Posts Tagged ‘avalanche pizza’

Joe Bastianich, Portobellos and Food Cost

Sometimes in this wild media world of celebrity chefery and culinary tourism, a small but important glimpse of restaurant reality flashes across the screen. This is the same reality that every serious restauranteur battles every day but isn’t seen in much of the mainstream media.

This small question was brought out by Joe Bastianich, (who along with Mario Batali, runs some of the best restaurants and pizzeria in the nation.) The forum was the Iron Chef “Battle Beans” . The target of this questioning was Iron Chef Bobby Flay.

I had just come home after wrestling a 60-pound pile of dough containing horseradish, parmesan, lemon zest and fresh dill into small 17-ounce rounds destined for my Afghani Snowshoe Na’an. Right after cleaning up in my small pizzeria, we got slammed with a late night rush and I took over the ovens to help out. Another annoyingly late night.

Just as I got home, I flopped down on my couch and turned the boob-tube on to Iron Chef America. I stared like a zombie as Mr. Flay presented his dishes with his usual cocky flair. Then I heard this. (The following experts are real and taken from the real YouTube footage. Please plug your kid’s ears at the use of “Food Cost” here-it may dissuade them from wanting to cook again.)

Joe Bastianich: “In the world of endless options on mushrooms, portobello would be the last one I would pick. Not my fave.”

Bobby Flay: (Looking unconfortable and nodding.)

Jeffery Steingarten: I like the mushroom. Now why did you dis (disrespect) the mushroom?”

Joe Bastianich: Because it’s so 1994, kinda watery, diluted, they don’t have alot of flavor and we’ve come a long way from portobellos.

Bobby Flay: (Looking more uncomfortable)

Jeffery Steingarten: “What do you use?”

Joe Bastianich: Maybe morels would have been fabulous with this because the sauce is very punchy and rich, it’s got a kinda guac (guacamole) feel on the pallette. It’s not like there is a food cost issue here in Kitchen Stadium. He chose to use the portobello.

Bobby Flay: (Now looking pissed-off, uncomfortable and “over” this whole conversation.)

Jeffery Steingarten: Well, I think it’s fine, even though it isn’t 1994. (Laughs with Mr. Flay at such a witty rebuke.)

For the first time since the old Japanese versions of Iron Chef, I stood up and applauded Joe Bastianich for showing a restauanteur’s view of how and why cuisine is sourced, cooked and presented in the real world.

What he was alluding to is that since Iron Chef is “Fantasy Island with Food,” Mr. Flay might as well pull out all the stops and use a better ingredient, say like morel or chanterelle mushrooms. Mr. Bastianich has had years of wrestling with the costs involved in serving dishes that are fabulous but make little or no profit. He obviously wanted a mushroom that was more exotic, flavorful, and expensive ,with little or no thought of what it costs. After all, it was Kitchen Stadium.

Food cost for a lowly pizzeria like mine at Avalanche, is the same as it is at Babbo, the flagship of the Bastianich/Batali fleet. Restaurants live and die with good or bad food and labor costs. In the book “Heat”, the author Bill Buford makes a big deal of Mario Batali visiting his kitchen and going through the garbage can to find usable items carelessly cut off and thrown away. Most people reading would think “Oh, how disgusting, rooting around in the garbage can!” But every person who has owned a restuarant knows that Mr. Batali did that because food cost is the key to his livelihood. Teaching the staff to respect and regard every food article as an important contributer of the restauants’ success is an ongoing process.

In honor of Mr. Bastianich and Mr. Batali, my next blog will feature some bodacious chanterelles that I just got from my favorite spot. I’m looking for some Beluga Caviar, monkfish liver and a nice 1945 Chateau Lafite Rothschild to pair them with.

Giuseppe, the Mystery Greens and the Pope

While I was in Positano, Italy back in April, the master of the house, Giuseppe, invited me into the kitchen to show me what he had just brought in. With my luck, I was expecting a small goat or lamb that needed killing. No such luck. It was a bunch of green stalks with buds and yellow flowers.

“Looks like weeds.” I said to him, which was like saying it to myself because he barely understand English.

My trusty translater Bruno di Fabio was gone (probably buying dinner for his judges at  the World Pizza Championships to give him a high score) so I had to muddle through my total ingnorance of Italian. Giuseppe sat down and pulled the leaves off on some newspapers while I watched.

“So…(I always start off all my Italian communication this way) what is that?”  ” Quanto?”

“Maybe rocket, eh? But not,” he said, and looked down.

He shoved a stem in my face and I bravely bit off the end-stalk: flower, buds, leaves and all. I looked at the empathetic scrunch his face made as I was greeted by a bodacious bitterness not unlike the poke of “Poke salad Annie-gator got yer granny…” fame.

“No,” Giuseppe said, taking a leaf and putting it into his mouth. I was the good little monkey and did the same. Wow. The leaf was arugula-like in its pepperiness but not as bitter.

“Arugula?”

“No, maybe …ehhh… broccoletti?” By this time, my fine companions were calling me at the top of the cliff  at the beginning of the driveway.

“Broccoli? I don’t think so,” I thought. “Well, I’ve gotta go,” I said,  looking down at Giuseppe. This time I saw a picture of the Pope on the page under the stems.

“Il Popo.” I said as I pointed.

“Si.” Giuseppe nodded and pushed aside the greens so the pope could peer out at us.

I never did find out how Giuseppe prepared these mystery greens. We had to leave for the north that day. As we drove those winding roads again, I said goodbye to Positano, Giuseppe, Gilda the Amalfi coast and the Pope.

How could you even want to leave a place like Positano or as great a bed and breakfast as “Holiday House Gilda?”

When I got back home to Athens, Ohio, I saw these pictures and was determined to find out what this was. I finally gave up but then got out Stalking the Wild Asparagus by Euell Gibbons, which helped me forage for my previous blog entry, “Wild and Local Springtime Pizza.” On page 226, there it was . Wintercress.

Euell articulated how as he sees the first sign of spring outside Philidelphia when the Italians walking along the roadside to gather wintercress.

“BINGO!” I screamed, throwing the book down and scaring my family half to death. “Wintercress, Upland Cress, Yellow Rocket, Scurvy Grass, Belle Isle Cress, Wild Broccoli. Holy Cr… er crud, Giuseppe was right!”

So wintercress it is. Next year, in March I have committed to make an Avalanche pizza with wintercress on it. Thanks Giuseppe. Oh, and thanks, Mr. Pope.