Product. Passion & Salt.

Who reads the newspaper anymore?  Well someone does.  Times Dispatch gave us a nice review and we served more great people at lunch today than most days lunch and dinner.  Then we got packed again at dinner.  Gettin’ too old for this.  (Nah). Times Dispatch review.

Just got an email from the British couple that write fatfoodtaxi.  They blew thru Richmond late last summer, ending a 2 month culinary odyssey.  I was having my usual cappa-latte at Lamplighter when they came by.   They did a great job of documenting their experiences.  Take a look but don’t just keep watching Jimmy Sneed part one and part two over and over.  Their other stuff is awesome too.

Although for a guy with a “nasty temper” and a “greyhound bus sized ego” I gotta say, I sure look good.

After watching one of my daughters empty a can of coconut milk into the soup and start to throw the can into the recycle bin my cook’s instincts yelled “stop”.  Put it next to the pizza oven to warm up and you’ll get another teaspoon out of it.

Early lesson: back before fire, I spent the better part of a year translating for the chefs at the Cordon Bleu in Paris.  One day Chef Jaurant cracked an egg with one hand and then with great flair and theatrics used the thumb of that hand to wipe out the last drop of egg white sticking to the shell.  “One day” he announced “you’ll understand the importance of this action.”

Being practical, I thought he had spent more time recouping that speck of egg white (time is money?) than it could possibly be worth.

Respect for the product.

I had the great honor of working for two of the greatest chefs of our time, Jean-Louis Palladin and Guenter Seeger.  When Guenter arrived from Germany in 1984 he hired me to be his sous chef, some months before the restaurant actually opened.  So we spent that time establishing our network of purveyors, and bonding.

We went out to dinner several times together.  The first time was at Restaurant Nora.  When the waiter approached to take our order, Guenter nodded toward me and said, “You go first”.  Fine.  I’ll take the smoked salmon with blinis and the rack of lamb with fresh mint, medium rare.  Guenter?  ”I’ll take the same.”

Next time was at Galileo.  Guenter says, “You go first”.  OK, I’ll have the grilled calamari and the white truffle risotto.  Guenter?  ”I’ll take the same.”

Third time, same thing:  I order, Guenter takes the same thing.  So I ask him what the deal was.

“Jimmy, he said, when you and Stacey go to a movie, do you go into one theater and Stacey goes into another?”

“No” I replied, certain of my answer.

“Of course not.  You’re there to enjoy the same experience and you want a real experience, not a piece of this and a piece of that.  And you order well, so I’m ok with what you’re ordering.  And besides, I don’t like people eating off my plate.”

It certainly got me thinking.  The Chinese put lazy susans on the table so all can share, but they do serve platters of food, made for sharing.  I recall a meal at the French Laundry years ago.  There were four of us and Thomas was really making a name for himself with great food, service and ambiance.  Out came course one, different for each diner.  Then course two, four more apps.  Then course three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine and ten.  That’s forty small plates shared by four people, a bite from each.  It wasn’t a culinary experience so much as a culinary clusterfuk.  Great food it was, but as far as dinner goes it was like going on vacation and doing 20 cities in 20 days.  A lot to see, but not a lot to appreciate.

I’m going with Guenter on this one.

Fresca on Addison got reviewed by Style Weekly a couple of weeks ago.  All in all, a positive review.  ”A Big Yes to No Meat.”  I guess I should be happy.  I am happy.  Really, I am.  It’s just that something’s bothering me, something I should probably just let go.  But goddammit, I just can’t.  It’s not in my DNA.

First, let’s deal with some of the, um, incorrections:

• It’s not that we don’t eat meat.  (Actually, I do.  Jenna doesn’t though).
• We serve broccolini, not broccoli rabe.
• Eggs baked at 800° are not ‘uncooked’.
• What you’re used to is not real pizza (just like chop suey is not Chinese).

Agreed, the quote “We are not vegetarian.  We just don’t eat meat.” is a bit vague, odd, weird.  I grant you that.  According to the reviewer, “This statement, spray painted across the side of the new Fresca on Addison, is confusing at best and seems a bit less than straightforward.”

Problem is, THAT’S NOT OUR QUOTE.  Our quote is “We’re not vegetarian, we just don’t serve meat.”  The whole premise is that we want people to think of us as a great little neighborhood bistro with awesome pizzas, sandwiches, soups, snacks and entrees, not some freaky vegan joint.  We think it’s pretty self explanatory but first you have to get the quote right.  (We see you changed the quote on your web site, but left the snarky remarks.)  wtf?

The reviewer mistook broccolini for broccoli rabe.  No big deal.  For future reference, broccoli rabe is very leafy while broccolini is similar in appearance to broccoli but with long, slender stems.  We use broccolini.  Each is also sometimes referred to as rapini. Or broccoletti.  It can get confusing.

So, the egg pizza threw you for a loop, eh?  Yolks are made to be runny, in my humble opinion.  I like mine sunny side up.  Here the egg is cooked in the pizza at 800° for the entire 90 seconds it takes to cook the pizza.  Note: it’s still runny!  Learn to love dipping the crust into the yolk.  Damn good I tell ya.  And the reason it’s off to one side of the pizza is, um, kinda obvious as well.  If it were in the center then you can’t cut the pizza into slices.  We put it to one side for dipping.  Oh, and when you said “we ended up staring at the slice [with the yolk] for the entirety of the meal” we took a vote and decided you guys needed a hobby.  Just kidding.

Now, about the pizza.  (I love teaching about food).  If you’re going to critique someone’s food, you have to know about food.  That’s really, really important.  Really important.  I know, most food critics in most cities don’t really know food, they know how to write.  But this is someone’s livelihood you’re dealing with.  And readers trust you to give them good information, the ‘scoop’ if you will.  You’re not to be blamed for not knowing about pizza.  Like most people you probably grew up on Americanized pizza, cooked at 550 degrees in a big, steel commercial pizza oven.  Thick crust, lots of cheese.

Here’s the deal:

Brick ovens rock.  The reason they rock is that the brick holds temperature so well.  All 800°.  Naturally only a thin crust pizza can take that kind of temperature.  As any Italian knows, what makes it sensational is when you char the crust without it tasting burned.  Having eaten a shit ton of good pizza, I have to tell you that our oven is magic.  If you want a golden, chewy crust there are plenty of options out there.  Plenty.  And as providence would have it, the NY Times came out just last week with a review of Donatella and said of their pizza “it is undeniably good: a thin-crusted and just-charred specimen, beautifully shaped and cooked with great rapidity”. Phtttttt……

So, after years of making pizzas in brick ovens, I’ve finally achieved pizza nirvana, only to have a writer miss the whole point.  It’s important that restaurant reviewers get better or the customers will continue to get average food served to them and cooks will cook down to the level of the norm.  As one of my mentors once said, “It’s a sad day when mediocrity rules.”

I want you to understand that I am not talking about this writer.  I am talking about how casually the media hires people to critique food.  Unless you’ve been a chef or are a chef, it must be difficult to judge.  Sort of like reviewing cars because you like to ride in them, but don’t actually drive.  I don’t blame the writers for taking the jobs, I blame the publications for hiring them.  It seems they care more about writing style than accuracy.  (Uh oh, some of my memory cells are telling me I wrote a very similar article 20 years ago.)  And as a footnote, it does the industry and dining public the same disservice to praise a mediocre restaurant as it does to misjudge a good (or great) restaurant.  And, I have been recently informed that this reviewer is also the blogger that writes winemedineme and vinoveratas which portray a very negative attitude towards the restaurant industry.  And at one point she chastises the reviewer at the RTD by saying “sir, i know you work hard, i do. but can we clean it up a little? you and your cohort dana write THE food reviews in this town. if we can’t count on you to know the scotch bonnet was cultivated from the habanero and they are both chili peppers, who do we turn to”.  (Oh my god.)

Now I’m not saying we’re perfect.  We have our faults.  We’re just glad the reviewer didn’t pick up on any of them.

Here’s my advice:  Love this industry.  Embrace it.  Be its friend.  Help it grow and get better.  Become a food critic that chefs admire.  And above all, know your shit.

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It may seem like a small thing to some, but it isn’t.  I remember eating at a restaurant one August in Virginia, four or five years ago, and ordering a Cobb Salad.  Out came this huge bowl of lettuce, chicken, blue cheese, and wedges of rock-hard gassed tomatoes.  The worst part was that there was a man selling local tomatoes in the parking lot of the restaurant, maybe the best you can get anywhere, for less than the restaurant paid for nasty imitations.  It scarred me.

So, this past Wednesday I took my granddaughter and best friend, Ella, to get a Greek Salad at Mr. Gyro’s.  The salad was topped with six glorious slices of local tomatoes.  There’s hope.

When I was chosen to be in Julia’s show “In Julia’s Kitchen with Master Chefs” (which I ain’t) I was asked to make two dishes. “Well” I said, “I’ll do velvet soft shells and….”.
Nope, I was told, no seafood. What?? I have to do softshells, if nothing else. Nope, seafood doesn’t sell cookbooks, and this is all about selling cookbooks. Besides, we have other chefs already doing seafood dishes. I told them if they’d let me do my softshells, I’d do any other dish they wanted. They wanted turkey. So I took a turkey leg, boned it and stuffed it with local shiitakes and Virginia ham. Really stuffed it. Then I wrapped it in caul fat, tied it up with butcher’s twine, and roasted it.
Then, with no warning, I was told that Julia’s new mission was to stop chefs from touching food after it has been cooked. How the hell am I supposed to untie it if I can’t touch it? So I pleaded with Julia to let me wash my hands, on camera, before touching the turkey leg. We’ll see, she said. Well, she let me do it (whew) and I made it through the taping.
Now, there’s one thing I’ve learned about doing TV.  If you want to get invited back, feed the crew. So I planned ahead and brought a huge bowl of tapioca pudding with me, which I set on the counter with a big spoon in it. Julia happens by and asks “Is that tapioca? I love tapioca”. With that, she grabbed the spoon, ate a big mouthful, and stuck the spoon back into the bowl of pudding. Ya gotta love her.

The movie’s out and it’s time for me to jump on the bandwagon.  I knew Julia for many years.  Close, you might say.  Very close.  Very, very close.

First: the movie is fine.  Meryl Streep is Julia Child, omg.  The essence of Julia is pretty much captured.  She was witty, sarcastic, unpredictable and awesome.

I got a call back in 1994 saying that Julia was putting together a new TV series and my name had come up.  We had met a few times before but she wanted a tape to look at.  I sent her one of a show I had done before and she chose me, saying I looked “so manly”.  (Remember, she was in her 80’s.)

The first time I met her, I was having lunch at Galileo in Washington, DC when a friend, Ann Brody passed by my table.  “Jimmy” she said “we’re having lunch with Julia Child in the back room.  Would you like to meet her?”  Would I ever!  Wondering how to break the ice, I recalled that Julia had gone to the Cordon Bleu in Paris and I was lucky enough to get a job there 25 years later.  The owner even arranged an apartment for me, nice, sweet old French lady that she was.  So I shook hands with Julia and said “I also was at the Cordon Bleu.  You must remember Mme. Brassart.”  At that, Julia looked at me and said, “I certainly do.  What a despicable woman!”  Not shy, she.  You’ll see the connection when you see the movie.  More later, gotta run.  But, believe it or not, they’re still showing re-runs of my shows with Julia on PBS.  Even though it has been 15 years, I haven’t changed a bit.  http://www.pbs.org/juliachild/meet/sneed.html

Stacey and I were due for a bike ride. Not that kind, a motorcycle. Yesterday we followed #53 to Wheeling, across to Highland Park and down to Chicago itself. We were headed to an early dinner but my bike inexplicably routed us to Intelligensia on Broadway. Rote memory. Damn good capuccino.

We then headed over to Piccolo Sogno for a dinner of appetizers. Good grilled squid/shrimp/octopus, a nice authentic pizza, some burrata and proscuitto and fried squash blossoms. All in all, good, simple food and a great patio.

The problem is: how does a restaurant make money? For many chain types, it’s soda (or pop as they say around here; weird). How so?

Next time you’re in a chain restaurant, look at the soda pricing on the menu. Guess what. It ain’t there. That’s right, no pricing. They may list their sodas (coke, diet coke, sprite, tea) but no prices. Then ask your server how much a Coke is. He/she will probably say they’ll have to check. They don’t know. They say no one has ever asked.  It has happened to me three times in the last month.

When they come back, the answer should shock you. Eighty nine cents? Ninety Nine? One eighty nine? Nope, $2.50. How in the world can they get $2.50 for a Coke that costs them 17¢ from a soda gun? Because no one asks. If you were told that soda was $1.99, you’d say “I think I’ll just have water with a lemon”. If it were $1.29 you might say “I think I’ll just have water with a lemon”. If it were 99¢ you might say “I think I’ll just have water with a lemon”. But if there’s no price guess what? Four people order sodas and spend an extra $10 for lunch.

P.T. Barnum would be proud.

Our best meal? For the value, passion, and all the good that represents our industry I would have to say Peasant, even if he had presented us a bill.  Frankie De Carlo represents what a cook should be.

However, Geoff and I agree that the perfect meal, the best of the best, was lunch at Le Bernardin. Cost aside (I’ll get to that in a minute…wow) I have always ranked Eric Ripert as one of the top three chefs in the country. I stand by that.

Geoff and I were joined by my great friend, Myra Fiori of illy caffe. I’ve been one of illy caffe’s biggest fans for 20 some years and Myra has been a friend for most of that time.  But enough about friendships, let’s talk food:

1st was a bowl of smoked salmon salad for the table, sort of a gimme.  Next, a tasting of six Kumamoto oysters, each with a garnish a bit spicier than one before.  3rd came a sous vide poached egg with osetra caviar.  Cheater.  Oh yeah, served with a ’95 Dom Perignon.  Cheater.

Then a thin slice of zucchini rolled around curried peeky toe crab.  Spot on I say.  Next was poached halibut, black cod with octopus stuffed with peppers, and an entree of kobe beef and escolar.  Not sure which was richer, or better.  Awesome.  Then fromage blanc with almonds and honey and finally an eggshell stuffed with some chocolate, orange meringue and chicory ice cream.  In the interest of ‘keeping it clean’ I’ll not shout out how great it all was.

And it was all finished off with a great espresso.  Illy, duh.

The cost?  Sit down.  No, really.  Sit down.  Eric ‘comped’ me for old time’s sake (and I didn’t partake in the wine tastings that accompanied the lunch) so the tab was for Two People with tasting menus and tasting wines, tax and tip.  Ready? $1,000.  For the love of god, who eats like this?  And should they?  The debate will rage on (or not).  The fact is that you’re certainly paying for the experience.  Sort of like a week long cruise, or a trip to Paris.  Only more expensive.