meal without the help of your server is not impossible. However, it is necessary to know a little bit about the main kinds of wine available. Once you are familiar with the major varietals (that’s what we posh wine connoisseurs call “types of grape”), you can make an educated guess on the kind of wine that would best suit your meal choice. There are six primary varietals, and with them come a few classic food and wine matchings. What follows is a brief explanation of “The Big Six.” We’ll begin with the three whites (from lightest to fullest): Reisling, Sauvignon Blanc, and Chardonnay, and will continue to the three reds (from lightest to fullest in body): Pinot Noir, Merlot, and Cabernet Sauvignon.

WHITE:

Reisling

Reislings are the lightest in body of The Big 6. Depending on the age of the Reisling, the wine can range from light green to straw yellow in color. Characterized by crisp acidity, and a smoother, sweeter taste, Reislings are often the wine of choice for newer wine-drinkers. However, when matched with the correct food, Rieslings can make ordinary food transform. The Reisling varietal is native to Northern France (Lorraine) and Germany. The cold climate slows fermentation of the grape, leaving most Reislings with a lower alcohol content, settling comfortably around 11%. When smelling a Reisling, you will detect notes of fresh cut grass, honey, and even petroleum.

Also try: Gewurtztraminer (Germany) (usually drier than the standard Reisling)

Classic Pairings: Thai cuisine

Spicy Curry

Cajun cuisine

Sushi

Fruit-based desserts

Sauvignon Blanc

Fuller in body than a Reisling but less powerful than a Chardonnay is the Sauvignon Blanc varietal. It ranges from light greenish to honey in color, and is characterized as a “fruit-forward wine.” This means that the amount of fruit that you can smell in the wine overpowers the other minerals or alcoholic aromas. Even the tiniest sniff at the top of a glass of Sauvignon Blanc reveals its fruity essences. Grapefruit is always dominant, with hints of green apple and pear. You can also smell a bit of a herbaceous quality in some brands, including parsley, chive, and tarragon. Sauvignon Blancs have a clean feeling that makes a well-chilled glass a perfect aperitif for a summer barbeque.

Also Try: Pinot Grigio (Italy) , Pouilly-Fuisse (France)

Classic Pairings: Steamed, baked, or sautéed white fish with spring vegetables

Barbequed Shrimp and Vegetable Skewers

Chardonnay

No doubt about it, Chardonnay is the best known varietal. Its creamy feeling and smooth acidity give it the edge when it comes to pleasing a crowd. It is a full-bodied white wine that stands up well to seriously flavorful foods. Depending on the age of the wine, Chardonnays can range from light green to caramel yellow – a huge span that makes Chardonnay an extremely versatile wine. Classic Chardonnays are smoky, with flavors of ripe apple, and pear. These flavors are paired with aromas of butter, spices (like nutmeg and cloves), and oak. The oak smell comes from the wood barrels that Chardonnays are typically aged in.

Also Try: Chablis (France)

Classic Pairings: Salmon with beurre blanc sauce

Lobster Thermidor

Seafood linguini with cream-based sauces

Cheese-Stuffed Chicken Breast

RED:

Pinot Noir

The Pinot Noir grape produces a red wine suitable for any occasion. It is a light-bodied wine and a fantastic one for white-wine lovers willing to give reds a try. The color of Pinot Noir wine ranges from ruby red to cranberry, depending on the age of the wine. It is a very earthy wine, usually smelling of clay, leaves, mushrooms, vanilla, and minerals. In some cases, you can smell dark caramel or berries, usually raspberries and sour cherries.

Also Try: Gamay (France), Shiraz (Australia/New Zealand)

Classic Pairings: Wild Mushroom Risotto

Grilled Game Birds (Pheasant, Quail, Duck)

Rotisserie Chicken

Merlot

A classic Merlot can bring sophistication to any table. Being medium-to-full in body and tannic in nature, a Merlot is an old-standby that charms even the most discerning tastes. Newer Merlots, a year or less old, are cranberry in color, but can develop into deep brick red wines. Usually a chocolate-cherry smell, Merlots can also carry scents of bakeshop spices like nutmeg, clove, and cinnamon that are even detectable by beginning connoisseurs.

Also Try: Syrah (France), Sangiovese (Italy)

Classic Pairings: Molten Lava Chocolate Cake

Garlic-Studded/Herb-Crusted Lamb Rack

Cabernet Sauvignon

The best known red wine grape is indisputedly the Cabernet Sauvignon varietal. Full in body and with an erudite reputation, Cabernet wine enjoys the reputation of being the wine of choice for true wine drinkers. Cabernet Sauvignon is heavy on the tannin feeling, leaving a lasting feeling in the mouth that lingers long after the wine has been swallowed. They are typically dark raspberry-to-brick red in color and carry essences of cedar, blackcurrant, cherries, and even eucalyptus (in Australian vintages).

Also Try: Medoc (France), Tempranillo (Spain)

Classic Pairings: Bleu Cheese-Crusted Filet Mignon

Boeuf Bourgignon

Dark Chocolate Desserts

Knowing The Big 6 is just the first step to understanding more about wines. From this list you can make a fully-reasonable hypothesis about what wine to order with your dinner, and that will help you to enjoy your dinner much more fully. Wine is not meant to overshadow or steal the thunder from food. On the contrary, wine and food are delicate complements, and creating the perfect symbiosis between the two takes practice. With these guidelines, you’ll look like 007 when making your selection. After all, only evil assassins order red wine with fish.

To be published in the Summer issue of Good Outs: Tallahassee magazine