Baby Purple Artichokes

Yesterday, wandering the Manhattan Fruit Exchange at Chelsea Markets I stumbled across these gorgeous baby purple artichokes. They immediately conjured up images of the south of France, a sun-drenched terrace on the hillside cooled by the early summer breezes. The table ablaze with the wildflowers that color the landscape. Intermingled with the flowers these beautiful baby artichokes carefully peeled down to their crisp and tender hearts sliced razor thin, lightly drizzled with olive oil and sea salt. The perfect beginning to a meal that might include dandelion greens, delicate young asparagus and morel mushrooms foraged from the nearby forests.

This is the type of dish I would imagine serving at my own home if say Richard Olney or Alice Waters were coming over for dinner. Serving something so simply takes a lot of guts and confidence in your produce. When shopping for artichokes search out the ones with firm, smooth leaves that are tightly closed. They should be of good size too, not too small or they become hard to handle; too big and they're tough or stringy when eaten raw.

Myself? I sat inside on rainy New York City night with a sharp knife, a bottle of rose and some great company; dreaming or warm sunny afternoons far away from taxi cabs, garbage trucks and honking horns.

“Where’s the fucking squid?” The call pierced the calm, Sunday morning air. The entire table’s gaze shot immediately to the open kitchen, just feet away. I sunk into my drink and waited for the questions to come. It was my cousin’s 16th birthday and the whole family was out to celebrate with an early lunch in a SoHo hot spot.

My uncle looked at me, hesitated and asked if the yelling was a normal part of life in the kitchen. “Well yeah, especially if just a few months ago your kitchen failed to earn a single star from the New York Times,” I thought. Our food arrived before I had a chance to respond. As the plates were set on the table I tried shrug off the question with a quick response “It happens, I mean its like ‘Hell’s Kitchen’ all the time, but it happens.” At that point I realized what all the yelling was about; the family was all ready to tuck into their apps until they noticed the empty place setting in front of me. Ah-ha, that’s the “fucking squid” that had caused all the commotion. When my plate finally arrived it was clear that the cook had cracked under the pressure. It was poorly battered and had been pulled from the fryer before the coating had a chance to crisp completely. The chef’s screaming accomplished it’s goal of making the food appear on the plate, but I would have gladly waited if it meant receiving a “fucking squid” that was properly cooked.

Moments before our appetizers arrived, we had just been commenting on how civil and calm the kitchen seemed. I looked around the half empty restaurant and suggestively remarked that it was still early. The kitchen did a fantastic job of proving me right. The plates from our first course had been cleared and I was attacking my second drink, trying to beat back the lingering effects of Saturday night as I watched the maitre’d and the GM make their way back to the kitchen. They stood at the pass talking with the chef, it seemed the kitchen was falling behind. My attention shifted back to the table while the drama continued to unfold in the kitchen. A few moments later all attention was back on the kitchen. “You know you’re not helping a goddamn thing. Get the fuck out the kitchen and let me do my job.” The chef screamed at the only two people in the kitchen not wearing a white jacket and apron as he pointed toward the dining room. He shouted once more, then turned his back to them and returned his focus to getting food to the diners who were all now watching him. The two men in suits lingered, adding a few parting comments and returned to the dining room.

The rest of lunch went relatively smoothly. I for one enjoyed the entertainment provided during the meal, though I’m not sure the mothers of young children sitting near us shared my enthusiasm. This is the danger of an open kitchen. We are all voyeurs to some extent and the open kitchen indulges this guilty pleasure while letting the diner feel like they’re part of the action. Although, sometimes it’s better not to know what happens behind the curtain; when the pressure of service hits tempers flair and politeness and consideration go up in flames. Success in the kitchen is truly survival of the fittest and if you don’t have thick skin, your chances of survival (or crispy calamari) are pretty low.

Whole Foods

I set out today on a mission… to dislike the new Whole Foods Market on the LES. I failed miserably. As I walked south on 3rd Ave, I worried about “the little guys” like 4th St Food Co-op, a small store-front shop that stocks only organic or sustainably produced foods. What would Whole Foods, this block long behemoth, do to stores like this? A place like 4th St is already plays the role of underdog to the larger stores with enormous purchasing power. “That hippie store,” my roommate calls it. I guess that’s a tough moniker to shake when a large percentage of your sales come organic granola, but I think they’re secure in who they are and have a loyal enough following that they’ll probably be alright.

All in all I can’t dislike what Whole Foods is doing. They are bringing responsibly produced food to an enormous amount of people. The store makes a valiant effort to educate customers about where their food comes from and how it is produced and highlights local and artisan producers. These are the issues that we as consumers must be focused on. Even here in New York City there are so many responsible options. They may not always be the most convenient, but these are the places that are working hardest to reduce the footprint we leave on this Earth. Support them all— shop the local markets (like the Co-op and the Greenmarket) and then go Whole Foods to pick up the rest. Naturally produced food is better for all of us.


This new Whole Foods on the Bowery, however, is quite impressive. It’s the company’s largest store in NYC (20,000 square feet better than the Union Square outpost) and it has everything. You enter the store from the corner of Bowery and Houston directly into an immaculate produce department. There is an amazing Formagerie, with an impressive of cheeses from around the world and a very well versed staff on hand to help you find the best and stinkiest. It also features an expansive food court with one section devoted entirely to ‘pommes frittes’ (some might call it a french fry bar’) and next to that a gas fired pizza oven. Upstairs two chefs are on display, manning the stove at Whole Food’s take on an Italian osteria, plus sushi, coffee and more.

Shake Shack

Ah, The Shake Shack. The new right of warm weather that New Yorkers look forward all winter, says the Alabama-boy who just moved here upon his his first trip to “the shack.” I met my roommates there for lunch today to find out what all the excitement was all about. And I must say, I wasn’t let down. Well, not completely.

We walked up 5th Ave, hung a right at the Flatiron Building, crossed Broadway into Madison Park and the shack was living up to expectations— there was a line that wrapped around the south end of the park. The wait proved to be about 45 minutes (we didn’t actually time it), which isn’t bad, it’s a great opportunity to discuss racism, or whatever the topic of the day might be, and prime people watching time.

The greatest surprise of our time in line was a classic example of the hospitality that Danny Meyer is famous for. After passing about ten minutes in line a Shake Shack employee began circulting through the line handing out mini frozen custard floats— a tiny scoop of the shack’s homemade vanilla custard bobbing in small cup of your choice of orange or grape soda. It was delicious, a great throwback to a treat we both remembered well from our childhood.

I went all out on my food order in an effort to sample everything, and here’s the rundown:

The ShackBurger was excellent, a thin patty of fresh ground meat griddled on a flat top, served on a tender bun with fresh lettuce, tomato and ‘special sauce’ (which was mostly mayonnaise and didn’t really add anything, but it didn’t hurt either).

My excitement wasn’t as high for the Taxi Dog which was a tough skinned hot dog topped with kraut and an onion-ketchup compote. It was the only real disappointment of the trip.

I polished that off with an order of cheese fries. They are crinkle-cut fries from organic potatoes and fried in oil free of trans-fat. That means they’re healthy, right. Well, at least they had a chance at being so before they were doused in melted cheese sauce. If you need a recommendation on these I will reiterate— they’re french fries covered in cheese sauce.

So there ends my two hour, virgin excursion to The Shake Shack. Will I be back? Yes, at least until the free ice cream floats dry up.

Mac n' Cheese

I’ll never forget my first bowl of mac n’ cheese. I’m not talking about the first time I ate that frighteningly electric orange creation that comes out of a blue box, but REAL mac n’ cheese.

I was in high school, it was a cool spring morning and my best friend and I had just returned to his beach house after a few hours of searching for a decent wave in the Pensacola Beach surf. Surfing in Pensacola requires an inappropriate amount of time spent paddling against the current to stay within the break of the waves, which are often nonexistent anyway. All of that said to raise the point- we were tired and VERY hungry. We hosed off our boards, brushed to white sand off our feet and climbed the steps to the front door. My friend’s dad was behind the stove whipping up a little lunch. “Who wants some of Bob’s Famous Mac n’ Cheese” he called as we walked through the door, knowing that it was even really a question. I grabbed a seat at the bar to observe the action in the kitchen. Pasta was boiling away on one eye and a pot of cream was beginning to reduce on another. Then he pulled out a block of cheddar cheese and started grating. The cheese was stirred into the reduced cream, tossed with the pasta and served— still a little soupy in my bowl— it was a revelation.

Three and a half years later, when I began working for Frank Stitt at Café Bottega, I experienced another revelation and refined my mac n’ cheese technique even further. The recipes that follows is a simplified home version of the dish I learned to make at Bottega. The crunchy, almost burned crust that tops this dish, along with the tender pasta and creamy cheese underneath, is what makes it truly special. What we created at Bottega required no less than four cheeses and a wood-fired oven, which produced a rich, crispy, slightly smoky masterpiece. If you’re ever in Birmingham, AL it is definitely a “can’t miss.” Until then, this recipe is more than satisfactory.



Macaroni and Cheese

1# Box of Penne Pasta, cooked
2 Cups Grated Cheddar Cheese
1 Tbsp Srirracha Hot Sauce, or other hot sauce
1 Recipe Bechamel, see link
1 Cup grated or diced Mozzarella cheese (optional)
½ Cup Parmesan Cheese
Preheat oven to 500˚

Prepare the béchamel and keep hot while the pasta cooks.

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil and cook the pasta until it is just tender. Drain the pasta and set aside in a colander to steam dry for a few minutes.

Add the cheddar cheese and hot sauce to the béchamel, stir until melted and smooth. Combine the pasta and cheese sauce, mix well and taste for seasoning. Stir in the mozzarella (if using).

Pile the pasta high into a large gratin dish or cast iron skillet and cover the top with the parmesan cheese. Place the pan in the oven and bake until the top is golden brown and crisp, about 15 minutes. Cool the dish outside of the oven at least 5 minutes before serving.