“I have a good feeling about this place,” he said with a laugh as I wiggled out of my coat. I looked around and had to agree.
Aldea is blue and gray, clean and vertical. The already-tall ceilings seem to reach even higher as a result of the long, thin lines that echo throughout the restaurant.
We [read more ...]
There are a lot of things I’ve done that I swore I never would, and while I find them all to be generally naughtily enjoyable, none is so satisfying, so deeply comforting as eating meat.
I was a vegetarian for seven years, and during that time, I ate tofu, wrote impassioned pieces on both the benefits [read more ...]
The last time we rode the train together, we kissed so fiercely that I elicited applause from the other passengers when he exited. We had sat close to one another, my feet tucked underneath my thighs, my knees resting on his legs. We spoke in excited whispers, our faces inches apart and our voices dripping with [read more ...]
Sometimes, this is what it feels like when I cook in culinary school:
Okay, what am I making today? Poulet Roti Grand-mere. Roast chicken, grandmother style. Oh god. Not again. I’ve made this six times already. It. Is. So. Boring. And long. And involved. And all of that stupid garniture. Garni-churrrr. I want to go home. [read more ...]
We’re talking about food as we eat it. I love doing that.
There are three macarons to be had, and I suggest we start with vanilla because comparatively, it’s the most boring.
It’s simple, but not boring. He takes the first bite, then turns the cookie around and guides it into my mouth. The first thing I [read more ...]
The kitchen was busy, bustling with activity and sweating students, but I was in a tranquil state as I worked on my grenobloise. I was calmly segmenting a lemon across the island from Derek when I felt something soft hit my rear end with a WHUMP.
Before I could turn around, I heard a distinctly French [read more ...]
… If they knew we were putting creme fraiche in our risotto.
Last night at the French Culinary Institute, we made fresh pasta, risotto, rice pudding and potato gnocchi. These are all things I loved to eat before I started at FCI – all things I used to make for myself on a regular basis. [read more ...]
When my roommate told me she was moving back home to Syracuse to take some personal time after a crazy summer in the city, I knew that the next month would be a trying one. I first attempted to find a replacement roommate – but who wants to live with a stranger? Certainly not me. [read more ...]
As the train rattled and clacked toward home, I thought about bouillabaisse.
Bouillabaisse. Boo-ya-base. Booooo-yeh-baze. It sounded complicated. It sounded like an insult. Insult soup. It was the dish we made at school that night, and mine had turned out just all right.
When I told Didier that I was learning to make bouillabaisse in the [read more ...]
My classmates and I occasionally joke that the mangled sentences our Chef speaks in are good enough to be compiled and called “Chef-isms.” Oh, we’ve collected a few good ones over the weeks (I can really even say “months” now):
Make again!
I don’t very get it!
Now don’t start to freaking out!
That is call the mool-tee task!
The [read more ...]
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