The Good Book

I happen to love cookbooks. Really love them. I pour over a good cookbook like some people pour over The Sunday Edition of The New York Times. It has become something of a borderline obsession, yet few obsessions can net such wonderful results. I don't remember the first time I picked up a cookbook, but I do remember the first time I saw one in use. My father had a well worn (complete with page markers, and the requisite dog ears) copy of the James Beard Cookbook. If there is a classic slice of 20th Century Americana, that book might be it. He spoke of it in hushed tones, filled with reverence. I would watch, seemingly every holiday, when it was his turn to let his gastronomic prowess sit center stage. He would carefully take out his copy of James Beard and lay it upon the counter next to whatever hulking mass of meat he was attempting to conquer for that day. He would flip through the text with the deliberateness of an Ivy League scholar, stopping only when he had found the perfect recipe for preparing a 92lb. turkey (slight exaggeration.....I think). In my father's eyes, it seemed as if only James Beard could crack the code of deliciousness found on the other end of pounds of animal protein. Though I can't say for sure, I believe that The James Beard Cookbook was the only cookbook in our home. This is not the current state of affairs where I lay my head, where cookbooks seem to be multiplying at an alarming rate. The collection is small by 'foodie' standards (there is that word again), certainly not large enough to facilatate intellectual conversation at a dinner party. I do not own a pristine first edition copy of Larousse or Escoffier. I have no turn of the century treasures, and I certainly own no books outside of my native tongue. Well you may ask, what do you have? I have cookbooks that I cook from. I know, it seems like such a dated idea, but I can assure you that for me, therein lies the joy. I love reading about food, but my purest moments come from cooking a meal inspired by (but not neccessarily driven by a recipe) a book in my collection. In fact, my favorite books are a combination of prose and recipes. I am particularly enamored with authors who give background, or a certain set-up to a particular recipe. This is where inspiration seems to strike. These are the moments when an impromptu trip to the market seems so apropos. And then it happens. I lay the book out on the counter, ponder the ingredients I have gathered, and begin to cook just as my father did so many years before. This is why I love cookbooks, for their ability to inspire and cultivate a love of food and culture that has been lost in our fast-paced society.


Two weeks ago I took a stroll through Central Park, finding my way to Kitchen Arts and Letters at Lexington and 93rd. I do not exaggerate when I say that walking through the door made me feel like a pilgrim arriving in Mecca. It was staggering, overwhelming, uplifting, and inspirational all in one single moment. I felt like my friend Jonathon when he enters the hallowed halls of an outdoors store. I literally had to catch my breath. Here was a store whose entire inventory is formed under one single banner, food. To Nach Waxman, the store's owner, I say unto thee.....bless you, you are a fine man indeed. I only had a brief amount of time to spend in the store, and therefore decided not to make any purchases, but rest assured, there is a return trip planned in the not so distant future. I will alot at least two hours for that next visit, and can say with a great degree of certainty that I will not be leaving empty handed.


This trip made me start to ponder what makes a great cookbook. Not what makes a bestselling cookbook (the NY Times Bestseller List is often filled with the likes of Rachel Ray and the rest of the Food Network gang, though this week Alicia Silverstone's vegan cookbook The Kind Diet is #2, funny indeed), but what makes for a great book in my humble eyes. One thing to note is that I cannot recall the last time I rigidly followed a recipe (my forays into baking and pastry are an exception). Though I cook from the books I own, it is more about ideas, inspiration, sequence, and technique. When a book comes out and is opened on the counter, it becomes a guide, something akin to grandmotherly advice from over your shoulder, rather than doctrine to be adhered to at all costs. The other important thing to remember is that I never find a recipe, rushing off to the market in order to obtain a set list of ingredients. Instead I go to the market, leisurely strolling about, seeing what looks good (a novel concept), basing my purchases on the simple premise that fresh is best. I trust in my five senses to take me to the promise land, knowing all too well that my cooking can only be as good as the ingredients it is composed of. But alas, I digress (shopping will be something I talk about often in the months ahead). With ingredients at the ready I can dive into my favorite part of every cookbook, the index. That is correct, the index. Wow, I got these amazing brussel sprouts at the farmers market, what am I going to do with them (roasted in the oven, then tossed in a pan with bacon is quite good)? After scanning several indexes I will come across something that sounds interesting. Then I read the recipe, or passage in some case, and begin to cook. Maybe I consult the recipe here or there, but I am adamant about cooking in my own voice, so that the food comes from me. I believe this to be often overlooked, yet incredibly important. Books that inspire this process are the ones I cherish, the ones I continue to learn from time and time again.



The other aspect of cookbooks that I adore are those that include passages, sections, background, or chapters dedicated to the story behind the food. What is this ingredient, where does it come from, and when is it at its best. What region of what country did this recipe originate in, and how has it evolved over time. How and why did the chef create this dish, and where did the inspiration flow from. And the human element, it draws me in every time. Food is so important to the human experience. It is essential to life, yet rooted in so much pleasure. It defines culture and origin in ways that nothing else can. It is the source of memories that are so vivid to our lives that they never fade. To me, all this adds up to truely compelling reading, where my appreciation for food grows by leaps and bounds.



So what books do I love? I will name a few, to be discussed more later.

Appetite by Nigel Slater

The Kitchen Diaries by Nigel Slater

Urban Italian by Andrew Carmellini

The Zuni Cafe Cookbook by Judy Rodgers

The Fat Duck Cookbook by Heston Blumenthal

Think Like A Chef by Tom Colicchio

Momofuku by David Chang and Peter Meehan

Zingerman's Guide To Good Eating by Ari Weinzweig

A Return To Cooking by Eric Ripert and Michael Ruhlman

On Food And Cooking by Harold McGee

The Art Of Simple Food by Alice Waters

James Beard's Theory And Practice Of Good Cooking
(In between starting this post and now, I had the pleasure of spending time with my father. I asked to see his James Beard book, which he quickly pulled out. Low and behold, it is an autographed copy, and even more remarkable was the fact that my father insisted that I take the book with me. I felt very guilty doing so, but he insisted, and I will insure that it is read and cooked from for years to come. Thanks Dad.)

The Beginning

First things first, I love food. Sometimes it is hard to describe a passion that has been with you for as long as you can remember. Memories that are so ingrained that they seem as if they could have happened yesterday. I can still recall the sound and smell of my mother frying up a beautiful batch of crisp, succulent onion rings for the family. Spending countless hours fixated on shows like The Frugal Gourmet, Great Chefs, or the people's choice, Julia Child. Weekends and holidays spent watching my father take over the cooking duties, turning out jaw dropping roasts, or juicy cheeseburgers from the backyard grill. Somehow, my memories seem inescapably tied to the food that I ate. I can recall with infinite detail, the ritual by which my grandmother would toast frozen Lenders bagels, always the onion variety, always slathered with margarine (I have since forgiven the margarine misstep). My childhood recollection of restaurants is filled with the inevitable journeys to fried seafood palaces with names like The Captain's Galley, or Fisherman's Wharf, the product of a solidly middle class New England upbringing. I'll never forget my first journeys to New Haven's Wooster St. to share a bacon and onion pie with my father, at the time not even fully grasping what a magical example of culinary prowess lay in front of me (to me it just tasted great). We didn't have a lot of money, but looking back, I can say without a shadow of a doubt that we ate very well. My childhood food memories are blanketed in a unique sort of purity that I have recently begun to try and recapture. It was simply about the food. How it tasted, how it smelled, how it sounded when being prepared. The quiet contentment that washed over the participants as they dove into the first forkfuls of something remarkable.

So I've decided to write a blog about food, about cooking, about restaurants. About the cookbooks that I can pour over for hours. About the seminal experience of placing a beautifully crafted piece of cutlery in your hand. About recipes I love, and the abismal failure produced by others (I'm blaming my own lack of skill, not the recipes themselves). About the farmer who grows some of the most beautiful potatoes I've ever had the pleasure to eat. About chefs that at times seem like rockstars, some residing on TV, others toiling away in subterranean caves, little bigger than my bathroom. About moving to New York City, where the culinary landscape extends as far as the eye can see (both in the good and bad direction). About cooking for my girlfriend, whose diet a few years ago consisted of frozen pizza, chicken nuggets, and lucky charms (I have made some real headway in this department, but more about that later). About the fact that when I put on some good music, brew a great cup of coffee, and get down to the business of cooking a great meal (by my own humble standards of course), I feel real happiness.

Why the Humble Cook? The truth is, we all cook in some way or another. Some create elaborate six course dining extravaganzas, filled with obscure recipes, clearly chosen as an ego boosting exercise of gastronomic superiority, without any regard for our guests palettes. Some of us have become microwave ninjas, so adept with their skills, that a filling dinner akin to a heap of seasoned cardboard can be produced in just minutes. Many of us fall somewhere in the middle, neither chef, nor TV dinner slave. I'm just another cook, who really loves food. And since I am now residing in New York City.......well, you get the idea.

There is one thing that I have to air out, and that is that I would never refer to myself as a foodie. Why is that you might ask, especially given the fact that food is the central topic of this blog. If you search for the definition of a foodie online, you will get any number of results ranging from an aficionado of food, a gourmet, or even someone who keeps up with the latest food fads. In the end it comes down to what is inferred by the term, and the fact that I simply don't think I fit the bill. These days, when someone says 'foodie', there are certain stereotypes that are far removed from who I am, and how I view food. I will never sit in a restaurant and take pictures of my meal. I will never equate white linen with 'good' food, and street vendors with 'bad' food. I have never eaten in a Michelin starred restaurant (though I would love to at some point, albeit not for the service, but the meal itself). I will never spend more time bashing restaurants I don't like, instead of praising ones I do. I don't have an infinite amount of resources to spend on food, restaurants, equipment, etc. I have never eaten foie gras (though I'd certainly be up for it). I will never spend my days researching little used adjectives, so that I can launch an incredibly pretentious diatribe about the highs and lows of a meal. I am perfectly okay with saying "that was great". I have never thrown a formal dinner party. I love grilled cheese and tomato soup, and am perfectly okay with it being constructed with good old american cheese and a can of campbells (I don't need it deconstructed into a masterpiece of cold foams). And here is the final kicker, so hold onto your seats ladies and gentlemen............I don't drink wine. Yes, I said it, no wine for this guy. I will assure everyone who is now in a state of panic that it is possible to enjoy food without a glass of wine. I've done it, more than once. I promise, even if you don't believe me. So for me, it's just about the food, and the great people who serve it, cook it, sell it, grow it, write about it, and raise it. So a foodie I am not, but a food lover I will always be.