i'm high on cooking - tomfarmery for all!!!

November 10, 2010 carrello d’carne

look. i’m from jersey, and i know diners.

as i’ve traveled most of the good ol’ usa in my time, and a healthy amount of foreign soils, i have always been convinced that jersey was the one and only true home of the diner. in fact, the jersey diner, should be referred to as such—the jersey diner—so as to differentiate it from all the other greasy spoons, box cars, and drive-ins guy fieri might shovel down his gullet.

and then, we went to italy, drove into reggio emilia just as sunday service was letting out, and walked into trattoria canossa. on the recommendation of a local, we were in for some “typical reggiani fare”. a half hour from modena, birthplace of true balsamic, and a half hour from parma, home of the globally famous aged cheese, and a half hour from bologna, stomach of italia, traditional fare sounded pretty righteous. we walked into the restaurant, i looked at her with my big goofy smile, and said the first thought that came to mind: “it’s a diner!” the smells, the uniforms, and hum of the staff and the diners—i was instantly transported to a jersey diner circa two thousand ‘one, cutting school, and high as a kite. perfection.

mere seconds after “non parlano italiano” stumbled out of my mouth to the fast talking waiter who approached us, and a steaming slab of lasagna with a half bottle of the house red wine was slid in front of us. literally, seconds. when it comes to food, language matters not. with a view of the italian grandma cooking in the open kitchen, and with the first bites of seriously home cooked lasagna touching my tongue, i knew the jersey diner’s supremacy was instantly up for contention. and once my plate went from saucy red, to bread swept white, two sweet sweet words put the nail in jersey’s coffin: corello d’carne? that’s right—meat cart.

compartmentalized tubs of boiling meats pushed on a cart by a jolly knife wielding server. submerged in liquid, and raised up with a lever for slicing tableside. little of this. oh, some of that. yes, please the rabbit, too. tongue? sure. some of that bloody tube there, please. pig leg….mm hmm. this is no diner i’ve known.

the cart of meat would have made the crew back at farm255 proud. all sorts of odds, ends, and insides. the types of cuts butchers in brooklyn are becoming famous for serving, presented in the most regular and common setting these people know. totally normal. just life.

it should be no surprise, i suppose, that the birthplace of so many other things, has been crushing the jersey diner scene for millennia. hats off.

p.s. when farm’s sous farmer chef francois and i saw this little beauty at the salone del gusto, we were excited. when we sat it at torino’s eataly, we twirled its wheel and marveled at its craftsmanship like giddy school girls. and now, after seeing it in almost a dozen trattorias, hosterias, and macellerias across italy—i’ve become convinced that this stunning meat slicer is in the five year plan. love me some berkel.

Comments

September 15, 2010

i landed at laguardia and immediately doubled the hop in my step. new york. the concrete jungle. metal and glass shoot out of concrete to neck wrenching peaks. every skin color under the rainbow speed walking to and fro.

women in dark suits and men with links on their cuffs weave through the sea of pedestrians—the extra thick wheeled strollers, the men in uniforms, the school children, the homeless and the fashionistas—each on their way to somewhere more important.

as i stand on this unlit corner i see more people in my periphery than i can catch in an entire day in georgia. i see thousands and thousands of tiny glass portals into tiny ant lives. the flickering glow of their flat screen tvs billows out of their lofts and casts a muted light on my face that somehow resembles the moon.

a lady with leather pants and a leather face sprints in front of my taxi, her boy toy in tote behind, shirt unbuttoned, cigarette burning. it’s six am this morning, and its obvious they’re venturing home for the first time since tuesday. just one story of millions that took place on this random week night in the jungle.

when i left brooklyn i considered it an epicenter—a hotbed—of local and sustainable food. the meat hook, and marlow, with their always stuffed cases of perfectly cut meat—never even frozen—the green markets, the private chefs, and the cooking classes. hogs raised in queens and honey bees on the roof. leaving the city and heading south, however, there is one shining piece of the puzzle of which new york cannot attain.

the dirt.

a people separated from dirt is a people separated from earth—from the mother, from the creator, from g-d and the holy spirit, and from jah. for dirt is from whence we came. if the dirt is alive, and if from dirt we came and shall one day return, what can one say of a place with no dirt? is this place a façade? can it really exist? a place with no dirt is a place dependant, and can a place as such truly be free?

“the great cities rest upon our broad and fertile prairies. burn down your cities and leave our farms, and your cities will spring up again as if by magic; but destroy our farms, and grass will grow in the streets of every city in the country.” –william jennings bryan, speaking at the dnc eighteen ninety six.

nyc with all its freedom, all its accomplishment, all the modern marvels of man. the sports teams and the fashion lines. madison ave and the bowery. secret freight entrances on not secret streets leading to back room card games, and all night benders. the subway and the high line. pizza, hipsters, delis, wall street —none of it exists without the dirt.

Comments

December 14, 2009

meat audible

most of the time i have no clue what i am going to eat for dinner until i walk into the butcher shop. it’s not like my arriving at the butcher shop was some sort of surprise. and it’s not that i’m too lazy to plan ahead—no, no. it just sometimes, if i head to the shop seeking some pork, for example, all i really did was miss out on the lamb, which actually looked the choicest.

you know, that one on the top shelf. the glistening red meat, encased in creamy fat. the one the butcher just sawed off for me, rubbed down with fresh rosemary, garlic, and kosher salt, tied and wrapped in paper for me? ok, so by now you should have figured this is no longer hypothetical, but if you haven’t, just go ahead and ring your call button and tommy will come back there and hit you on the head with a tack hammer.

anyways, i had gone to the butcher shop with some pork plans for my dinner guests, but just couldn’t resist that lamb. the meat hook, unlike marlow, hasn’t started selling much produce yet, so being at the hook, i took what they had: shallots and potatoes. and my mother always says, when life gives you shallots and potatoes, you roast those ‘tatoes with garlic and thyme until they surrender into a hot flaky pile and mash ‘em up with some pan braised caramelized shallots. then you got yourself a side dish. i know, i can’t believe she always says that either. it never made any sense until tonight.

hot steaming pile of potatoes and shallots recipe

Comments

December 03, 2009

o brother where art thou

my brother came over for dinner, so i did the sensible thing and went to the meat hook to pick up a pork roast for four or five people and a handful of duck hearts.

the pork loin was gently patted down with spicy italian sausage and kosher salt, rolled up, tied up, and diamonds scored across its backside. seared on a cast iron and slow roasted for an hour.

the duck hearts were butterflied open and sprinkled with pink sea salt. briefly seared in hot sesame oil, sliced, and served immediately. a quick snack while the roast did its thing.

on the side kale with zucchini and cashews. the kale was quickly sauted in very hot olive oil and wilted with some fresh garlic. the nuts were chopped and roasted for ten minutes with smoked paprika. kale, nuts, and zucchini, tossed together to warm just before serving.

Comments

November 19, 2009

you can get a good look at a bull’s ass by sticking your head up there, but…

the new space is awesome, and they know it. tom, brent and ben—draped in blood stained whites and knives tied with chain links around their wastes—have a renewed swagger in their steps, and for good reason.

the meat hook’s home: old factory, natural light, dark wood ceilings, and massively tall brick walls. the building resembles an old european church more than it does a butcher shop.

highlights: very tasty collection of old cookbooks, beer making supplies, and of course, a jam packed chest high display case of locally sourced and beautifully hued pasture raised meats.

i joined them last night for the new location’s inaugural pig butchering class. besides the obvious components—sawing it apart and slicing it into all the recognizable cuts—a sleep deprived (opening week) tom mylan dropped a handful of knowledge bombs on the pork loving crowd (and a few well timed man on man jokes for good measure). while pin pointing the ham (basically the upper thigh/butt) he explained that the way we cut animals reflects our cultural identity. the jamon craving spaniards, for example, call most of the rear end of the pig the ham simply because that’s what they want most. bacon biting brits, therefore, can be expected to cut the stomach much longer, allowing for more of their top choice. us americans? in typical melting pot fashion, we cut ‘em somewhere down the middle.

the new brooklyn kitchen labs/meat hook is gonna blow up. it is, in short, the shit. sign up for a class, or stop by to buy some of the choicest meat this side of anywhere. i recommend the mailing list so u know when new classes are released (email patrolling foodies fill up the slots with an aggressive quickness).

on the docket for us? sausage making class for me and candy making for her.