Death on adventures of an omnomnomnivore in NYC

Tales from a Mexican Line Cook

Thu, 09 Apr 2015 23:20:09 -0400

Like many restaurants, my kitchen was staffed largely by cooks/runners/dishwashers of Latin American origin, particularly Mexicans from the state of Puebla. This made sense, given that we were cooking Latin-influenced food, but you’ll find Mexican cooks everywhere in New York, from diners to Chinese restaurants to fine dining.

There are many great cultural exchanges to be had from hanging out with Latino cooks, from hearing the latest reggaeton to learning the true meaning of Cinco de Mayo. (Turns out it’s not just about cheap margaritas.) But as you while away hours peeling yucca in the slow afternoon, sometimes the conversation takes a turn for the serious. You ponder aloud: what you’re doing with your life, what your dreams are, who you love, where it all went wrong. You share your hopes for your family, your fears that you’re not good enough, your ambitions to go to college. You tell your life story, how you came to the US and found your footing here. You do all this while crammed into a closet-sized space, with tweezers in one hand and a fish fillet in the other. This is the trench.

Sausage Party, or the Stuff FDA Nightmares Are Made Of

Mon, 24 Jan 2011 14:09:53 -0500

Still foggy with sleep, we tumbled off the bus to see two wood-fired cauldrons, belching out clouds of smoke and steam in a medieval fashion. The air was filled with the finest perfume any gastronome could wear: the scent of pig lard.

I found myself on yet another of northern Italy’s ubiquitous small-scale farms, surrounded by idle farm machinery, deadened remnants of the fall harvest, and the sharp smell of pig shit. This trip had been touted on the syllabus as a visit to an “artisanal butcher,” but we were about to see that this butcher was one of the more minimalistic variety.

Blood at Dawn: Meeting Your Meat

Tue, 10 Aug 2010 17:57:59 -0400

The bucket of hot water burbled gently above a gas burner, just behind a weathered wood chopping block. Jutting out from the edge, the ax rose with elegant, curved lines, primeval and practical in function. The preparations were set; today, a living being was going to die.

There had originally been two turkeys at Barbialla Nuova, but the first one had fallen victim to a fox the night before it was slated for slaughter. The second turkey had been given a temporary reprieve because she had just laid a bunch of eggs. Though there was no male turkey in the vicinity and the eggs were unfertilized, Ken kindly snuck a few fertilized chicken eggs into the nest so that the turkey could see a brood of chicks come to fruition. Alas, just as the eggs were about to hatch, the turkey inadvertently crushed the emerging chicks and killed them. And so, the sole remaining turkey on the farm was getting a bit “clucky,” restless and lonely without her friend, and was now due to be given “the chop.”