by Ranelle Kirchner | Aug 9, 2017 | Food&Drink
Stars in my eyes: A food memoir by Ranelle Kirchner Avignon, France: April, 2007. Nearly 10 years have passed and yet I remember the day so vividly. I woke up in awe to the golden Virgin Mary statue. She stood proud, unadulterated, and poised at the top of the Palace where the Pope once lived. Although I’m not religious, I would admire it endlessly before and after sleep. It was my second-to-last day working at Michelin-starred Christian Etienne. I would set-up the boucher, meat, station each morning upon arrival, while sipping espresso Fabien had made earlier. If I showed up to work early enough (before the other chefs), Fabien would make me an extra shot. This day, however, when I arrived early I did not have the luxury of an extra espresso. I was surprised to find both Masterchef Etienne and Pastry Chef Alain walking through the kitchen gathering ingredients. This was not their daily routine; most days they would arrive within an hour of one another, never at the same time, and would go straight to their upstairs office. Rather than indulge in espresso, I instead went straight to my workstation to look through my prep list and organize for my day. Within minutes I was approached by Chef Etienne. He asked me something in French, but I could not decipher his question. He was a jolly, Provençal French Chef who often trailed in laughter while he spoke and always had the most intoxicating aura of black truffle essence. I felt embarrassed and didn’t ask to repeat the question. Instead, I simply said yes. Never would I say no...
by Adrian Daniel Schramm | Aug 5, 2017 | Food&Drink
When I think of food, it’s usually of the plate. The plate, clean. The plate, full. The plate, empty again but covered in crumbs, smears, leftover bits of whatever we were eating. Sometimes messy, sometimes elegantly so. The plate that will disappear to be washed and then used again. Washed by someone with wrinkled fingers forever reeking of sweat and the astringent cleaning chemicals. I think of the restaurant kitchen, and the long, often arduous journey that led to the plate in front of me on the table. Hands with knives attached down to the wrist as a natural extension of the arm. Chef’s orders. The cold line giggling, fryers spitting, everything so feverishly hot, everyone desperately sweating. I think about the food trucks lining on streets. 1: tamales, 2: burgers, 3: Korean steamed buns, 4: ice cream truck for dessert. A popsicle in the shape of Sonic the Hedgehog’s head and gumballs for eyes. Perkins was never the best brunch in town, but we went there anyway for 3AM unlimited coffee, 4AM omelets, 5AM bathrooms. This was in the Midway neighborhood. Midway is loud, dirty, fascinating, fun. Ethnic restaurants on every corner: Some of the best Ethiopian food in the city. Some of the best Thai food anywhere. My favorite (some nights) Chinese food at Peking Garden. And then Perkins, strangely, in the midst of it all against the backdrop of a decaying shopping mall and train passing by with heads leaned against the window. When I moved downtown it was Mickey’s Dining Car instead. I sit where Meryl Streep sat and imagine her there beside me. A man...
