Mardi Gras Mambo #1

"God! I don't want to see your tits!"

-Brandon Bergman

"Absolutely Indescribable!" is what I said to my mother on Ash Wednesday when I attempted to paint a picture for her of what Mardi Gras is in New Orleans. Or what it was....the only representation she understands is what she has seen on pre-Katrina re-broadcasts of "COPS". Even though I think that that depiction is accurate to some degree, the daytime activities of Mardi Gras are so much more beautiful than seeing some female from Arkansas expose herself for thrice-turned beads or the evidence of someone shitting their pants around 6:30 P.M. (yes...things turn rather ugly after the sun goes down), I am only interested in celebrating the glory of this marvelous day, where anywhere else but in New Orleans, it is just Tuesday.

I had the great fortune of joining a well-organized Krewe this year. "Krewe Woo-Hoo!" has been in existence for a while, and is a function of a lot of really good people who love to have a good time. Nothing more. A King and Queen are selected to represent this informal group and are paraded through the streets of the Vieux Carre to tremendous excitement and cheers throughout this unbridled day of sheer joy and merriment. The theme of this year's Mardi Gras was "Krewe Woo-Hoo Takes To The Garden". There were many representations of fantastical garden-y things: butterflies, a Grand Ladybug, a carrot, a sexy bunny and an entire troupe of garden gnomes attended the festival. The parade was led by a very talented group of musicians from all over the world, presiding over the affair with drums and bagpipes.
(Please see my videos on my Facebook page for an idea of the music provided for our romp through the French Quarter). Occasionally, a piper gnome would let out a rhythmic cry of "All hail the King and Queen of Woo-Hoo!". To which the participants and the crowd would respond "Woo-Hoo!" I am not doing the experience justice, as I said before, it is indescribable. This parade even boasts a confetti cannon that periodically blasts joy into the streets in the form of shredded paper in a rainbow of colors. Magical!

The festivities with this Krewe seemed to culminate in a sojourn by the riverside where Grande Proclamations are read and new royalty are announced for the following year, as well as the theme for the next Mardi Gras celebrations. Things are altered a bit for the coming Fat Tuesday, as there is not a King and Queen, but a single Empress will preside over Krewe Woo-Hoo's Mardi Gras festivities in 2011. Jaclyn MacCabe is the Empress Elect, and will reign over the theme of "Krewe Woo-Hoo Dreams Of Venice". I'm already imagining my costume for next Mardi Gras.

I resisted joining this wonderful band of people last year, because I wanted to experience my first Mardi Gras in New Orleans on my own. Although I have no regrets to that decision, I cannot imagine a better way to spend a Tuesday before Lent any other way but with this group of merry-makers. God Bless Us All!

King Cake Abomination

I have recently resumed communications with a dear old friend from long ago, via Facebook. I was so pleased to find that after reading my previous post about King Cake, she was inspired to create one of her own. A King Cake was made and taken to her office in Denver, CO for her co-workers to enjoy. A bit of Mardi Gras in the Mountains. I was absolutely charmed. She related in a message that someone made up a story that whoever found the Baby in their piece was to become pregnant. This actually made me nauseous and took the wind right out of me. I was aghast. Any "charm" that I felt absolutely fell away, like crumbs of stale King Cake from the front of my sweatshirt.

How could this happen, this abomination? Taking the simple yet noble tradition of finding the tiny figure in a King Cake and having it become some retarded baby-shower perversion? I suggested that everyone involved in this unholy massacre should become pregnant, only to violently miscarry in the third tri-mester to spare the world of their ignorant, blasphemous spawn.

I did take some comfort in reading that after this outrageous assignation occurred, the baby reappeared about three times in different pieces of King Cake. That suggested that no one wished to become pregnant at all. "Pass the curse on to JoAnne....she'll eat anything."

It just furthers my point that New Orleans culture just doesn't translate to other parts of the world. When attempts like this are made, you can see what happens. I'm just saying.

Let Them Eat (King) Cake

'Tis the time of year when grocery stores, bakeries and almost anywhere that people gather you will find a specifically New Orleans confection: the King Cake. Traditionally eaten on Twelfth Night, or the Feast of the Epiphany, the King Cake is an institution. Essentially, this is a yeast risen coffee cake that can come filled or plain. Plain being a filling of cinnamon and pecans. A filled King Cake can mean anything from cream cheese to chocolate or fruit filling enrobed in a rich, flaky sweet bread. Always present, however, is a small figure of a baby, representing the Christ Child. You are not meant to eat this. The one who finds the baby in their hunk of King Cake is declared to be King (or Queen) of the feast, and is responsible for either buying the next cake, or throwing the next Carnival party. This tradition is taken very seriously. To eat King Cake outside of Carnival Season holds the eater up to ridicule and humiliation by those who find out about it. But since, in New Orleans, as my sister Toenisha points out, shame and dignity are the first things to go, so, this is't that big of a deal. If you have an out-of-season craving for King Cake, may I recommend a regular coffee cake, without the Baby.

I have just enjoyed a piece of King Cake. Delicious!

The international sign for "I'm Choking!"

Foreign object dislodged from windpipe...

Look! I found the Baby!

Damned Mean Red Bean

"Red Beans and Ricely Yours,"

-Louis Armstrong

The quote above is how Louis Armstrong ended all of his correspondence, so fond was he of the iconic washday supper, still held dear in Old New Orleans almost as religion. Every Monday on my walk to work through the French Quarter, I smell red beans and rice in the works on peoples' stove tops. The perfume of bell peppers, onions, celery and garlic meet my nostrils along with the aromas of bay and smoked pork sausage. Once in a while, I can smell scorched Louisiana popcorn rice that some home-cook has left over too high heat on a burner, rendering the pan of starch useless-or even worse, serving it despite the ruination of the grain.

When I first arrived on the green, levied banks of the Mississippi to start a new life, I swore to uphold all of the unique and utterly charming old customs that enrich the fables of this City. I vowed to never let a second-line parade pass me by without joining in, even if I'm just waving a handkerchief from the banquette. I committed to living a life as free of stress as I could and live La Vie Bon Temps. I dedicated myself to cooking red beans and rice every Monday, even if I wasn't doing laundry on said day. It is tradition to do as such as a New Orleanian. Especially being a New New Orleanian, or so I thought. Any weekend stop at the grocery in the Quarter would find my basket containing at least a pound of Camillia Brand Red Beans and all of the necessary ingredients to prepare this dish. When people would come to visit from Florida, why, I would cook up a big pot of red beans, local andouille and rice from the fertile fields of the Delta. The meal was always met with such glowing satisfaction and nods of approval, that I continued the trend for months. Months....

Let me say, it is impossible to prepare a small amount of red beans and rice. Even if five people are gathered, consuming all they can, one is still left with half of a gallon of the stuff. I am a man who loves his leftovers, and typically will consume every last morsel of a left-over. Sometimes re-imagined in a clever and delicious way. I've basically had enough of the red bean. I don't even want to see it in chili.I have had my fill of a filling dish, I can assure you.

At the tony French Quarter restaurant at which I work, one of the "benefits" is a full staff-meal, provided to employees free of charge before each shift. It is something that I anticipate every day that I work. There is always speculation as to what it might be. It is usually held in some kind of secrecy until it is served. Perhaps so the Chef doesn't have to hear any grousing about how someone doesn't want to eat open faced tuna melts again, or how someone else had a turkey sandwich for lunch that day. Usually the meals are very well imagined: balanced, tasty and fresh. One of my favorite things that they don't trot out nearly often enough is the build-your-own-nachos bar. Once we were treated to a positively enormous chefs salad, bursting with so many good things, with your choice of homemade blue-cheese dressing or ranch! The Asian inspired staff meals are always well appreciated. Who doesn't love eggrolls and vegetable lo-mein? My favorite day is pizza day. I literally leap with joy. We are treated to a variety of Sysco Brand Rising Crust pizzas with very creative toppings such as (but not limited to) lamb and spinach, corn and jalapeno and barbecued fried chicken, just to praise a few. A fresh green salad is always provided. Sometimes, since the meals are kept so guarded from the staff until they are served, an experienced waiter may sniff out a clue and reveal the meal beforehand. Yesterday I spied that Jack O'Lantern of a sous-chef headed for the giant food processor with a bowl of dill pickle chips and onions, ready to make relish. "Oh. Must be hot-dogs today." Guess what we were served? Hot Dogs! I knew it! I'm a detective. I mean, usually these are meals that any 11 year-old would be pleased with, but what the hell? It's free.

Mondays, are for me, a particularly nice day to work. I've made my money over the weekend and Monday precedes my two days off in the week, so whatever tips I can charm out of people is gravy. Scratch to be spent on cocktails or lunch or whatever I choose. The ugliest part of Monday has got to be the ennui and tedium of refilling the sugar-caddies after they come from the dishwasher, but if that is the biggest thing I have to overcome on "My Friday", then I will suffer through. Then I remember that it is Monday. There is hot sausage grilling in the kitchen. The rice cooker is going full-force and I see empty cans of Blue Runner Red Beans in the garbage. My heart sinks to the floor and I wish that I had eaten before I came to work.

I still hold true to the commitment to uphold the traditions and unusual customs that make New Orleans such unique and wonderful place to live. A place that millions of songs have been written about. A place that has street names like Elysian Fields, Desire and Piety. A place that celebrates anything from Creole tomatoes to Gumbo and Mardi Gras. A place so rich with culture and absolutely filled with music. A place where the odd is commonplace. On my way home tonight, I passed a house on St. Peter Street in the Quarter where about thirty Santa Claus's were falling out of the front door in various stages of intoxication and undress. I love living here but, I will tell you, if I see another red bean, I am going to scream.

Just Because She's A Woman

"The day we're born we start to die, don't waste one minute of this life, get to livin'"

Dolly Parton, Better Get To Livin'

Singer. Songwriter. Cultural Icon. Living Legend...

Turkey Re-Hash

"No more turkey. I will have some more of the bread that it ate, though."

-Hank Ketchum

I love Thanksgiving. I could have it all year round. I adore the idea of a feast for your family and friends, good wine, lots of laughs and the splendid vision of a fully dressed turkey, proudly resting after a long, sizzling slumber in your oven, presented in a fashion that would make King Henry VIII himself, blush with envy. Basted until it yields the golden brown skin and succulent flesh that home cooks the world over seek yearly. I have read of many techniques designed to keep that bird juicy and moist, but most seem bizarre and too troublesome to even attempt. I read of one that tells you to roast your turkey breast-side down for a portion of the cooking time, then flip it over for the remainder. I can picture myself struggling with a hot, stuffed 20 lb turkey wearing some kind of clumsy gloves to turn the bird right side up. Probably splashing the contents of the roasting pan to the floor, disgorging some of the stuffing and, if I didn't drop the turkey to the goddamned floor, I would, at the very least, have a greasy mess to clean up when I would much rather be enjoying a bottle of vino tinto and perhaps a pharmaceutical or two, in the presence of some very nice people who have come to marvel at my skill in the kitchen. Forget that.

I am also a fan of brining. That is where the bird takes a 24-hour bath in a salt and sugar solution in the fridge before being brought to room temperature, dressed and roasted. My buddy and chef, Zac, has presented turkeys with tremendous success in the brining realm. Positively bursting with juice from neck-to-popes-nose. That term, popes nose, for those interested in food history, was began by the English Protestants during the Tudor period, to denote the tail of a roasting fowl and to express contempt for the Catholic Church by suggesting that the Pope's mouth was likened to a bird's asshole. It's filthy, filthy asshole... (For fans of Showtimes divine series, The Tudors, Season Three's DVD's drop on December 15th. I've discussed with my friend, Paul that I am already coming up with ways to cope when that series ends. Wish me luck.) Back to brining. Being that I had purchased a 20 pounder this year, there is nothing that I had at home or could purchase, for that matter, that would accommodate the size of this bird and the brine. I briefly considered buying one of those Ziploc Brand Giant bags, or whatever they are called, but the pictures on the box showed that the bags were designed for storing sweaters and blankets, but not one photo of a raw turkey submerged in brown liquid stashed in someones fridge. My beloved Nigella Lawson suggested to me to purchase a small garbage can for this purpose. Alas, though I follow the words of Ms. Lawson as if they are religion, who's fridge can accommodate a small wastepaper basket as well as everything else in the icebox needed for this day? Not to mention the regular groceries that reside in there as well? Brining was out.

Martha Stewart suggests soaking a length of cheesecloth in melted butter and wine and draping that over the turkey while roasting. I have heard of people actually doing this to great success. The turkey, as well as the cheesecloth become mahogany and the flesh is unbeatably delicious. Even though Martha Stewart is another of my illuminated inspirations, I went with a method that not only makes that bird incredibly moist, but provides the most velvety gravy you've tasted. Here I present my Maple-Roasted Turkey. This also works with a Sunday Night chicken and would be delicious with a pork-loin roast as well. Although with the latter, I would roast some charming lady apples alongside, to be presented as a buttery, spreadable condiment along with the pork. May legions of home cooks take note and grow rich:

Brandon's Maple Roasted Turkey

What You Will Require:

A glorious bird of any size

Your beloved Grandmother's Cornbread Dressing

A stick of butter, softened and blended with savory herbs (thyme, sage, marjoram)

Salt and Pepper

A pound of thick sliced bacon (first quality)

A half cup of pure maple syrup (no detestable maple flavored corn syrup, please.) diluted with a cup of water or stock

Some turkey stock

Procedure:

Preheat your oven to 425 degrees.

Bring the bird to room temperature after thoroughly washing in cold water and patting dry with paper towels. (This is a good time to drink a cup of coffee and smoke a cigarette, while thumbing through your latest issue of Martha Stewart Living, or just fantasizing about the marvelous feast you are going to present to your eager guests who will no doubt boast about your turkey for decades to come.) Remove the bag of guts from the cavity. Sometimes the processors will hide it in the neck cavity in what I am certain is an act of cruelness to an inexperienced home cook. I chop up the liver as fine as I can and blend it into the dressing. My grandmother would not have done this, but she also cooked pork until it was the texture of particle board. Break up the heart, neck and alarmingly enormous gizzard with a knife and strew the pieces on the bottom of the roaster with enough water to cover the bottom of the pan.

If you choose to stuff your turkey, be reminded that it will add some time to it's sojourn in the oven, do this now. Pack it in. Don't forget to stuff the neck cavity as well and tuck the neck flap under the bird's shoulders. This gives a turkey that beautifully rounded appearance, suggesting goodness and plenty for all.

Carefully loosen the breast skin and massage about half of your softened herby-butter all over. Gently melt the rest. (I used the same pan I sauteed the mirepoix for the dressing in) Don't neglect the turkey's armpits. Tuck the wing tips under the turkey's corpse, bring the skin around the cavity over the stuffing and fasten with wooden skewers. With cotton kitchen twine, cross the legs at the ankles and tie a tight knot so that the turkey appears to be coquettish and winsome, protecting it's cavity from prying eyes. Brush the entire bird with the melted herb-butter generously, and cover the entire pan tightly with heavy-duty aluminum foil for the first third of the required cooking time. Of course, times will vary according to the size of your turkey. I bought a 20lb turkey, so the foil was on for about two-hours. I adore leftovers.

Remove the foil and reduce the temperature to 350 degrees. Shingle the bacon over the entire breast and legs, overlapping the slices as you go. Brush the turkey with the diluted maple syrup and back into the oven, basting with the syrup mixture every 20-30 minutes. If you notice that the legs are getting too dark too soon, cover them loosely with foil.

At this point, the bacon will have begun rendering it's sweet and salty fat over the entire bird, anointing it with a haunting smokiness. When the bacon has reached the point that it is a crunchy carapace of, what is in fact, candied pork-belly, gently remove the bacon and reserve it to crumble over the finished bird, or chop it into bite-sized pieces and present to your guests as a homey amuse bouche. They will be grateful. When the turkey (and the dressing) has reached an internal temperature of 160 degrees, remove from the oven to a cutting board and tent with foil. A turkey can sit like this for a half-hour to forty-five minutes with no harm while you get on with the rest of it.

The Silken Gravy:

Tip the contents of the roasting pan into a strainer set into a wide-mouthed measuring cup, scraping any browned bits from the pans bottom. While the fat separates from the luscious drippings, get on with the potatoes or whatever else needs to be done. I had the very handsome Zak attend to the mashed potatoes while I did something else at this point. Carefully pour or spoon the fat off of the surface of the dripping, tipping about three tablespoons of the fat into a saucepan. Combine, over medium heat, the fat with an equal amount of flour and whisk until you have a nutty roux. Gradually add the dripping to the saucepan, whisking all the while. You may add some delicious homemade stock that you made the night before with a package of turkey-necks to your gravy at this point. Simmer and adjust the seasonings, whisking, whisking, whisking. Any juices that have accumulated on the cutting board should also be incorporated at this time.

I am not a very good carver, so, I usually leave that job to someone else. It is an honor to be asked to carve someone Else's turkey, so accept the duty as such. I think that in most cases, the hostess is so pleased to be able to share the work at this point, I believe because a few glasses of Prosecco and/or red-wine have been consumed by this time, handing a knife to someone else is a relief to say the least. Zak did a marvelous job.

A delightful feast followed with the obligatory "oohs" and "ahh's", richly complemented by Angelique's divine Mac and Cheese, Zak's delightful stuffed mirlitons (a delicacy in Louisiana), and, it goes without saying, the most marvelous company in the world. Thank you Sam, Angie and Zak for allowing me to demonstrate my love for you all by feeding you on this most wonderful of holidays. My former houseguest, but still glamorous, Toenisha Shabazz Johnson came in after work a little later and enjoyed a plate as well as a slice of Angelique's revelatory sweet potato pie. A staple of Southern holidays. It was a perfect example of what good sweet potato pie should be: not overly sweet and studded with pieces of sweet potato adding texture to each bite. Her crust was buttery and light and literally melted in your mouth. I ate the entire pie in less than two days.

Idea For Leftovers:

Turkey Shepherd's Pie!

Christmas time is a-coming, and I am planning to secure a ham with the bone removed, to stuff with a mixture of cheese grits and collard greens. This is a recipe that I came across in one of Nathalie DuPree's cookbooks. She is a marvelous woman with a real commitment to Southern food ways. She keeps her recipes deeply rooted in the past but with such a contemporary flair that one cannot call her "cornpone". More on the projected success of that ham after Christmas. And don't forget: Hoppin' John for New Year's Day! It is a firm belief that by not eating black-eyed peas on the first of the year, you will invite misery and poverty into your life to such a monstrous degree that you may never, ever recover from the ravages. It is best to eat some black-eyed peas. Don't say that you hadn't been warned.

Po' Boy Sunday

"I am just a poor boy, though my story is seldom told. I have squandered my resistance for a pocketful of mumbles such are promises."

-Paul Simon

Today I attended one of my favorite festivals in New Orleans. It is an annual orgy of which I have grown very fond. It is The Po' Boy Preservation Festival held on Oak Street Uptown. I have been eagerly anticipating the return of this popular festival since I first attended last year and joyously celebrated the City's most ubiquitous sandwich. Restaurants vie for the distinction of not only serving the most delicious Po' Boy in town, but also the most unique. I must have sampled at least five, and being a compulsive overeater, that is being mighty conservative, I can tell you. I attended the festival for the past two years with my dear friends, Angie and Zak, who, by their own admissions, are as fond of Po' Boys as the laws of nature will allow. Missing from this event was Toenisha Shabazz Johnson, who has been known to enjoy Po Boys (sandwiches, as well as the human variety) with as equally great gusto as myself and the recent newlyweds. Unfortunately, she was unable to attend due to work commitments, even though she had been scheduled the day off. It appears that The Sazerac Restaurant would have to close if she were to ever get sick or require a personal day. She paints a picture of her co-workers almost as a character study of Prissy in Gone With The Wind: lazy, incompetent, ignorant of midwifery. Despite her absence, a good time ensued, though she doesn't know what she missed. Look at the picture of the fun lovin' Po Boy enthusiasts below! Look at the size of them swimps! Only in New Orleans! Santa doesn't appear to have enjoyed many Po Boys this year, as he is quite svelte and trim. Maybe he has a tapeworm or just doesn't eat the bread.

It was hard to believe that an entire year had passed since a variety of tempting Po Boys passed my lips in one afternoon. We enjoyed a stuffed blue crab Po Boy dressed with a traditional remoulade, the beloved Parkway Tavern's Roast Beef Po Boy (which incidentally, could not be beat as far as flavor and value is concerned. A six inch sandwich covered with tenderly braised roast beef, Swiss cheese and mayonnaise for two dollars. AND a bag of Zapp's!) My favorite of the last two years, however, is prepared by a Vietnamese restaurant on the other side of the river, and is a wonderment of quality, freshness and flavor. A Vietnamese Pork Po Boy. Behold the glory: It is perfect in every way. The bread is fresh and has a delightful chew, the pork is sweet and savory, the cucumber salad and the cilantro perfectly balances the heat from the siracha. Perfection on a roll.

As well as about 50 food vendors, one offering what looked like grilled frozen pizza, (I know. At The Po Boy Festival. It is an abomination before God.) there were about seven bands, family-themed activities and a lot of local artists were exhibiting their work. The crowd grows by the hundreds as the hours go by, everyone sampling the riches stuffed into french bread loaves. I really wanted a commemorative T-shirt, but the only sizes available were small and 2XL. Believe me, I see no irony that the extra large tees were the first to disappear at The Po Boy Preservation Festival.