Anthony Bourdain, one of my favorite food writers of all time, believes that brunch is where fine food and good chefs go to die. This is what he has to say on the subject in Kitchen Confidential:
'Brunch Menu'. Translation? 'Old, nasty odds and ends, and twelve dollars for two eggs with a free Bloody Mary' ... Cooks hate brunch ... [it's] demoralizing to the serious line cook. Nothing makes an aspiring Escoffier feel more like an army commissary cook ... than having to slop out eggs over bacon and Eggs Benedict for the Sunday brunch crowd. Brunch is punishment block for the B-Team cooks, or where the farm team of recent dishwashers learn their chops ... [Never order] an obvious attempt to offload aging [fish], like seafood salad vinaigrette or seafood frittata ... the dumping ground for the odd bits left over from Friday and Saturday nights or for the scraps generated in the normal of course of business.
His hatred of brunch is such that, in his Bravo Top Chef blog, he lays the blame for Jen Carroll's unedifying implosion squarely upon the show's producers, who forced the cheftestants to undertake a breakfast challenge. Clearly, Bourdain believes that the requirement to cook eggs and bacon somehow caused poor Jen to self-destruct - while he does not excuse her behaviour, he clearly feels that her fuse-blowing was understandable given the impossible circumstances in which she was compelled to work.
The message from Bourdain: Brunch is Bad.
Sir and I were mindful of the ironic twist of fate, therefore, that caused us to present ourselves at Les Halles in lower Manhattan, the designated meeting spot for our pre-Messiah meal with The Most Sophisticated Person I Know. Wet through and windblown, we sat down at one o'clock sharp yesterday afternoon at Bourdain's shrine to the traditional brasserie. The restaurant was smaller and cozier than we we thought it would be, with shabby-chic rips in the banquette upholstery: there were some lovely tables snug in the steamy front windows and some rather olde worlde Christmas decorations scattered around. Imagining ourselves in Lyon or Lille, we suddenly felt the urgent need for a glass of red wine and some pork rillettes or choucroute. We eagerly picked up our cartes to commence perusal.
With what were we presented, in addition to the establishment's usual 7:30 am to midnight, 7 days a week chef's selection? You guessed it - the weekend brunch menu (served 11:30 am to 4:00 pm, Saturdays and Sundays only). Zut allors - Bourdain has gone over to the Dark Side! I was shocked - shocked! - to see the aforementioned eggs Benedict (like, four different ways); seafood crepes (hmmm ... how old did you say those crevettes were?); and yes -there it was - a Bloody Mary included in the price! I was compelled to wonder what was 'revolutionary' about this revolutionary brunch menu, given that Tony has clearly joined the bourgeoisie and embraced the horror.
More power to him, I say: I love brunch.
I worried not that the B-Team were on duty in the kitchen and decided to call Chef's bluff by ordering an omelette with smoked salmon and sour cream (that'll show him!). It was fluffy and delicious, with a hint of lemon, accompanied by a nice pile of excellent frites and a tasty green salad. And what wonderful possibilities for the non-brunchers among us! Frisee aux Lardons; terrine Maison; foie gras with apples and Calvados; cassoulet; and let's not forget Gratin de Macaroni (what wit! what style! either that or Chef is having a laugh at our expense, which is more likely, I suppose).
Sir, who orders duck whenever he sees it on a menu, had confit de canard with truffled potatoes. TMSPIK and I gossiped animatedly amongst ourselves so as not to disturb his single-minded chewing: he declared it the most wonderful piece of duck he'd ever eaten; demanded to know why I had never in my life cooked such a dish for him ('It's gluten-free, you know!'); and, when his plate was utterly clean, pronounced himself satisfied and ready to go home. I reminded him of our musical obligations, at which point we all decided we still had a bit of room for dessert. A wonderful-looking tarte tatin (I think Sir ordered this on purpose so he wouldn't have to share) and two cremes brulee (divine!) were duly brought to the table and happily scarfed.
We made it to the concert just in time and were able to digest contendedly to the celestical music of Handel, baroque trumpets, and Trinity Church's excellent choir. It was heaven - even with the specter of Chef smirking at us from up the street.
Next up: to satisfy Sir, I find out how to confit a duck
No comments:
Post a Comment