Menudo... Not Ricky Martin

The monotony and repetition that comes from working 5 to 6 days a week, making the same moves with the same sauces and ingredients and people can become a bit stifling. I'm sure the same principle applies in any profession and passion career choice. In the kitchen, in particularly, there are waves of different motives as to why you might continue to cook and physically torment your body a lot. One of which is the shear thrill of a over coming the odds of an overwhelming service. Another is, undoubtedly, the gratification aspect of satisfying people as I've clearly stated on many other occasions. There are quite a few others but forgive me as its 4 am and I don't care to list them I'd just like to illustrate my main point.
    Today was christmas. As is tradition in my family we go to my grandmas house for the night. The Berrones side. It's always a very casual attitude when we get together because we all see each other fairly often and are generally simple people. I heard before we left today that my grandma had made menudo and tamales. Now, this is nothing new to me or my family. These are staple dishes that me and my brothers and everybody grew up eating. The trick is WHO is going to take on the task this year or for which occasion. So when I heard this was whats goin down I was in immediate "hell yeah" mode.
       Walking through the back door, never having to knock and always being greeted with a "eeyyyy what up duude?!" are a few of the things that put me at ease when getting together. It's an age old affinity. But TODAY... there was the aroma of a pot full to the brim of slow rolling liquid flavored with cumin, paprika, chili powder and garlic. To each their own but that pot and those smells transport me. (And yes I know I'm young as is, but everyone knows what I mean if I say "takes you back to the inner kid") My favorite thing to do is open the pot and catch the steam rollin up into my face even if it burns and take a spoon and just swirl the hominy and tripe around reminiscent of how a child would fuck with fish in a pond in awe.
       Traditional accoutrements include diced white onion, lemon, cilantro, jalapeno and, I do believe also some queso fresco depending on who serves it. Sitting next to each other in little bowls, waiting to be hand picked and enjoyed, these honest ingredients look awesome. The tripe or pigs stomach can be pretty difficult for some new comers to "stomach" on account of its quite the hard working muscle and needs to be cooked or braised for a while for it to not be rubbery. I guess I just never had a problem with it. Not to mention when coupled with the grainy character of the hominy... its just plain baaaad ass. But this is the big one... the broth is pure magic. You can adjust the flavors however you wish. I prefer two squeezes of lemon and a healthy hand full of onions. **yes your breath is pretty gnarly afterwards** Three huge leaves of cilantro so you just get the aroma and can just eat the leaves you put in. And a shit ton of jalapenos. I suppose that description makes it sound like its not for the faint of heart but I'll stand by my culture when I say it will welcome you with open arms (and sinuses) just the same as I would.
      To tie my opening point to this story, I have to recount on the fellow ship of this dish. As a whole, the process of making menudo is a sort of "set it and forget it" deal. I feel like that idea bleeds into my culture. By no means does it define us as lazy, but more of a people who are quick to want to enjoy each others company. So while the foods working itself, lets all kick it, laugh, dance and be happy. Each person under the roof tonight eating menudo was in such bliss with each spoon full. For me, it was all about the deep wholesome happiness and personal history and memories shared with each bowl. The timing couldn't have been more perfect as it has been a wicked busy season in the restaurant. I didn't lose any invigoration for food. Only gained a few pounds and a rekindled flame.

Shit. I forgot about the tamales. They ruled too.

Menudo... Not Ricky Martin

The monotony and repetition that comes from working 5 to 6 days a week, making the same moves with the same sauces and ingredients and people can become a bit stifling. I'm sure the same principle applies in any profession and passion career choice. In the kitchen, in particularly, there are waves of different motives as to why you might continue to cook and physically torment your body a lot. One of which is the shear thrill of a over coming the odds of an overwhelming service. Another is, undoubtedly, the gratification aspect of satisfying people as I've clearly stated on many other occasions. There are quite a few others but forgive me as its 4 am and I don't care to list them I'd just like to illustrate my main point.
    Today was christmas. As is tradition in my family we go to my grandmas house for the night. The Berrones side. It's always a very casual attitude when we get together because we all see each other fairly often and are generally simple people. I heard before we left today that my grandma had made menudo and tamales. Now, this is nothing new to me or my family. These are staple dishes that me and my brothers and everybody grew up eating. The trick is WHO is going to take on the task this year or for which occasion. So when I heard this was whats goin down I was in immediate "hell yeah" mode.
       Walking through the back door, never having to knock and always being greeted with a "eeyyyy what up duude?!" are a few of the things that put me at ease when getting together. It's an age old affinity. But TODAY... there was the aroma of a pot full to the brim of slow rolling liquid flavored with cumin, paprika, chili powder and garlic. To each their own but that pot and those smells transport me. (And yes I know I'm young as is, but everyone knows what I mean if I say "takes you back to the inner kid") My favorite thing to do is open the pot and catch the steam rollin up into my face even if it burns and take a spoon and just swirl the hominy and tripe around reminiscent of how a child would fuck with fish in a pond in awe.
       Traditional accoutrements include diced white onion, lemon, cilantro, jalapeno and, I do believe also some queso fresco depending on who serves it. Sitting next to each other in little bowls, waiting to be hand picked and enjoyed, these honest ingredients look awesome. The tripe or pigs stomach can be pretty difficult for some new comers to "stomach" on account of its quite the hard working muscle and needs to be cooked or braised for a while for it to not be rubbery. I guess I just never had a problem with it. Not to mention when coupled with the grainy character of the hominy... its just plain baaaad ass. But this is the big one... the broth is pure magic. You can adjust the flavors however you wish. I prefer two squeezes of lemon and a healthy hand full of onions. **yes your breath is pretty gnarly afterwards** Three huge leaves of cilantro so you just get the aroma and can just eat the leaves you put in. And a shit ton of jalapenos. I suppose that description makes it sound like its not for the faint of heart but I'll stand by my culture when I say it will welcome you with open arms (and sinuses) just the same as I would.
      To tie my opening point to this story, I have to recount on the fellow ship of this dish. As a whole, the process of making menudo is a sort of "set it and forget it" deal. I feel like that idea bleeds into my culture. By no means does it define us as lazy, but more of a people who are quick to want to enjoy each others company. Each person under the roof tonight eating menudo was in such bliss with each spoon full. For me, it was all about the deep wholesome happiness and personal history and memories shared with each bowl. The timing couldn't have been more perfect as it has been a wicked busy season in the restaurant. I didn't lose any invigoration for food. Only gained a few pounds and a rekindled flame.

Shit. I forgot about the tamales. They ruled too.

the naked truth

BOOM! This is the first of my blogs that is not food related.

This entry is something a lot closer to my heart than - 1. I expected it to be and 2. Than I could really explain.
I am a lot of things. I'm a bike rider. I'm a cook. I'm a reader. I'm an adventurist. I'm a person who longs to experience things that I'm not used to. These are all things I strive to be. But in all honesty, when stripped down to the core, I am a chicano born and raised in and around Houston, Texas. From the principles that make who I am down to the accent that leaks out, I am part of a rare breed of people indigenous to one part of the entire world that exists where I was born.
   My family is a pure bread chicano family. As much as I try to dilute the fact that I'm affiliated with the culture, for whatever reason, I can't help it. And I'm proud of it. It took me moving back to Houston to sincerely understand and appreciate who I am and where I come from. Today I had a Saturday off from work. Which,  if you've read previously blogs, you'll know that this is a rare occasion. A phone call to my mom consisted of:
  "yo" - mom
  "what up" - me
  "I'm gonna go bowling tonight" - mom
  "what the fuuuuuu???.."- me
  "why does everyone say that?" - mom
  "haha cause duh..." - me
  "well your dads going to the santana concert tonight" - mom

At first I started to think about all the things I had to do today like pay bills, call landlord, figure out warrants and shit. (none of which got done) and after a little thought I decided "fuck it". I never get the time off to spend with my family. Let alone time to go to a SANTANA concert. (re-enter chicanoism) If you don't know or haven't put two and two together, Carlos Santana "perdy mush" epitomizes what American born Mexicans paints themselves to be. And yes I do know there will be tons of arguing points but refer to my point on yelpers for that stand point.
  So here is the lay out. In a 5 seat truck we fit 6 people. *one stereotype knocked out already* Me. My dad. My umpteenth time divorced Aunt Margie. The Notorious "woe is me" drunk uncle Jody. My aunt and Uncle Jamie and Jeniffer. Uncle Jody is the main attraction in the car with wise cracks about his older brothers wrong turns that could have gotten us there eaerlier so we could be "closer to carlos". Aunt Margie speaks of grandchildren, who are my cousins and I don't think I've met, with elegant fever. Time goes by and I realize I don't even really care if I get into the damn show or not. I'm just happy to be here stuck in traffic with these people. My family.
   Once we finally scalp a ticket for me from my aunt Margies friend. (no tellin where he came from) we hit the lawn seats to hear Carlos wail on the fretboard. Beers flowing up and down a crowd of MORE family that we met up with at the venue. Nobody knows who bought who what and it doesn't matter.
  "come with me mijo" - Aunt Margie
  "Where we goin tia?" - me
  "Gonna get some more beer crazy!" - Aunt Margie
Minutes pass by and we have beers in our hands walking up the stairs to "make somebody happy"...
  "I'm glad you came mijo" - Aunt Margie
  "Man me too tia! I never get to see you" - me
  "Well it aint like I'd never see you again mijo. Somos Familia!" - Aunt Margie

We may be a significant percent of people who seem to not contribute a whole lot sometimes, and other parts of the world may have their comparison, and we may get drunk and fall over and wine over who changed the damn pizza order at midnight. But you know what? This is my raza. This is my familia. This is what and where I'm from. It's something that I can't escape and proud not to be able to. Rather than having an actual upright standing structure with a roof to sleep under, these people, all of them, are something I will always be privileged to call a home.

no clever name for respect.

It's a good thing that growing and being allowed to grow on your own is something we are privileged with. In hindsight, I think a lot of people would agree that we were all arrogant, ignorant, selfish, lame and (here it comes) disrespectful coming up as teenagers. And this is definitely something that bleeds through in young adulthood. But! If you have a good head on your shoulders, you realize how grateful you should be of the people who helped you and maintain you along the way.
      Let's cut to the part where this correlates to cooking very quickly so I don't sound like quite the drunk softy I am. And this will go in side by side descriptions.
     It is currently 3:13 a.m. in the morning. I am sitting at a computer in my parents house in the suburbs of Houston. I just got through smoking a cigarette in my parents progressively modified backyard. At the end of my smoke I threw my cancer stick, as I normally would, in whichever direction and proceeded to head to the back door hoping not to make to much noise. On my way in I stopped. I felt guilty for trashing the, ultimately, microscopic portion of the backyard my dad works to maintain and be proud of.
     ***Enter food correlation***
     Very recently at work I had forgotten to store a rare and exclusive fish properly. For those who identify... it was a scorpion fish. The man who brings our fish to us is a very endearing and extremely knowledgeable Greek (correct me if I'm wrong) named Frikso. We are extremely appreciative of this man at my restaurant for the work, quality, care and love he puts into his work. Not to mention his reciprocation in endearment for our restaurant and the respect with which we handle his product. The beautiful white and meaty scorpion I failed to store properly, turned opaque and ghostly looking, thus leaving it unappealing and not worth serving. While I did catch a well deserved amount of verbal lashings, after a good moments thought, that wasn't my main concern.
      I started to think about Frikso and his work. I certainly didn't catch that fish myself. I felt as though I had completely shit on his hard work, sweat and dedication. Granted I don't know if he is the one who specifically extracts the fish from water or not is not the point. While a great deal of restaurants get their fish from large trucks frozen and in lame boxes, we at Stella get ours from a crazy amazing Greek man in hand delivered ice chests from the back of his foul smelling 02' suburban at ungodly late hours of the night. If I need to draw out the reason and rhyme as to why you would need to RESPECT this mans antics, then you probably shouldn't be reading this.
      This is just one of the few bigger lessons I'm learning in this game. Needless to say, I haven't stored a fish improperly since, and I also picked up that cigarette butt from the grass in threw it in the proper disposal container.


Love
Jay

no clever name for respect.

It's a good thing that growing and being allowed to grow on your own is something we are privileged with. In hindsight, I think a lot of people would agree that we were all arrogant, ignorant, selfish, lame and (here it comes) disrespectful coming up as teenagers. And this is definitely something bleeds through in young adulthood. But! If you have a good head on your shoulders, you realize how grateful you should be of the people who helped you and maintain you.
      Let's cut to the part where this correlates to cooking very quick like so I don't sound like quite the drunk softy I am. And this will go in side by side descriptions.
     It is currently 3:13 a.m. in the morning. I am sitting at a computer in my parents house in the suburbs of Houston where I was born and raised. I just got through smoking a cigarette in my parents progressively modified backyard. At the end of my smoke I threw my cancer stick, as I normally would, in whichever direction and proceeded to head to the back door hoping not to make to much noise. On my way in I stopped. I felt guilty for trashing the, ultimately, microscopic portion of the backyard my dad works to maintain and be proud of.
     ***Enter food correlation***
     Very recently at work I had forgotten to store a rare and exclusive fish properly. For those who identify... it was a scorpion fish. The man who brings our fish to us is a very endearing and extremely knowledgeable Greek (correct me if I'm wrong) named Frikso. We are extremely appreciative of this man at my restaurant for the work, quality, care and love he puts into his work. Not to mention his reciprocation in endearment for our restaurant and the respect with which we handle his product. The beautiful white and meaty scorpion I failed to store properly turned opaque and ghostly looking, thus leaving it unappealing and not worth serving. While I did catch an appropriate and deserved amount of verbal lashings, after a good moments thought, that wasn't my main concern.
      I started to think about Frikso and his work. I certainly didn't catch that fish myself. I felt as though I had completely shit on his hands and his hard sweat and dedication. Granted I don't know if he is the one who specifically extracts the fish from water or not just yet is not the point. While a great deal of restaurants get their fish from large trucks frozen and in lame boxes, we at Stella get ours from a crazy amazing Greek man in hand delivered ice chests from the back of his foul smelling 02' suburban at ungodly late hours of the night. If I need to draw out the reason and rhyme as to why you would need to RESPECT this mans product, then you probably shouldn't be reading this.
      This is just one of the few bigger lessons I'm learning in this game. Needless to say, I haven't stored a fish improperly since, and I also picked up that cigarette butt from the grass in threw it in the proper disposal container.


Love
Jay

Time is on the other side

I had always been slightly informed about just how demanding the culinary industry can be from mentors, peers, books and the like. To know what it is and how  it is are two completely different things. When you first start out, you can try to blend two lives together. There's your work life and your outside life. And it does work for a while. But the farther down the rabbit hole you go, the more your outside life fades and your work life is at the forefront. This is not to say that this doesn't happen in other career paths or other peoples lives, but I'm most confident when I say that rarely will you find other industries that demand as much time, attention, and dedication.
     Before you assume that I'm bitching about how much I don't get to spend time to myself and what not, allow me to stop you there and reaffirm that I acknowledge this to be a fact and that to be the best and to fully satisfy ones needs to put out a product you can be proud of, theres no choice but to be fully dedicated. Now, while it does sometimes seem overly consuming, it is equally as gratifying to study and be knowledgable on food science and the way foods interact with eachother. If you ask my mom, I never used to study in school. I never thought there was a point to it. Although I would sound cooler at a coffee shop round table talking about history and politics, that wasn't something I necessarily gave two shits about. With food... its just different. For the first time, I'm not learning to try and impress someone or to pass a standardized test. I'm actually anxious to learn for my own betterment and so as not to hit mental road blocks in my everyday work and to be able to experiment. It's in this endless blazing inferno of knowledge that is the culinary world, that I think a lot of my time goes. It might be sitting around with my cook friends with billions of bottles of booze ranting about braising techniques, oven temps and results, types of fish etc.. It could be digesting hours of books that you cant take your eyes away from, or just staying after work off the clock to learn and discuss how to do some shit. One of my best cook friends put it to me this way, "If you really want to cook, be ready to put your head down, not look up and not regret all the things you didn't get to enjoy". It reminds me most of the first time I dove off the board into the deep end of the neighborhood pool. Head first into the deep end trusting that the skills I've learned will bring me up for a breath of air. Triumphant.

I've been happily employed at Stella Sola for about 3 months now. I've learned a great deal about pickling. The possibilites are endless! My favorite thus far is the solution we use for asparagus. I'm not sure that I have it down exactly to the T. But that's the point, you don't have to.

1 bunch Asparagus
3 part white distilled vinegar
2 part water
1 part sugar
black pepper corn
dill
fennel seed
cardomom
jalapenos
shallots
bay leaf

Adjust all spice levels to your taste. Bring all ingredients minus asparagus to a rolling boil. In a deep container with enough head room to cover the asparagus with about 3 inches head room, pour the hot liquid over the asparagus through a china cap or seive to keep out all the used up spices. weight down the asparagus with a few plates or something big and heavy enough to fit in the container and cover up. let it cool down to room temp on its own. done! Makes a dope substitute for pickles on a barbecue plate or use it for whatever.

Never too old for a roller coaster

For a while now I didn't know what or why to write about anything. Then I realized that the struggle is also a viable subject to write about. This is not a venting session of whoe is me. Simply a memoir of recent happenings and a record of the ups and downs. I hope this finds its way into the hands of rookies to let them know a little bit of truth regarding the harshness of the industry. (I'm still a rookie too)
    A while back I mentioned about a stage I was doing at the famous "feast" restaurant. I had been there putting in upwards to 30 hours a week for free hoping to score a job. Well the time had come for me to get a solid yes or no and unfortunately the answer was no. Initially there was an immense feeling of rage, as I felt my legs had been cut out from under me. But I understand this is just the way things pan out. Take it with a grain of salt etc. I gained a whole heep of knowledge and new friends, so its not a total loss by any means.
   Reluctantly, I've been waiting tables in the morning to 1. keep money in my pockets of course 2. to stay in the industry to keep learning. In fact its mind boggling to see the other side of a restaurant again after so many years. And equally as frustrating.
     I got fired from my only stable cooking job I had and subsequently went to jail in the same week and spent my entire birthday in a cell. In between all these events, I've had good times. Productive good times, I should say. I've learned more than I can process in the past few months about various cooking techniques. I've enjoyed great food with old and new friends. I got to take a vacation to a great city with great friends. So all in all, every end of the spectrum was covered: happy, sad, angry, sullen.
   Day after day I'm naturally finding out what I'm good at and what I want to do just by my own actions. For instance, I continue to look for cooking jobs. And not just cooking. I find myself, without contemplating, knocking on the doors of the best restaurants in town. This action helps me, and encourages me that I actually want to do something pertaining to food. And I want to do it well. It's a strange way of motivating ones self.
     I have just acquired (seriously this time) the day time lead cook position at one of the best seafood restaurants in the city. And from what I read, one of the top 50 seafood restaurants in the country. It's a start in the right direction. I think I'll gain a lot more perspective on respect and integrity from this place, which will ultimately translate into the pride I will take in my learning and care I will take for my very own food.
     The only wrench in the spokes is a have to go back to being an early bird. No sweat.