KATIA KILLS THE CLEARWRAP BOX

KATIA KILLS THE CLEARWRAP BOX

I’ve worked in the restaurant world--the food service industry, my entire adult life, and in my industry we call it clear wrap, plastic wrap, food wrap, film or in the case of those folks just in from the outside world, Saran Wrap. You may, in fact, call it Saran Wrap at your house. What it is, is the plastic film cover that keeps food from drying out, odors from getting in and (with good wrapping practices) liquids from spilling in refrigerators and on counters. Clear wrap seals up fish, sauces and open containers. Pressed against warm purees soups and buttercreams it prevents that nasty skin from forming on top, and when double wrapped tightly, it makes a particularly efficient prophylactic against freezer burn. In the restaurant industry clear wrap is such a workplace essential as to almost be taken for granted.

And that’s where the problem starts; being taken for granted. When I was a lad coming up in the food service industry, clear wrap came in a very heavy box and wore at the box’s top a heavy-duty saw-toothed cutting blade. The box was not light (probably between 8-10 pounds), bulky and two feet long. The blade was most formidable and I saw some of the worst and bloodiest cuts of my kitchen career made by that sturdy blade. My good friend and early line-mate Steve Hall made the serious and unforgivable mistake of attempting to catch the clear wrap box as it fell from a shelf, and was rewarded with deep and painful gashes in the exact same place on the inside of either forearm. Yes, I was taught to respect the clear wrap and even more so, the amazing cutter box in which it resided.

More important than just respecting the clearwrap and its box was learning, practicing and thoroughly following the instructions and protocol for opening and readying a new box. The box was well designed, and when the instructions were properly followed (and the box was kept dry; a critical practice), the clearwrap box would last the life of the roll of clearwrap, a lovely arrangement. A poorly dispatched box, fresh out of the shrink wrap, would cause several weeks worth of misery in a kitchen that relied on clearwrap on an almost minute to minute basis. More painful than the ongoing struggle with the disintegrating box, however, was enduring the wrath of the Executive Chef each and every time he used the box himself, which in my day, was often.

It was ever so as I journeyed through the first several years of my restaurant career. Quite rarely but occasionally, one would encounter a roll of wrap that had not been cut correctly in the factory and it would begin to catch at one end of the roll or the other. This would cause the wrap to tear off for use in narrower and narrower pieces as well as creating a lump of unwound plastic on one side of the roll. When this freak of construction occurred, much consternation and unrest went on in the kitchen until the dry-goods salesman arrived to exchange it for a fresh and functional roll. As I said, rare was the roll of clearwrap that failed to do its noble and pre-determined job.

Thus trained and thus reliant on clearwrap I entered the Berkeley restaurant scene of the late 70’s. Richard Olney, James Beard and Diana Kennedy were now the icons and gurus of UC Berkeley grads with advance degrees in Art History, Romance Languages and Classical Literature. These instant cooks studied and embraced cuisine as avidly (or perhaps more so) as they had pursued their graduate degrees. Foraged mushrooms, balsamic vinegars, mesquite grilled fish and dry aged meats were now the buzzwords that informed their newfound consciousness. New to their world, I saw and used fresh herbs for the first time and was educated as to the many different types of olive oils and the specialization of their applications.

But the Berkeley-ites were as new to my world as I was to theirs, and almost immediately I realized that the things I had come to take for granted in professional kitchens were unknown quantities to the well-read neophytes. When I first started at the 4^th Street Grill, it took two people to man the grill (most certainly a one cook operation in any standard restaurant) on a busy night. Organizational skills I had thought were de rigeur for any trained cook, for example, reading and organizing the orders from the waiters were looked upon as arcane and mysterious gifts. So I may not have known my cold pressed olive oils from my pomaces, but I could run the grill by myself on a busy night, and that was regarded as a worthy skill.

Oddly enough, among the arcane and mysterious skills unknown to my new workmates was mastery or even basic understanding of clearwrap. The clearwrap box at the 4^th St, Grill was in a perpetual state of disintegration, the blade was used almost as a last resort (why can’t you just pull it off?) and the issue of the film rolling over on itself and bunching up at one end was seemingly a way of life. It amazed and alarmed me that these would-be wannabe cooks with one and sometimes two advanced degrees were at sea with the clear wrap box. It may not have been imported Sherry vinegar or a roll of peppery pancetta, but in its own way it was even more vital to the function of the kitchen. The day that a new roll arrived, I took two of the lead cooks and a waiter aside and revealed the secret of how to set up the clearwrap box for continuous and uninterrupted service. I taught them that clearwrap was not just your friend, but a tool, a part of happy and productive kitchen life.

In the ensuing years, I traveled to the East Coast, to Los Angeles, the Napa Valley and ultimately returned to the San Francisco area to ply my trade and kitchen skills. I watched as clearwrap manufacturers from coast to coast tried in vain to improve on the mysterious and baffling box. The cutter blades were changed from steel to plastic and then (this was short lived) to sandpaper. Adherent sheets of plastic were affixed to the front of the boxes so as to protect errant flesh from the sawtoothed blades. Warnings were printed boldly on each box as if the cooks might actually read them. Precautions were taken, but it seemed that the art of clear wrap was fading away as rapidly as the art of correctly boning a chicken.

Which brings us to where I am now: Chef at an Eco-Lodge deep on the south Pacific coast of Costa Rica, working in a kitchen that teeters between the old and the new. I am the only gringo on a kitchen staff of four. We have food processors and a Kitchen-Aide, but grind corn by hand for tortillas and make our own tamales. We work with fresh and local ingredients, and here, where it is perpetually hot and the life expectancy of foods not properly cared for is limited at best: knowledge and mastery of the clear wrap takes me back to those Berkeley days among the sophisticated and perhaps over-educated (did I say that?) students of cooking.

Here in our kitchen overlooking the blue Pacific, the clearwrap box seems to perpetually sit in a pool of water and the disintegration process is rapid. More often than not I am faced with a large naked tube of plastic film. It needs to be lugged to the table, where it rolls back and forth as one tries to steady it long enough to stretch out the needed amount and then grope for a knife with which to cut the film from the roll. With any luck, one can then peel the film off the table and wrap one’s chicken or cover one’s soup. This is so prevalent a practice, here in Costa Rica that the clear wrap is even sold in the grocery stores sans the box; just the roll and nothing more.

Imagine then, my anticipation as our roll of clearwrap neared its end in our jungle kitchen, and a new roll had been ordered and even delivered. I could scarcely wait to peel the shrinkwrap off that new box, undo the top, slide out and reverse the cutter, peel that first length of film off the roll and cut it neatly with the saw-toothed blade. The feeling of being able to stretch the film taut over my newly made salad dressing without having to fight it’s tendency to wrinkle and tear and without having to peel it off the table would be one I’d treasure over and over again.

At long last I peeled the last grudging sheet of film from the old roll and happily tossed the tube into the recycling barrel. I asked my new helper, Katia, an somewhat excitable and slightly headstrong woman to bring me the new roll of clearwrap from the bodega (storeroom) so we could unwrap it and put in immediately to good use. I stepped to the phone to place my produce order and chatted a bit about lettuces and their availability with my grower. I turned back to the kitchen and there on my prep table was a giant roll of film, brand new, removed from the box and gleaming naked as the day it rolled off the machine. Katia stood back proudly and beamed at me, “Aqui esta, Chef”, or, here it is. She had neatly removed it from the box, very professionally broken down and crushed the offending cardboard and smashed it all into the paper recycling bin. I yelped as if I’d been bitten by fire ants. I reeled around the kitchen in horror, the crushed cardboard box dangling from my helpless hands. And yes, I nearly cried.

I now have at least another four months of battling the clearwap roll each and every time I need to wrap my fish filets, cover my mango salsa or press a protective layer over my camote-platano puree. I will lug the large and unwieldy plastic roll out to the table, try to still and center it long enough to peel some film away and I will promise myself that this next time, I and only I will touch the box.

PURA VIDA

The following is a piece I wrote for the Ester (AK) Republic, in an attempt to explain Pura Vida and how it applies to we gringos.

PURA VIDA


Pura vida literally means "pure life", but the meaning is closer to "full of life", "purified life", "this is living!", "going great", or "cool!" It can be used as a greeting, as a word of farewell, to express satisfaction, or to politely express indifference when describing something. The phrase has become widely known; this highly flexible statement has been used by many Costa Ricans (and expatriates) since 1956. Some foreigners view the phrase as an expression of a leisurely lifestyle, of disregard for time, and of wanton friendliness. However, Costa Ricans use the phrase to express a philosophy of strong community, perseverance, resilience in overcoming difficulties with good spirits, enjoying life slowly, and celebrating good fortune of magnitudes small and large alike. Wikipedia

Chances are, if you know someone who has been to Costa Rica, or you are fortunate enough to get off the airplane there yourself, you have seen, or will see, a T-Shirt touting Imperial, the local beer, and the slogan “Pura Vida”. It is the Costa Rican national slogan and is probably identified with the country as strongly as the Hawaiian “hang loose” symbol and slogan are in that tropical paradise. “Pura Vida” appears on T-shirts with jungle frogs, toucans, monkeys, surfers, volcanos, the local beers and smiling brown skinned girls with prominent cleavage. “Pura Vida” is used in ad campaigns, travel posters, clothing displays, restaurant promos and more. “Pura Vida” is what Costa Rica sells to the rest of the world.

So up there in the northern 50, you say to yourself, “So what is this Pura Vida crap and what the hell does it mean anyway?” Good question, because down here in the jungles of Costa Rica, where I am, this is a point of some contention.

“Pura Vida”, means, literally, pure life. It stands, or should stand for, the purity of life as the Costa Ricans (from this point forth, known as Ticos) have come to see it and theoretically live it. It embodies the natural simplicity of things. It is a mantra of tranquility and a reminder of a gentler pace and ease of life. As you leave the grocery store, goodies in hand, the checker might see you off with a sweet, “Pura vida.” It can be the sincere “have a nice day” of the Ticos, or a thrown off response meaning nothing.

Pura vida can also be the response to a simple “como estas”, or how are you, And sure, Pure Life may be how you are my amigo, and since you’ve been saying it for countless generations, that counts. But, sad to say, it all too often rolls off the tongue of too many Ticos in response to any question, problem, issue, or point of confusion/bone of contention. Pura vida has become something more like a national excuse.

If your mechanic accidentally misconnected the ground wires and your engine is on fire, “Pura vida.” And when the car that you desperately need just to buy essentials like groceries and beer sits untouched in his garage for three, four, five days? “Pura vida”. When the electrician you need to finish the wiring job on your house so you can turn on your refrigerator and lights doesn’t show for several days in a row, “Pura vida”.

And damn, if it isn’t such an ingrained part of the culture here that, as an excuse, it actually works; at least for them. No one, no one, can allow their anger to show at “pura vida”. The Ticos are a nationally non-confrontational people, and to argue with “pura vida” violates their national ethos.

It grieves many Ticos to disappoint those who depend on them and often a lie (not a big one, but a lie) replaces the truth when answers are given. “Will you be here tomorrow?” is often answered “si/yes” when in all reality, the individual answering has absolutely no intention of being anywhere near that place tomorrow. Estimates of times of repair are often understated so as not to disappoint, or cause the worker to look bad in the eyes of the customer. Two days ago I was at a garage and a job that was quoted to me as taking 15-20 minutes ended up taking over an hour and a half. Perhaps you or I would have grunted in displeasure early on in hearing the honest time given, but would have gone about our business, making one plan work for another. To many Ticos it is embarrassing to admit that a job might take longer than you or he would like, and oddly he doesn’t mind nearly as much seeing you sitting (or pacing, in my case) in the waiting room for an hour.

Every gringo (mostly Americans, but can be Canadians, too) has their favorite “Pura Vida” story about jobs gone unfinished, loans left unpaid and mechanical work gone awry. Early on in one’s residence here in this lovely country, that first “pura vida” moment will strike and the only response allowed is a puzzled shake of the head and a grimace at one’s wallet.

My first “Pura vida” moments came as I was trying to open a restaurant on a shoestring, a wing and a prayer. I depended on Costa Rica’s only wholesale grocery/delivery company to bring the bulk goods; sugars, oils, flour, vinegars, and such because they were necessary, but also difficult to transport when one has no vehicle. Countless times the truck would make it’s every other week trip up my driveway without sugar or salt or frying oil. I would listen in disbelief and horror as the driver (who loaded his own truck) would tell me that none of these vital ingredients happened to be in their huge national warehouse. And then he would smile grandly, clap me on the shoulder and utter, “Pura vida” as he climbed into the cab of his truck and drove away.

So yes, “Pura Vida” is the Costa Rican way. It is indeed about a pure and easy way of life. If you don’t do, can’t do, or won’t do something; pura vida. It certainly makes things far less complicated for the individual who cites the phrase. Many is the time that the phrase, “Pura f#cking vida” has crossed the lips of my gringo friends, and many is the time that it will cross them again. After all, it is a way of life. Pura Vida.

HEARTS OF PALM

This is a piece written for Dominical Days with a limit of 320 words for each part; maybe that's good for me.

HEARTS OF PALM

When I moved to Costa Rica over four years ago and started cooking with local fruits and vegetables I made a lot of wonderful and delicious discoveries. Much of the thrill from those discoveries were finding delicacies previously unavailable to me. due to cost or shipping issues, that were suddenly plentiful.

One of those treats was and is Hearts of Palm, or Palmito, as it is known here. For years I only knew hearts of palm as a sort of slippery, soggy and tasteless spear that came from a badly decorated can. And later, in the early part of this century, I saw hearts of palm fresh, but priced prohibitively, sometimes as high as $13-14 a pound.

So I was excited to discover, upon spending some time at the Feria, that hearts of palm were not only readily available, but also quite affordable. Fresh, they were crisp, refreshing and ready to pair with so many other flavors. And not only could I find them at the Feria, I discovered that they grow up and down our coast here, hidden in the jungles. It turns out that Costa Rica is the world’s largest shipper of hearts of palm to the US.

Hearts of palm, as we serve them at La Cusinga, are cut from wild palms on our property. Only the soft core of the palm is taken and the young tree dies. Much of the palmito grown here, however, is taken from pejibaye palms, grown expressly for the purpose of harvesting the heart.

One of the true ironies of dining here on the coast is ordering an “Ensalada de Palmito” in a restaurant and receiving canned hearts of palm which have been grown in Costa Rica, shipped to the US to be steamed in a can, and then returned to Costa Rica to be placed, bland and soggy, on top of a salad for an unsuspecting guest.

ENSALADA DE PALMITO

I like using palmito raw. There are a number of recipes here in Costa Rica for palmito stewed, or braised with other vegetables, but I find that seems to obscure the already delicate flavor. Palmito can be sliced thinly and tossed with lettuces and a light vinaigrette, or, it can be done as a salad on its own. At La Cusinga, I make a very popular palmito salad that I serve alongside a green salad and garnish with a few marinated cherry tomatoes.

Palmito takes very well to citrus flavors and here, with so many mandarinas available, I have used the combination of the two to great effect. This recipe calls for roasted red peppers (chiles dulce), but using them raw would add to the nice crunch from the palmito. When cleaning your hearts of palm be sure to check that the stringy outside part is stripped away. Much of the palmito sold at the Feria retains a bit of this stringy outer layer. An easy test is to see how easily a knife slide through it, or, better and tastier, just slice off a thin piece and pop it in your mouth.

CHEF DAVE’S HEARTS OF PALM

1# (.5K) Hearts of Palm, thinly sliced;

2 large red sweet Red Peppers (Chiles Dulces), roasted, peeled and cut in thin strips;

3 green onions (cebollinas verdes) sliced thin, all the way up to the ends;

Juice (jugo) of 3 Mandarinas;

1 oz. Good Olive Oil (30 ml)

Salt and Pepper

Toss hearts of palm with mandarina juice immediately after cutting to prevent discoloring. Add slices of chile dulce and green onion and mix well. Pour olive oil over top and mix again. Salt and pepper lightly. Let stand for at least 30 minutes before serving. Check for salt and pepper again before serving.

Serve alone or with dressed lettuces.

THE HORROR IN COSTA RICA, PART 4, THE GRAND OPENING

THE HORROR IN COSTA RICA.

PART 4, THE GRAND OPENING

I had breathed. I had gone outside and looked at the ocean and the jungles and I had wiped yet another quart or two of repugnant alcoholic smelling sweat from my brow. I put my seething anger and frustration aside and putting my head up, go back to retake my kitchen. Everybody has made their beans and rice and gotten their little afternoon meal, so I could continue.

If I haven't mentioned it yet, I should here and now; this kitchen is tiny. There is a front half where the cooking apparatus are. There is a flat top griddle, six burners, and a small oven. That's it. Facing out toward the dining room are two salad refrigerators, one that works and one that doesn't. A salad refrigerator sits about waist high and has two doors that open from the front and a top loading space for small inserts of dressings and condiments. Around one corner of the hotline, tucked into an alcove is an ancient French fryer perched on a rickety wooden table. I had yet to master the art of controlling the thermostat, so there was either a huge cloud of smoke rising above it, or else the oil lay inert and tepid.

Around the corner of the griddle was a narrow aisle way that served as the major artery between the front and back halves of the kitchen as well as providing the only access to the dishroom. This passway was, of course, where almost everyone chose to stand. A waiter and a busser who were new to us arrived and somehow quickly found their way into that crowded area of the kitchen. Despite the irrefutable reality of our opening in less than two hours, no one had seemed to take an interest in telling the new and untrained waitstaff where to go, what to do or, better yet, where not to go and what not to do.

The gentleman who supplied us with the Costa Rican cigars that we would sell at our bar arrived and wondered whether or not he could order some bocas (small plates), Kate was everywhere in and out of the kitchen but was getting nothing done while taking up a lot of space, and John and Carlos (the dishwasher) hatched a plot to drive to Randall's house in Punta Mala to see if he had gone home. We had reached what I could only hope was the height of disorganization and the kitchen felt as if it were getting smaller and smaller. And I was sweating in great flowing rivers. The demons in my head were screaming for a drink because, they assured me, three or four ounces of rum would take the edge off.

I started to make everything. Everything. I assembled the rice for the Jambalaya and fortunately the mirepoix vegetables had already been cut. I oversaw the making of "Chef Dave's Whack-amole"; my own four ingredient take on Guacamole. I finished seasoning the fresh pargo (red snapper) ceviche. I realized that I have forgotten to bake the tropical fruit bread pudding so I pulled the mother batch from the walk-in, added a little more eggs and cream (that makes everything better, right?) and slung it into the oven.

Betza was quite helpful. She was solid while Katya was willing, but not quite able She did and does have a sweet smile though. The two of them were almost able to do the work of one, and the salad/appetizer station was nearly together. I started in the back and checked the girls out for their salad prep. We had a shrimp cocktail with a nice spicy papaya cocktail sauce that came out just as I wanted. All three salads appeared to be ready including my favorite creation, the "Taste of the Osa", which featured marinated roasted beets, fresh hearts of palm in a light vinaigrette, and slices of avocado lightly dressed with mandarin lime juice. The girls and I chilled stacks of plates and I got a sense that we could actually serve food from here. This was a huge relief.

It was rapidly approaching 4:00 when John and Carlos returned and reported the already foregone news that Randall has disappeared entirely. Fortunately, amidst the swirling chaos, my professional instincts had kicked in and I was already well prepared intellectually and spiritually for his absence. Right. Menu in hand I proceeded to the front to start checking off what I’d forgotten and what I’d remembered.

Cigar Greg stuck his head in the kitchen again and politely reminded me about his food, the undirected floor staff was milling and meadering from place to place and there were so many people coming in and out of the front door of the kitchen it was madness. And for some reason smoke was filling the kitchen. I suddenly realized that although I'd had the two overhead fans running, I'd neglected to turn on the hood fan. I though that ought to fix things. But it didn’t.

I heard a tiny feminine Hispanic voice calling, "Chef, Chef", and looked over to see thick smoke billowing out of and above the ancient portable fryer. Katya had on the saddest face you've ever seen. Ryan had decided to master the thermostat and has adjusted the control knobs the wrong way and then walked away. The fires beneath the oil were glowing red hot and flames were leaping around the outsides of the unit. I grabbed a dry towel and turned down the heat, but realized full well that we wouldn't be able to use the fryer for quite some time. I snatched up two heavy pans, filled them with oil and put them on the stove. Betza and Katya would have to fry the first batches of chips for "Whack-amole" and ceviche on top of the stove, the old way.

With the fryer off, the smoke began to clear, and with that clairity it seemed as if we were set. I had all my portioned fish and chicken up front in my reach-in. The beans, yam-plantain puree, and chicken stock were in their water bath on the griddle top and it was up to temperature. The jambalaya was out of the oven, my table top mis en place (the things I’d need to assemble each dish) was ready, we could even feed Cigar Man. I fired off his fish cakes and a side of jambalaya and our first order, however unofficial, had gone out the doors.

The food going out the door seemed to signal or spark the hunger of the drinkers at the bar and our first official order was taken. It was for a shrimp cocktail for a well-oiled bar patron. I walked the girls through the construction, even though we'd made this plate together three or four times. It looked beautiful, the fat chilled fresh shrimp gleaming above the red-gold of the spicy papaya sauce and out it went. It wasn’t two minutes before the query came back from the bar to see if we had any “real” cocktail sauce. Cretins, all of them, cretins.

I stepped out the back door for a breath of fresh air just in time to see a mammoth SUV pull into the driveway and park across two parking places. The tall driver hopped out, let his female guest open her own door and checked in the reflection to make sure his very dark glasses were affixed just so. I guess SUV arrogance is not specific to the States.

The yuppie couple were to be our first restaurant guests. They were part of a reservation for four and they were shown to their seats at a very nice table looking out over the swimming pool and the mango trees. By 5:15 Karen White, one of the local entrepreneurs and her son had arrived and they were the early arrivals from a party of six. Tables were filling up but there were no orders yet. This is the time of the evening, at the very beginning, with the crowd gathering but not ordering, that makes my skin crawl, as if I needed more help in that department. God did I wish I had a tall and very strong rum and something to get me through the anxiety.

The second couple of that first four top showed up and it seemed, or perhaps just hoped, that things were about to get moving. The feeling in the dining room was as electric as it gets in a laid back tropical paradise. People who knew each other were arriving and there was a current of travel back and forth from table to table as our guests greeted each other. Ojochal is a very small community and we were that night’s “place to be”.

Headwaiter Olman called out "ordering", and placed the first ticket for the first four top triumphantly and grandly in the window. And just as he did, a huge roar was audible from the driveway. I gaped out the back door of the kitchen in wonder. At 5:45 on Opening Night, Coca Cola was finally here with the refrigerator we'd been pleading with them to deliver for the last month. Perfect. Undaunted, I cooked on, readying, assembling and then sending out the plates for the first order; chicken, pork, and two jambalayas. It had begun.

As the dining room continued to fill and as tickets for appetizers began pouring into the kitchen, a strange procession entered possessively through the back door. Three slickly dressed Costa Rican gentlemen paraded into the kitchen. They had laminated badges on and I realized that this was our promised (promised at 11:00 AM) visit from the Costa Rican Health Department. Just fucking great. Could there possibly be anything else? We had a full dining room, more reservations coming in, and two hard core gringo haters with badges and cameras (cameras?), plus a third body just for good measure (their muscle, perhaps?), fixing their gazes on every heated and unheated part of the kitchen.

I kept cooking as they yanked open the top of my salad refrigerator and peered in suspiciously. They took pictures. I kept cooking but also kept my ears open. John was tagging after them, trying to make sense of what they were saying, and babbling in his feeble Spanish. They went back to look at the dishroom, eyed the mountain of pots and pans (our one night dishwasher had decided it was far more entertaining and less work to be parking lot boy) and then made their way back out to where I was on the hot line. The obvious leader eyed me with no discernable fondness and asked me for a paper towel. I figured that this meant we were supposed to have them in the kitchen to satistfy some ordinance or another and I started babbling to them that we almost ALWAYS have them in the kitchen but that someone must have taken them out to do some cleaning. The head honcho, el queso grande, looked at me contemptuously and picked up nearby four-fold cocktail napkin. He then proceeded to do something I've never seen in 36 years in the business. He approached the stove with a bit of a flourish, placed the cocktail napkin on the palm of his hand and raised his arm over his head. He stuck his arm up under the exhaust fan and it was then that I realized that he was testing its strength. He raised his arm higher and higher until the napkin began to flutter and almost, almost begin to levitate from the feeble draw. He looked at John and me sadly and shook his head. Uh-oh. Our hood fan was definitely not going to pass the test.

What happened next was that chaos ensued for two hours and I came out on the other end; sweaty, greasy and covered in food. We had seated and fed 38 people when we had been prepared for 20-24. Every table had enjoyed the full menu offerings; appetizers, entrees and desserts. The girls held up the cold end of things as well as could be expected and I ran the front end side with the hot appetizers and all the entrees alone. Well, not alone, I had my demons along with me and every now and then they’d shout out that a tall cool alcoholic beverage would make all of this far less painful. When it came down to “doing the do”, the instincts of over 35 years in the business kicked in and all I knew how do to was cook the food and make it go away.

The reality was that it all went so quickly and smoothly that when it ended, it was a bit of a letdown. I had run out of a few things; the marinated pork loin first and foremost, but had kept enough food on hand to feed the room and make nearly everyone happy. Our crowd, being mostly Canadian, or at least North American, grumped a little about not getting a basket of bread on the table, about not having a big old piece of red meat on the menu and about not having potatoes on every plate; but by and large they were happy, well fed and well drunk.

I made my rounds of the room, accepting kudos and accolades and even, and this is tough to imagine, turning down offers of drinks. I grabbed an icy club soda and hied back into the kitchen to clear the debris and than the Tica girls (who had know grown up in a trial by fire) for their hardwork and their patience with the sweaty, swiriling, detoxing chef.

I was spent. I had put it all on the plate; patience, discomfort, eagerness to please in my new home and my professional reputation. And it had worked. The following night the excitement was over; the shine had worn off and we didn’t do a single dinner. Pura Vida.

Fish Head in a Pot

FISH HEAD IN A POT

Yes, it started off with a fish head in a pot; a rather large head (nearly 4 kilos) from what must have been a most formidable Pargo. And the fishhead became a rich fish stock and that stock helped turn our La Cusinga Christmas dinner into deep steaming bowls of spicy tomato-ey fish stew.

I had wanted to do something a little different for our Christmas Dinner at the Lodge and decided that a family-style, serve yourself meal would bring people a little closer together. I had searched far and wide for the local spiny lobsters, but when those were unavailable, decided that a big pot of fish stew on every table would create that sense of shared eating community.

I started off, before the fish head got involved, with a sheet pan of halved tomatoes, a couple of sliced onions and a big handful of peeled garlic cloves. I salted and peppered the tomatoes, poured a healthy dose of olive oil over them and at the last minute added a slice and very spicy chile pepper from our garden. The laden down sheet pan went into the oven at 450 degrees and roasted until the tomatoes were a crunchy brown on top.

And the fish head, oh the lovely fish head, was joined in a large pot by sliced carrots, onion, celery, a few halved heads of garlic, black peppercorns, parsley stems and bay leaves. I covered all this with water and brought it to a fast boil which I reduced equally quickly, to a very low simmer. When I make fish stock, I want the flavor and the clear stock, but don't want a lot of floating fish flesh particles. And it was for this very reason, 90 minutes later, that when I poured the rich broth through a fine strainer, I did it by just barley tilting and hardly moving the pot. Any excess movement or shaking frees the well cooked meat left on the bones and clouds the stock.

To get the base started, I sauteed still more sliced onions with still more garlic in still more olive oil. I added a few strands of grocery store saffron (to no discernable effect, it seemed later) and once the onions were well wilted, I added the roughly chopped cooked tomato mixture to them. A few quick stirs and then the fish stock went on top. This too was brought to a quick boil and then reduced to a mere simmer. I wanted this to cook together, ever so slowly for at least an hour or so.

So now it was on to sorting and cleaning the seafood that would go into this rich concoction. Undaunted by my inability to find lobsters, I had fallen back on fresh local shrimp, tiny local clams called "almejas", fresh small local squid and a glisteningly fresh filet of Pargo. The shrimp were peeled, the clams rinsed, the squid seperated head and body and then tenderized and the pargo cut into small thick slabs.

Traditionally in the south of France when Bouillabaisse is served, it comes with rouille, a spicy/garlicky red pepper mayonnaise that is spread on toasts dunked into the fish stew. In many parts of Province, the rouille is stirred directly into the stew, adding a garlicky bite to an already garlicy base. For the rouille I roasted and peeled red peppers and put them in the Cuisinart along with an egg yolk and a whole egg, roasted garlic, fresh garlic, a handful of garlic croutons (to add texture to the rouille), salt and pepper and a couple of dashes of our house-made chilero sauce (a Habanero based beauty). Once I had this pureed into a paste, I began to drizzle in the olive oil; first slowly and then a bit more quickly. The sound of the machine let me know as the sauce thickened and it came out beautifully; pale pink and full of garlic and chile bite.

Our guests were making arrival noises so we got soup on the table, quickly followed by a salad of sliced organic tomatoes and just picked organic lettuces. I had pulled some rarely used tureens from our bodega and readied them for service. The bread had been spread with garlic butter and toasted and the rouille dolloped onto it. All I needed to do was get the seafood in the individual cooking pots (for groups of four) and get it cooking.

In went the clams, the squid and some simmering tomato broth; then the shrimp and the fish pieces. I brought it up to a low boil, covered it and let it simmer. I repeated this with the other sauce pots for the other tables. Once I had them all filled I returned to the first pot and peeked in. The scent sent out by the steam was terrific. All the flavors were present even in that first whiff. I gently ladled the fish out and poured the steamy tomato-ey goodness over the top, filling the tureen. I put a handful of a mix of chopped garlic greens and parsley over the seafood mixture and returned the top to the tureen. I repeated this for the other tables and it was time to serve.

I had explained our need for audience participation and each table had ladles, spoons and bowls. The rouille toasts went out on a separate platter, the tureens hit the tables and it was time for dinner. The room got quiet as the tops were taken off and then the community eating vibe kicked in. There was nervous laughter as the first bowls were ladled full and the a lot of slurping and contented oohing and aaahing. Knowing full well what happens when I eat something like this with my family and friends, I passed around second plates of rouille toasts at each table and watched as the seafood soups disappeared from the tureens.

I don't do this style of service often, preferring to be able to create the plate design myself, but food like this is meant for a sleeves rolled up, help yourself, participatory meal and this was it.

As the tureens emptied and the guests sat back in satisfaction, I cut the almond torte for dessert, enjoying the moment and the mellow sound of a well fed dining room full of guests.

WAITING, WAITING, WAITING

It is the early part of December, we have hit double digits as far as the date, but it still seems early. Our business is hit and miss right now, some nights are just a couple or two from the Lodge and others nearly reach 20. And it's difficult to predict. We know that sometime in the third or early fourth weeks of December the gates will open and the winter tourists will arrive, but it's just not today, or even this week.

Here in the Zona Sur we're seeing a return of the "part-time" people. That's not to say that they're only people part time, but that they only live here part time. They return to their ocean view homes high above the Costanera when the going gets too chilly and too tough in the Northern climes of Canada and the US.

Our Lodge guests are appearing in twos and fours beating the Christmas rush. We will get busy. We know we will get busy. And we just have to wait patiently until we do get busy. It makes staffing difficult, purchasing difficult and management/ownership uneasy, but we all know the business is lurking in the wings; the unspoken of gorilla in the room.

But yes, we will fill up and we will rock the Coast. A month from now this blog will be re-read (at least by me) and chuckled (yes, chuckled) about. We have decided to open The Gecko to the public on Sunday nights, giving us four nights, and I am now cooking lunch on Mondays, opening to the public as well. This should be a great year for us and I'm looking forward to it.

Onward into 2010 and nothing but good eating.

Chow for now...

chefdave

HORROR IN COSTA RICA, PART 3, THE DAY BEFORE THE NIGHT

PART 3, THE DAY BEFORE THE NIGHT

HORROR IN COSTA RICA, PART 3, THE DAY BEFORE THE NIGHT

As if the night before opening a restaurant isn’t in itself so nerve-wracking that sleep is nigh impossible, I had chosen to make it far more difficult still by tossing in another twist. In addition to opening a restaurant, I was making a valiant attempt to put an end to an obsessive and ugly drinking problem (yes, my own) . Talk about a recipe for twitching, fearful, sweating insomnia.

Our “day before the Big Day” prep work had gone as well as I could have hoped and I had even spent what seemed like some quality time with Randall, my appointed second. He sat and sloshed down a few Imperials and pretended to be interested while I pontificated about kitchens, food, cooking, and anything else that would keep my mind out of the bottle. Randall asked the right questions and I gladly worked at taking him under my wing. I would definitely need to nurture someone of his skill and apparent interest if I was ever to get any rest from this venture.

Speaking of rest, when I went down to my cabina, it seemed that rest would never come. I did the classic toss from one side of the bed to the other routine, moving from one pool of sweat to another. I got up and went upstairs to watch a little Monday Night Football. I drank a cup of herbal tea. I talked to my partner, John. I felt like the song from the 60’s, “I Couldn’t Sleep At All Last Night.” This was my second full day alcohol free and definitely the jumpiest, twitchiest. Yes, sleep did come, but hardly the quality of sleep that I was hoping for and needing from the night before the Big Day.

I got up at 5:15 and by 6:00 I was standing in my walk-in refrigerator over a bowl of cream set into a bowl of ice. I had been trying without success to whip egg whites and cream for the last three days for my chocolate mousse. The humidity on the southern coast of Costa Rica is so great that the cream will not whip at all, while the egg whites will stand up for a couple of minutes and then a pool of liquid appears beneath them and they collapse completely. I was sweating and chilling simultaneously while hunched over the bowl in the walk-in and OH MY GOD, the cream was actually whipping.

While I was tossing and tuning in my sweaty bed the night before I'd recalled that in the old days of kitchens, when they were all fiery cauldrons, the chefs had whipped their cream in massive copper bowls over huge tubs of ice. I even recalled that I had old cookbooks that prescribed this very method being performed as recently as thirty years ago. I guess the advent of the kitchen-aid changed all that, huh? So in an effort to duplicate the whipping feats of the past, I dragged my entire operation into the walk-in refrigerator.

And now, realizing that my cream was indeed going to whip, I raced out to the line and threw on a doulble boiler and grabbed a bowl for my chocolate. I hastily measured it and threw in a little coffee and Meyers's rum (“Have just a tiny shot” it called to me”) for good measure. Having placed the water bath and chocolate over the flame, I raced back into the walk-in, finished the cream, and started in on the egg whites. And it was perfect; everything whipped. I yelped with glee and despite being in a 40 degree walk-in, wiped the sweat from my brow and ran to fetch the melted chocolate. I folded first cream, then whites, then cream, then more whites into the melted chocolate and by God, it was going to work and there would be chocolate mousse.

Next was the lime tart and this was another one I'd been struggling with. I'd been using sort of a cheater method for the filling which involved using canned condensed milk instead of a true custard, but gimme a break. The main problem I was having was that I’d been working with a dough recipe that I'd used for years that incorporated a lot of butter which made it really difficult to work with in this heat and humidity. Finally I achieved success by freezing the tart ramikins ( I don't have tart shells), chilling the dough as cold as I could get it without freezing it, and pressing it into the ramikins (skip the rolling pin, that's a disaster) with my hands. It finally worked and I poured in the filling. That worked too; I was on a roll. So far so good, but I was a dripping sodden mess. I'd soaked through my second t-shirt of the day and hadn't even begun the work in front of the stove.

I needed to break down and bone out eight chickens before I could move on to anything else, although my mind was reeling with the things left to do. The boning of the chickens proved a mettlesome thing, mostly because of major interruptions. As befitted an opening night, the kitchen was continually filled with people passing through asking a lot of questions. "Chef, where is this?" "Chef do you know blah blah blah?" "Chef what do we do about...?"

Despite alternating the hacking of bone with carefully orchestrated knifework, the number of chickens in front of me did not seem to be dimishing and the heat in the kitchen was building and swelling. The sweat continued to pour out of my pores, down the hollow of my back and off my forehead onto the chickens. Olman, our Tico head waiter showed up and helped me to prepare the mirepoix that I would need to start my chicken stock, but he's a talker and despite his help, I began to find his mindlessly happy chatter annoying. At this point even my own breathing was annoying. After what seemed like an eternity I finished breaking down the chickens and boning out the breasts for service. There really is nothing like the feeling of warm chicken meat clinging to your flesh in a 110 degree kitchen.

I was really starting to feel a bit weak and queasy at this point. I’d forgotten to eat anything since my corn flakes at 5:30 and the stress and lack of food in my body was getting to me. I’d been pounding water by the gallon, but it seemed to be coming out even more quickly and I went to change into t-shirt #3.

I slammed down a small bowl of black beans and jambalaya rice and went to lie down for a quick 20. Randall and Betza would be here at 1:00 and I needed to get them organized. I returned to the kitchen at 1:10 but no one was there. Just me and the food. Worried? Yeah, I was , but I started the major prep. By 1:30 I'd begun to really fret, but I keep plugging away. I assembled the mix for the fish cakes and finished the macque choux, a sort of uptown Creole creamed corn.

Ryan, John’s brother and another partner in our jungle venture, zipped in from a trip out into the world and told me he had just seen both Randall and Betza down at the soda (small local cafe) at the bottom of our driveway. I dispatched him on a search and rescue mission just short of 2:00. Betza showed up shortly thereafter in a majorly petulant mood. She had been dating Ryan and he was dumping her; (never sleep with the help is the lesson here) but there was still no sign of Randall.

Katya showed up just moments later and at least I have two of my staff. I asked Betza as to whether or not she had seen Randall, but she just shrugged indifferently. I dove into Randall's prep and really start to stress. I'd almost soaked through shirt #3 and it wasn’t even 3:00. John kept stopping by to tell me that our reservations were growing and it looked like we'd have a full house. I'd asked him to keep the number of guests at 30, but it's hard to say no to business on opening night.

It had become apparent in the hubbub of waiters chattering, my new dishwasher arriving, and the general confusion, that Randall would be a no-show on the most important night we might have. He’d been at the soda, had been seen there by a number of people, and then was seen riding the other way on his bicycle; away from the Lookout and back towards Ojochal. I would have stopped to be confused, but I don’t have time. At that point I was jamming and way too uptight. I’d gotten the girls in place and they were doing their best to pull together the salad and appetizer stations. I was starting to feel as if there was an outside chance we just might make it.

I was completely flying with the anxiety and stress of prepping not just mine, but someone else's station and convincing myself that, yes, I CAN do this. I scraped away the fish cake debris from my sticky hands and tried to make my way to the front line to get the started sauces finished and the fresh sauces started. But when the two hotel maids, plus Olman, the waiter, appeared in my already crowded kitchen and demanded to be fed, I just went off. There was too much to do, too many obstacles, and seemingly now way to do it all myself. But I knew I had to. I had to leave the kitchen and catch my breath or I was going to lose it in a big, big way.

I walked out to the front door, looked out at the ocean, heaved a series of huge sighs, caught that deep breath, wondered how it was that all of this was happening, and headed back in. I was wishing I could see the humor in it, but there was just no time for that. There was a restaurant to open, guests to feed, flesh to press and miles to go before I slept. The business waits for no one. There is either success or failure and not much room or forgiveness inbetween. And I was NOT going to fail.