COOKBOOKS + ART

Saturday, May 4, 1:00PM – 2:00PM

Wythe Hotel, Screening Room

Are cookbooks meant for beauty, function or both? Our kitchen reading might provide inspiration, though it doesn’t always lead us to traditional forms of cooking. In a time where many of us are turning to online resources for our daily meals, are cookbooks becoming more art than instruction? Whether or not our books are intended as user guides or for the coffee table, cookbooks seem to be taking a different and intriguing form. They are filled with interesting content, rich storytelling and are inspiring us inside and outside of the kitchen. Join a panel of writers, editors and cooks as they discuss the evolving nature of reading in the kitchen.

Paula Forbes, Writer, Eater National
Anne E. McBride, Author, Culinary Careers
Caitlin Leffel, Editor, Rizzoli
Orr Shtuhl, Writer, An Illustrated Guide to Cocktails
Moderated by Emilie Baltz, Curator

The 11th edition of Madrid Fusión, which took place January 21-23, focused less on dazzling with technique and more on expressing sensitivity to one’s physical and cultural environment. It can be safely assumed that immersion circulators, rotary evaporators, and other modern technologies are very much part of the everyday repertoire of the chefs featured, and that for most of them, “creativity continues”—this year’s theme—beyond technology, especially in times that call for responsible economic and sustainable decision-making.

Click here to continue reading my Food Arts article about Madrid Fusión on the magazine’s website.

Tarte aux noix des Grisons, Thanksgiving 2012 (with vanilla buttercream-filled hazelnut macarons and a ginger-molasses cake)

Unfortunately it’s not something I can find commercially here, even in the best New York pastry shops. And I’ve grown tired of pecan pies, which are too often much too sweet. So in recent years, I’ve started making my own tarte aux noix, trying each time to perfect it a little more. I don’t like very sweet desserts but yet I want the honey in the torte to come through, so I use a one with a strong flavor, and not too much of it. A local wildflower honey made at the height of the summer is perfect. Something like buckwheat is a bit too strong and doesn’t taste very “Swiss.” Clover is too mild. I make both open and closed tortes—the open-faced version gives me quicker access to the filling, so I don’t always bother eating even the bottom crust. That’s the craving version. The ratio of dough to filling can easily be off in a closed torte, since the typical dough can be thick, so make sure to roll it thinly enough. An open-faced torte will not have that problem but I like the aesthetic of a closed one; it’s also easier to transport.

Nearly all my Swiss baking books have a recipe, and I’ve tinkered with them all. But when American friends ask me for a recipe, I point them to Nick Malgieri’s. It’s adapted for U.S. ingredients and kitchens, so easy to follow, especially if you’ve never made it before. It also tastes very much like the tartes aux noix I eat when I go home—essential taste tests to keep my palate well informed of all the nuances of this truly special dessert.

Happiness, love, and passion are essential to even the most technologically advanced approaches to cooking, all the panelists emphasized then. But the term manipulation doesn’t express passion. Passion can include control, and doesn’t have to be heady or loud or unbounded. But it does imply at least an element of complete, unbridled, full, impossible-to-contain immersion. Passion is about your whole body, and your whole mind, and the lack of choice that comes with being so fully engaged in something. Passion means you have no other choice but to cook, to eat, to build, to paint, to sing, to argue in court, and, of course, to record in a lab notebook. Manipulation—well, it doesn’t sound like that.

From a purely technical perspective, one could argue that the manipulation is also a change in chemical structure. Heating a food is manipulating it. Freezing it is manipulation. Shearing its cells is manipulation. That’s cooking. But is it detrimental to cooking to think of it as manipulation? And if yes, is there a difference between experimental cooking and manipulation, then, when thinking about cooking in those terms? Is challenging notions of what food is and should be different from manipulating it? It’s intellectual and emotional manipulation, if anything. Why is that completely ok to me, to think about my brain being manipulated, but wanting to find a more poetic way to talk about what is done to my food? Is it all about semantics?

One of the definitions of the word refers to “manage or utilize skillfully.” It has a positive meaning and doesn’t complicate things by making reference to using hands or mechanical means or to do something with the intent to deceive. Managing and utilizing food skillfully could serve as a precise definition of cooking that is devoid of the complications of both science and art. It is objective—a matter of skills. One knows or doesn’t know how to do something. One has objectively appreciable skills.

“When we cook things, we transform them. And any small acts of transformation are among the most human things we do. Whether it’s nudging dried leaves around a patch of cement, or salting a tomato, we feel, when we exert tiny bits of our human preference in the universe, more alive” writes Tamar Adler in The Everlasting Meal. Transformation seems, rightly or wrongly, to be more “manual”—more about embracing the carnal aspect of food, the voraciousness with which you can dig into something—pull an onion from the soil, bite into that salted tomato; it feels less clinical. But Tamar is definitely talking about cooking as being something that should not be reserved to professionals, and is encouraging everyone to transform, then. Does this keep us in that dichotomy of manipulation being the realm of chefs and scientists only, not of home cooks? And so, if not for home cooks, how can we stress the fact that more methodical approaches can make all of us better cooks?

“Manipulation is about control,” Cesar texted me a few days after that panel, continuing the discussion. So by manipulating food we control it—which is then not the same thing as transformation. That control, especially thinking about it from a scientific perspective, implies a controlled environment, a setting in which all variables are accounted for, measured, recorded. When we control we can track what was done, what went right, what went wrong. We can learn a lot about how we cook, when we control. When we transform, we might be more haphazard. Which is good too—but serves a different purpose and ends in different results. Haphazard and passionate and carnal feel like relatives of one another.

So it is perhaps by thinking about transformation and about control and the need for each that I can reconcile myself with the use of manipulation in relation to food, to cooking. We always transform—do we always manipulate? And why, even though I am fiercely in favor of scientific approaches to cooking and passionately studying professional cooking, do I still need to think of cooking as something sensual, without being able to think of manipulation as offering sensuality—even though it has mano, and what is more sensual than hands? Hands touching food, hands touching skin…how do I get rid of my undeniably romantic ideal of cooking that has little to do with my pragmatic perspective on it? And can I do that without having to dig back into Saussure?

Dixon is 38 when he enrolls and knows that he wants to do something with his hands but is not sure where that’ll leave him once he graduates. He’s dabbled in a number of careers, including writing for Martha Stewart Living, but he’s not going to school to become a food writer. He’s rarely sure of why he is putting himself through a training that has more grueling than rewarding days, at least at first. The chef of his externship site finds him useless in the kitchen. He’s broke. There is no Hollywood ending, with our hero getting a job offer at Per Se or the likes because his talent is suddenly revealed. But the book is not pessimistic—to the contrary. He shares his shortcomings as a student with a refreshing and reflective attitude. Dixon doesn’t attempt to send out a larger message through it, I think; it’s his experience, that’s it. But because he paints such a clear picture of what he did and how he felt during his two-year program, his book will be useful to aspiring cooks. The tone and rhythm are dynamic and upbeat: Dixon can talk about his hesitations without being hesitant on the page.

In the end, it’s not a matter of choosing to read Ruhlman or Dixon. Ruhlman was a participant-observant; Dixon is decidedly a participant. Their books are complementary; they show an evolution in our collective interest for all things food, but also perhaps an evolution in the genre to which they both belong. The Making of a Chef is more contextualized than Beaten, Seared, and Sauced, and more sociological; it was one of the first books of its kind, launching Ruhlman’s very successful food writing career. Dixon arrives when our hunger for behind-the-scene material on chefs could not be higher, as evidenced by TV shows such as Top Chef, and when we already feel like we know a lot about that world, which might give him more narrative freedom. Ruhlman’s books have often kept me up because I just had to read one more page, because the story was so good that I couldn’t go to sleep without knowing just a bit more of it. Dixon’s has done the same thing.

Dixon will talk about his book at the Museum of the City of New York on May 19. See below for details and a special discount (I bought a ticket before receiving this notice and bought the book too, so this is not a sponsored post or one resulting from perks received!).

Thursday, May 19 at 6:30 pm
Beaten, Seared and Sauced: A New York Culinary Education
With a grueling combination of in-class training and externships at some of the city’s most famous restaurants, the Culinary Institute of America has graduated some of the most influential chefs and culinary celebrities on the New York City food scene. Jonathan Dixon, CIA graduate and author of Beaten, Seared, and Sauced: On Becoming a Chef at the Culinary Institute of America (Clarkson Potter, 2011), and Andrew Friedman, author of Knives at Dawn: America’s Quest for Culinary Glory at the Legendary Bocuse d’Or Competition (Free Press, 2009), offer a behind-the-scenes look at the cutthroat world of Michelin stars, maniacal chefs, and the chaotic kitchens of New York from the perspective of chefs in training.

Presented in conjunction with the exhibition Moveable Feast: Fresh Produce and the NYC Green Carts Program.

Reservations required: 917-492-3395 or e-mail programs@mcny.org

$6 museum members; $8 seniors and students; $12 non-members

$6 when you mention when you mention Pots and Plumes

Museum of the City of New York
1220 Fifth Avenue at 103rd Street
New York, NY 10029
http://www.mcny.org
212-534-1672

There isn’t really is a beginning and an end to Modernist Cuisine, although everyone should start with volume 1, which provides the fundamentals necessary to understand the material in the other volumes. It is easy enough to consult the index when looking for a specific information, or to let oneself be carried by the beautiful, clear writing a few randomly opened pages at a time. I had first favored that latter approach, when trying to grasp the breadth and depth of the full book, then decided to methodically make my way through each volume, skimming some pages, reading others attentively. I was fascinated with the history section of volume 1, which thoroughly (starting with the invention of fire) contextualizes Modernist cooking. Having read many food history works and being knowledgeable of the specific history of this new cuisine, I was nonetheless impressed by the material covered and the superb summary that chapter provided, only regretting that I couldn’t copy it for the students of my experimental cuisine class at NYU. Knowing the context in which this genre emerged is essential to its application in the kitchen, I believe, or even to its critique. Too much of what I read online or in print about experimental/science-based/Modernist cooking is overly simplified and shows no sense of history. Reading those 100 or so pages should be mandatory for anyone who writes as much as a blog post using a term like “molecular gastronomy.”

So why so hard? I think it’s because I felt a personal responsibility to do this book justice. Some reviews, even when written by renowned authors in prestigious publications, didn’t seem to “get it.” Others did, beautifully so, raising the bar for anyone writing on the topic, even if not even close to coming to the same category of publication. I adore this book and find it to be a bargain (at $625, or $462 on Amazon) when all the information it contains is taken into consideration. It’s a work of art visually. It makes science and technology accessible. It provides recipes to use the technologies that have emerged for kitchen use (rather than just lab use) in recent years. It challenges its readers to be better—better cooks, better thinkers, better food people. But just saying this is equivalent to gushing, so I had to do more. I’m not sure I’ve succeeded, but I know that I can’t wait for my copy to arrive so that I can continue to think about and explore Modernist cuisine in all that it has to offer, thanks to the amazing gift Nathan, Chris, Max, and their large team have given us.

Achatz was in town to promote his memoir, Life, on the Line, co-authored with his business partner, Nick Kokonas. Both spoke at a panel moderated by food writer and food52.com founder Amanda Hesser and attended by chefs such as Peter Hoffman and George Mendes, media such as Jeffrey Steingarten and Melissa Clark, and a bevy of industry professionals and ICE students.

Achatz, whose restaurant is seventh in the S. Pellegrino’s World’s 50 Best Restaurants—the highest ranked in the United States—won the James Beard Award for Outstanding Chef in 2008. He met Kokonas when the now former trader became a regular at Trio, where Achatz first showcased his unique cooking style as executive chef, and offered to build a restaurant with him.

“You need commerce to make the art, and vice versa,” Achatz said after Kokonas pointed out that Achatz has much more of a hand in the business side of the restaurant than people think. Kokonas also said that people are surprised to hear how often the two talk about food together, as the pair explained how their collaboration works. Kokonas pointed out that Achatz could not create the food he does without a lot of infrastructure. Even though Kokonas never interferes with what Achatz puts on the menu, the two jokingly acknowledged that anything Kokonas doesn’t like seem to disappear from the menu after a few days.

Alinea's Nick Kokonas and Grant Achatz with food writer Amanda Hesser (photo: Stephanie Bourgeois)

Achatz used that anecdote as an opportunity to discuss how editing contributes to the making of a great chef. “Ideas are not hard to come by,” he said. “You can have an idea and realize the next day that it’s not that great. That’s editing. Chefs often throw out an idea before editing it, which is a mistake. An idea is one thing, a great idea is another.”

Achatz spoke of Alinea as a place that never feels like work, only like passion, as he spends 16 hours a day there with a staff of 65 dedicated to serving the 64 diners the restaurant can accommodate at a time. This unusual ratio is essential to the highly interactive dishes served at Alinea, where currently a dessert course consists of Achatz and a cook laying out the components of the dish on a silicone mat that covers all 48 square inches of the table directly in front of the guests.

“We are in the midst of another big shift in gastronomy,” he said. “At Alinea, we’re moving past the focus of modernist cuisine, whatever you want to call it, to focus on the guests’ emotions and reactions. It’s not about being showy. It’s about interacting with the guests and having them eat food in a different way and at a different scale.”

Achatz and Kokonas will open two establishments in Chicago, Next and The Aviary—a cocktail bar that will do with drinks what Alinea does with food—by the end of the month. At Next, the menu will be completely reinvented every three months, and focus on different styles of cooking and time periods. The opening menu will take diners to Paris in 1907, with classic Escoffier-style food as interpreted by Achatz.

“The guy can actually cook; it’s not smoke and mirrors,” said Kokonas with a laugh, since Achatz made his name with revolutionary techniques and is primarily known for his experimental cooking.

Achatz, who spent several years working with Thomas Keller at the French Laundry and spoke fondly of his mentor throughout the evening, stressed the importance of establishing solid foundations.

“It’s a misconception of a lot young chefs now, especially as they see lots of chefs on television and chefs treated like rock stars,” he emphatically stated. “The foundation is always classic cooking. Always.”

This post also appeared on Diced, the official blog of the Institute of Culinary Education, with photos by Stephanie Bourgeois.

Tuthilltown Spirits, the first legal distillery to open in New York since the Prohibition, is tucked away in the Hudson Valley, in Gardiner, NY, surrounded by fields and farms. Just like its unmistakable bottles, the distillery is small—a converted barn that looks more like a large garage hosts the entire process, from milling to bottling. The barrels are aged in a two-story building that now also hosts a small tasting room and gift shop. Ralph Erenzo bought what was then a gristmill in 2001, with the intention of turning it into a climbing facility and hostel, explained his son, Gable Erenzo, who is a distiller and brand ambassador for the company. The neighbors, fearing that such activity would bring too much noise and chaos to the town, opposed it. The town’s code officer advised Ralph to open a winery instead, which would classify it as a farm and give it the Department of Agriculture and Markets’ protection. Ralph and his partner, Brian Lee, turned to distilling instead—a distillery also has farm status—and produced their first batch in 2003, obtaining their license in 2005.

Tuthilltown's Four Grain Bourbon with peers

“Before the Prohibition, almost every farm had a still,” Gable Erenzo said. “After the harvest, they would grind up grains and fruits and distill. It was really a farm product, an agricultural pursuit. But laws after the Prohibition made it cost prohibitive to restart on such small levels.”

Tuthilltown benefited from a change in regulation in 2001 that made craft distilling possible in the state. Before that, the only license available was a $50,000-a-year industrial one, said Erenzo.

For all of its complexity when it hits the tongue, bourbon begins simply enough—with grains. Rye, wheat, and malted barley are the typical complements to corn. Tuthilltown Spirits’ Baby Bourbon is made of 100 percent corn, while its Four-Grain Bourbon contains 60 percent corn and an equal proportion of rye, wheat, and malted barley. Maker’s Mark, by comparison, contains 70 percent corn, 16 percent wheat, and 14 percent malted barley, while Woodford Reserve is made of 72 percent corn, 18 percent rye, and 10 percent malted barley.

Grains are milled into a fine flour, then poured in proportions specific to each bourbon’s recipe, one type of grain at a time, into large mash cookers with water. Each grain is then cooked to a specific temperature until the next one is added. This cooking process is called mashing.  The mash bill then must be cooled down to 55 or 60 degrees before being placed in fermenters—at which point yeast, and often sour mash from a previous batch, to ensure consistency, are added—where it will remain for several days. The fermentation time depends on the distiller; Tuthilltown’s bourbon ferments for five days. One pound each of two types of yeast are added on the second day after being tempered in three gallons of water for 15 minutes. Mash is added to the bucket, and then poured into the fermenting vat. Fermenters at Tuthilltown have a capacity of 200 gallons. Small batch indeed: the industry’s largest tanks, at Buffalo Trace, contain 92,000 gallons.

Fermentation tank at Maker's Mark distillery in Tennessee

During fermentation, the mash is first sweet, then tastes like flat beer, and finally turns sour, at which point it is known as “distiller’s beer.”            After fermentation comes distillation. The mash is placed in a still, the liquid is heated, and as it goes through several copper plates, the liquid comes down into a recipient. Most bourbons are distilled twice, as is the case at Tuthilltown. The distillery uses two German-made pot stills that allow them to create a number of different types of spirits, said Erenzo. The fermented mash bill sits in the pot while a steam jacket heats it up. The liquid then evaporates and goes through a series of copper plates. As it goes through the cold coil, it condenses back into liquid. During the first run—the stripping run—the bottom plate is closed and the “bad” alcohol disappears. The second distillation allows the “heads” and “tails” of the alcohol to dissipate, so that only its “heart” remains, ready to be captured. After the second distillation, the bourbon reaches 78 to 80 percent of alcohol by volume. The distiller adds water to bring it to 57 percent, at which point it goes into barrels.

Still at Tuthilltown

A batch of Tuthilltown whiskey starts with 400 gallons of water and 800 to 900 pounds of grains that are then milled on site. Ninety percent of the products they use come from local farms, within a radius of about 10 miles, explained Erenzo. “We found a guy upstate with a seed bank, and so we use a heirloom varietal of corn,” he said. “We mix it with a local high-quality field corn.”

Two farmers grow wheat specifically for the distillery, while the apples used in its vodka come from an orchard three miles up the road. The malted barley comes from Canada. The enzymes it contains break the grains’ starches into simple sugars, said Erenzo. The distillery, which occupies 10 full-time employees, produces one or two batches a day, which each turns into about 50 gallons of finished spirit. Each bottle is filled, corked, and labeled by hand; the current year is also hand-written on the label.

“We touch the bottles seven times before they leave the door,” said Erenzo. About 40 cases are bottled and packaged a day.

No just any whiskey can be called bourbon. Its signature elements are carefully regulated. By law, a bourbon must contain at least 51 percent corn; be aged in new, charred oak barrels; be distilled to no more than 160 proof; go into barrels at no more than 125 proof; and be bottled at no less than 80 proof. Some distillers keep secret the exact percentage of grains and the temperatures used in their bourbon. No coloring or flavoring agents can be added. Kentucky distillers will tell you that the water of the bluegrass state is essential to the taste of bourbon. There, river water runs over limestone, which leaves it rich in calcium and magnesium and low in iron. In addition to being beneficial while cooking the mash, in Bourbon at its Best (Clerisy Press, 2008), Ron Givens writes that if the water that is added to bourbon after it is distilled—to lower the proof before it goes in the barrel—contains too much iron, a reaction with chemicals in the wood can turn the liquid anywhere from green to black. Tuthilltown uses water from a deep well.

According to Charles K. Cowdery in his book Bourbon, Straight (Made and Bottled in Kentucky, 2004), rye was the grain of choice to make whisky in colonial times. This changed once pioneers settled in Kentucky, where corn was abundant. Evan Williams opened the first commercial distillery in 1783. Bourbon was placed in barrels and shipped down to New Orleans to be sold. The journey on boats down the Mississippi River took several months to complete, and by the time the whiskey reached Louisiana, it had begun aging. Initially the barrels were not charred. But in the late 1700s, Elijah Craig experienced a barn fire that charred his barrels. According to the history passed on while touring Heaven Hill distillery in Bardstown, KY, he filled and shipped them anyway. The whiskey that arrived in New Orleans was smoother and tastier than its previous incarnations. Cowdery offers a more simple explanation: Barrels were used to store all kinds of goods at the time, and so were charred in between uses as a way to sterilize them. He suggests that new barrels were charred as well because the process gave the bourbon a better taste. The practice seems to have been widespread by the mid nineteenth century. Four levels of charring exist, which refer to the length and depth of charring; Tuthilltown uses a no. 4 char.

Barrels at Tuthilltown

The barrels at Tuthilltown are part of what gives the distillery—and the bourbon—its unique character. Rather than using the large, 53-gallon barrels one will see in the larger Kentucky distilleries, Tuthilltown ages its spirits in barrels that contain between three and 14 gallons. A smaller barrel increases the surface of exposure between liquid and wood, explained Erenzo, and allows the bourbon to gain its distinctive taste much faster, without needing to wait 10 or more years for a full, smooth flavor. A three-gallon barrel ages in about 4 months, an eight-gallon barrel will age in about a year, and a 14-gallon barrel in two years. This is particularly crucial for a young distillery like theirs, since it means that product can be on shelves rapidly. As Tuthilltown expands its production, however, the distillers have begun using slightly larger barrels; five gallons is their smallest size now, said Erenzo. In June 2010, William Grant & Sons acquired the line of Hudson Whiskeys from Tuthilltown, which gives it an exclusive licensing contract for seven years. This will help propel sales of Tuthilltown’s whiskeys in Europe and generally help further develop the company.

Whiskeys from various barrels of different ages go into each bottle of Tuthilltown bourbon. “It makes it more well rounded to blend bourbons that range from four months to two years old,” explained Erenzo. “The younger barrels have a more robust oak flavor, the older ones are more smooth.”

Smaller barrels are more cost prohibitive. The production of each gallon in a three-gallon barrel is between $25 and $30, while it goes down to $3 a gallon in a 53-gallon barrel, Erenzo added.

According to the Distilled Spirits Council of the United States (DISCUS) 2009 Industry Review Tables, sales in the bourbon and Tennessee whiskey category were up by 0.3 percent last year—not a significant number, but one that. However, one just needs to take a look at the bourbon shelves in a well-stocked liquor store to realize how many small batch, high-end bottles are now available. Kentucky distillers also know that bourbon is popular, as they see more and more tourists visiting from all over the country and develop their public offerings to tap into that demand. The Kentucky Distillers’ Association offers an official bourbon trail, which features six distilleries that pay to be included. Tourists receive a “passport” to be stamped at each distillery and traded, once completed, for a T-shirt.

The main distillery building at Tuthillltown

No need of a passport to visit Tuthilltown, which offers two tours for the public on Saturdays and Sundays year-round. State laws also allow the distillery to pour ¾ ounce per person. With the ¼-ounce pours served in the tasting room, each visitor can try three of the distillery’s products, from white dog (whiskey straight from the still) and bourbon to rye and vodka.

“It’s important to come and see the process and understand the connection we have with local farming,” Erenzo said. “We experiment with our grain varietals, we make whiskey from grain to bottle. We’re getting to the point where some farmers grow just for us, which gives them another outlet for their harvest.”

This article first appeared in fall 2010 issue of The Main Course, the newsletter of the Institute of Culinary Education.

Culinary Careers: How to Get Your Dream Job in Food, with Advice from Top Culinary Professionals (Clarkson Potter)  is now out!

This book is the culmination of nearly two years of work, from proposal to publication. Institute of Culinary Education President Rick Smilow and I conceived Culinary Careers as a comprehensive guide to help students, career changers, prep cooks looking to move up, weary chefs in need of a new way to use their skills, budding food writers, or aspiring winemakers go about their job search and learn more about the industry as a whole.

Cooking, baking, managing, producing, distilling, brewing, distributing, planning, marketing, writing, editing, photographing, filming, styling, designing—the career opportunities in the food industry today are seemingly endless. Because such a plethora of career paths are possible, it can be hard to find out exactly what job would best suit oneself, or how to go about obtaining it, short of talking to everyone. In Culinary Careers, we did just that: We talked to people in all aspects of the industry about their education, career path, and day-to-day activities, to provide the most complete and useful advice possible.

I interviewed close to 120 people for the book. With word count restrictions, 89 are now profiled, including Thomas Keller, Daniel Boulud, Dan Barber, Rick Bayless, David Chang, Graham Elliot Bowles, Gale Gand, François Payard, Ruth Reichl, Michael Ruhlman, Gail Simmons, Mindy Segal, Erin McKenna, Michael Laiskonis, Elisa Strauss, Zingerman’s Ari Weinzweig, Chef’s Garden Lee Jones, Orangette’s Molly Wizenberg, Julie and Julia‘s food stylist Susan Spungen, Allagash Brewing Company’s Rob Tod, and Savannah Bee Company’s Ted Dennard, as well as more sommeliers, caterers, company owners, media producers, stylists, photographers, publicists, consultants, and educators.

Culinary Careers (click here for the table of contents) opens with three chapters that cover three different career-building stages: Getting Started features information on educational needs for beginners and career changers alike, describing programs and schools around the country, along with some top international programs. This chapter also offers tips for resume writing and job interviews. Career Development and Growth gives advice on advancing one’s career, from developing a palate to acquiring additional education and credentials. It also discusses how to change jobs, which organizations to join and trade shows to attend, and networking both in person and online. The third chapter, Ownership and Entrepreneurship, addresses the many entrepreneurial opportunities that the food industry affords, from owning a restaurant or a food product company to a public relations firm or a catering company. It covers the pros and cons of ownership, the components of a business plan, permits and certifications, and investors. Lessons from the Stratosphere features commentary and advice from those who have reached the pinnacle of their profession.

Eleven chapters then include exclusive interviews with both food-world luminaries and those on their way up that allow readers to discover what life is really like in their desired field. These professionals also offer their thoughts on salaries in their field and what they look for in a new hire, for up-to-date, frank information on what one can expect to earn when working in the food industry. Those job category chapters are:

Cooking
Pastry and Baking
Catering, Events, Personal and Private Chef Work
Management
Wine and Beverages
Food Artisans
Retail, Distribution, Sales
Media, Marketing, Public Relations
Assorted Business Services
Nutrition and Nonprofit
Education

I can’t describe how inspiring it was to work on this book. All the people who were generous enough to share their experiences, knowledge, and advice were a daily source of positive energy, thanks to the passion they exuded. I’ve repeated that so many times it sounds trite, but it nonetheless remains true. Despite the long hours and the sacrifices they often make or have made as part of their careers, people who work around food just love what they do—and love sharing it. I would end interviews with my brain racing, in an exalted state, because of how excited people were about their own jobs. I feel so lucky, and am so thankful, to have gotten to share a small slice of the lives of the people now featured in Culinary Careers. Writing a book is a pretty brutal process: You stay glued to your computer for weeks and months on end, cutting down on nearly all social obligations to research, research, research and write, write, write. Then you suffer terrible anxieties wondering if your editor will actually love the manuscript, which are nothing compared to the anxieties that come once the book goes out to the media, and then finally is available for public consumption/criticism. Getting to interview such wonderful people, spend months researching in depth so many aspects of the industry that’s been mine for nearly 10 years, and share it all with people who want to be or are part of that amazing world made it all worth it.

Now it’s out of my hands and I can only hope that readers learn from the book and find jobs that they love as much as I love mine.

The conference took place downtown St. Louis, just a few blocks from the Gateway Arch. The hotel housed Larry Forgione’s An American Place, which, as obvious from the title of my presentation (Forgione’s 1996 cookbook, An American Place, was one of my focus points), was a source of great excitement. I got to interview Nick McCormick, the chef de cuisine at An American Place, a couple of hours after landing, and went back for a celebratory meal with my co-panelist, historian Megan Elias. The real highlight of the week, in this assortment of terrific food in a city where I wasn’t sure what I’d find, was incontestably Chef McCormick’s cooking. Of course, having spent quite a bit of time talking with him about his cooking philosophy, influences, training, and more the day before meant that I did not approach the meal like a blank slate. But Megan did—other than her interest in An American Place and Larry Forgione, driven by her work as an historian of American food—and she concurred. His food was creative, inspired, and perfectly executed. It celebrated the best ingredients that Missouri, but also America, has to offer, following the principles Forgione established in the 1980s but in a way that was  completely contemporary. My photos don’t do his food justice, but the highlights were the shrimp cocktail—a clever take on the satisfying classic dish, with spicy tomato spheres—baby lamb with fiddlehead ferns, trout terrine, and a terrific charcuterie plate. The desserts were also twists on classics, s’mores and peanut butter and jelly, but not done in a cliche way as is the case in too many restaurants that have reinterpretated those dishes in the last decade. Everything we ate felt “fresh” in its interpretation, with a smart, well edited use of experimental techniques. A chef to follow.

We also had to try Niche, since chef-owner Gerard Craft was just nominated for a James Beard Award in the Best Chef: Midwest category. My favorite dish was the fried pig head appetizer—a crispy, flavorful, and rich preparation that I couldn’t stop eating. On Chef McCormick’s and our wonderful waiter at An American Place, Giovanni’s, recommendation, I also went to Monarch for a solo dinner. Josh Galliano, the executive chef, worked at An American Place and at Restaurant Daniel in New York. The celeriac soup, pork belly, grits and morels, and strawberry shortcake were all seemingly simple dishes that had complex and rich flavors.

Not to forget barbecue, at Pappy’s Smokehouse, and Ted Drewes for frozen custard. Neither of those disappointed, and both were worth their long lines. The ribs at Pappy’s Smokehouse are dry-rubbed and then slowly smoked over apple and cherry wood. An assortment of sauces is available on each table, but none are needed. I would never admit that in front of my father in law, but those were the best ribs I’ve ever had. The sweet potato fries are tossed in a mixture of spices and sugar, which makes them dangerously addictive, and the baked beans were rich without being too sweet. The cookie dough frozen custard at Ted Drewes was expectedly sweet but nonetheless delicious.

I had to do a lot of walking in a city not really pedestrian-friendly to offset these meals, and am grateful to the Mississippi boarwalk and Forest Park to allow for that. St. Louis was full of surprises and I hope to go back.

The next out-of-New York post will cover Portland, OR, one of the most amazing food cities in the US right now, if I can be so categorical.