Tag: cook

Born To Cook (Culinary Nirvana Begins At The Pot Sink)

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born

“I got a job!” I was so excited, no more paper routes, no more Deli boy, now I have a real job, one that pays decent money. Mom was excited too, “A job where?” Beaming with a sense of pride I uttered, “At Cumberland’s Restaurant on 25A.” Mom looked a bit disappointed, “ A restaurant? So We’re going to have a chef in the family? I was really hoping you would be our doctor JT.” I wasn’t letting her deflate my enthusiasm, “Mom, I’ve told you, I’m not smart enough to be a doctor, and besides its just a job, not a life. I’m only sixteen I have no idea what I wanna to be yet.” That was true, all I wanted was to make some money so I could party and buy stuff for my girlfriend. I had no plans of staying in a kitchen for the rest of my life, its just a job. Fates plans however differed from mine which was clear on my first day.
“Hey chef! Da new boy is here, you want I should show him around?” The chef came walking over holding a huge knife in his hand an a scowl on his face, “So youda new kid eh?” He lifted the knife up so I could see the shine of the blade, “Jus don pissa me off boy and you be okay. Grab a apron and shirt and get washing. Take himma downstair Ernie.” Ernie was an old dude, real skinny and wrinkly. He made me nervous at first, the stereotype image of a pedophile or serial killer with a slight emotional handicap. “Foller me son, whatsa you name?” He had a slight limp as he led me down the steps to the basement. I followed hoping this wasn’t where they stored the dead bodies or something, “I’m Justin, my friends call me JT.” We stopped at the bottom and Ernie pointed to the left, “That’s a walk in over there, dry food there, and this is the lockers. The shirts and aprons are over there JD, take any locker you want.” I walked in grabbed a shirt and apron and changed while Ernie stood and watched. A tad creepy. “It’s JT, not JD.” Ernie looked confused, “Wha? JC? Likea Jesus Christ?” He laughed, I wasn’t sure if he was kidding or not, “No, it’s JT, not JC or JD.” We went back an forth a few times before I just said, JD is fine.” I didn’t care man, I had a j-o-b, I was a pot washer.
Despite all the bad karma that seeped out of the sink drain I knew instantly that nothing would drag me away from this. Maybe one day I’ll be the Chef, I’ll be the raving lunatic who screams at anyone unfortunate enough to be within range of my booming voice. The insane culinary Guru who proudly sports a tall white hat like my chef Jimmy. Like him I’ll probably have a huge vein popping out from my forehead that can intimidate people all on its own. Mentally deranged king of the kitchen who is permitted by law to carve up carcasses with an array of razor sharp knives of all sizes. I can’t help thinking how proud that would make Mom and Dad. Oh the hell with being a surgeon Mom, I wanna slice up dead animal carcasses and cut the muscles into edible portions of food. I want to carry big ass knives around and scare the shit out of the dishwashers. My gastronomic voyage would be completed once I became the all powerful illustrious kitchen Buddha, The Chef.
I was born for this industry, lured by some mystical force. I wanted to be one of the “restaurant people!” A cosmic group of mix-matched misfits. I was spellbound by this diverse group of dedicated individuals, who work together in a form of impromptu performance art centering around biodegradable remnants of the tastiest and most orgasmic morsels of nutrition I had ever indulged in. Each one plays an integral role in this daily drama. Like an experienced stage hand I would set up the props over and over, so the chef could turn organic ingredients into edible works of art, perfectly arranged on the plates I keep clean. Our lead waitress, Laura would put these recently cleaned now presently food adorned plates on a large oval tray (also cleaned by yours truly) and with swanlike grace effortlessly carry it off to be placed in front of some alcohol saturated patrons. The patrons would then eat the wonderful dish of blissful organic delight, inadvertently leaving something on the plate that would eventually become my responsibility. The waitress would entertain them with a variety of skits, ranging from cute and flirtatious to downright suggestive. The performance continues. Meanwhile, backstage, the chef, Jimmy ( his given name was too hard to pronounce) is performing voice exercises and using my deer in headlight eyes as his focal point. Rapidly building to a spit filled ear shattering crescendo. I listen intently to the chefs advice, disregarding the part where he assures me I should leave this God forsaken establishment or die. He further suggested I engage in a sexual act with myself I felt to be physically impossible. (Not that I wouldn’t try) That too I chose to disregard. Once sufficiently emasculated, red-faced, and disenchanted, I returned to my post, my pot sink, in a highly evolved state. Taking a “the show must go on” attitude, I needed to ready myself for the onslaught of table remnants that our patrons found objectionable. In walked the lovely leading lady, flashing me that piercing knee buckling waitress smile. I began to daydream, or maybe fantasize until Laura began emulating the chefs thunderous performance. Thankfully, it was not directed at me, but rather on the only person here that was as lowly as me, Rod the busboy. Now I got an opportunity to view my peer’s reaction to a brutal lexiconic work over so I might gain some insight on how to deal with it or hone my anti-beration skills for the next portioning of verbal abuse. No doubt it wouldn’t take long before I resort to my improvisational skills of defense. The burning narrowed eyes of the seductive angry waitress met mine and for just two seconds held me in a frozen state. Her face made a remarkable quick change while flashing her signature come hither smile her eyes softened and in that songbird voice, asked, “JT, sweetie will you set up my next tray?” With a wink, she was gone, the busboy was fighting back tears, the chef was deciding my fate, and I of course, was setting up Laura’s tray, like it had never been set before all the time thinking, “she called me sweetie.” As the chef pondered the proper English translation of various swear words and insults to more effectively crush my spirit, I arranged Laura’s tray oblivious to my surroundings. The chef began to explain to me who I was working for, but fortunately for me his lung pounding performance was interrupted by the appearance of an enigmatic presence. The next character to enter, stage left, was a tall, tuxedoed, and very suave Frenchman, bearing the title restaurant manager, Didier. Didier’s job, as I understood it, was to make the entire cast miserable, so we would reach deep down to our inner selves to come up with the performance of a lifetime. I wanted to reach deep down and pull out a Smith and Wesson.
I did however find myself motivated by the threat of that French penguin. That, and a paycheck, and another opportunity to allow Laura to know what an awesome dude I really was. Didier began to roar at all of us, and yet then again, to no-one in particular. It was delivered in a language foreign to me that sounded oddly complementary. Rod the busboy assured me that those seemingly sweet words that came thundering out towards the entire cast were in fact foul French slang that could make the50 pound sack of onions break down and cry. Didier loudly explained to us how important it was that we comprehend the significance of his tirade as a team while we all just looked down at the floor. Even Jimmy looked worried when Didier was in the kitchen. Oddly, the only one that was not intimidated was Laura, the vivacious waitress, who seemed to render our fearful leader speechless using only her eyes. Like the Wicked Witch of the West, Didier disappeared in a puff of smoke. Or maybe Jimmy was burning something, I really don’t remember. But he was gone, Laura’s tray was set to absolute perfection, Rod the busboy had regained his composure, and Jimmy was ready with the next round of tantalizing treats arranged in artwork on my clean plates. All had performed admirably in Act 1.
Anyway, you get the picture; This performance goes on all night, every night over and over. Some of the actors change, but the results remain the same. I can’t explain why but the seething emotional combat combined with the intense pressure of service time was intoxicating. Curiously at dinner time Jimmy took on more an air of compassion that made me think of my own father on some of his better days. He would speak ever so softly and hold out a bowl of beef stew which because it had some wine in it, was referred to as Beef Bourgogne. But delicious it was. No Dinty Moore for this restaurant worker. As quickly as everything had gone to hell in a mixing bowl, the calm and serene peace of family meal changed the entire setting. I sat at a small table with Ernie, the old man who was in charge of maintenance. Funny, because he could barely maintain himself, and as I later found out, he was the 65 year old uncle of the manager. I cleverly positioned myself so I could catch a glimpse of Laura each time she entered the kitchen. It was these Zen saturated moments that made us all forget how loud and harsh the decibel level could get at service time.
My gastronomic voyage had officially begun. I dove in with a work ethic beyond reproach. I have arrived,
an almost spiritual transcendence, having a job and being part of something that lifted me to a higher plane. I was fortunate enough to find myself in the employ of Cumberlands’s restaurant, in the socially envious position of pot washer. Four nights after school, and Saturday nights, I was the lead pot washer. But, being the envy of my high school buddies was short lived when I discovered that the “lead pot washer” wasn’t really in charge of anything other than some sudsy water, and that it involved way more than merely washing pots. I was also permitted, implored even, to use my hands to scrape and clean the organic food remnants, and other indefinable residues left on the plates by our satisfied customers as well as floors, utensils, machines, and anything that neeed cleaning including the managers and the chefs cars. So it was that this head pot washer was cleaning everything in sight, in the restaurant or the employee parking lot. Poised at the suds busting helm I decided that I was going to be the best washer they ever had until that day I rise up the culinary ladder to take off to enlightenment.
On one particular night I felt compelled to let everyone in the kitchen know my lofty intentions of becoming a black belt in the art of pot and pan scrubbery. When I told the chef, the absolute ruler of the kitchen of my plan I was certain he would beam with pride. I really looked up to the chef even though he was so old. Man that dude must have been in his 60’s. I believe he always worked hard and the years had been kind to him, although not without consequence. Deep furrows stretched into spaghetti lines across his face, and he always seemed to be deep in thought. Quite fit for an older guy, and he was deceptively strong. Crazy coot could throw 50 pound bags of potatoes halfway across the kitchen with ease. He always wore a dirty and tattered black bandana under his chef hat which concealed the badly receding hairline and his eyebrows sported the thickest hair he had. Like caterpillars on steroids those eerie brows housed some very dark and serious eyes. Eyes that narrowed instantly at the first sign of anger. Like holy shit man it wasn’t only the eyes, but that bulging vein that stood out and threatened you personally. I prayed it wasn’t the angry face that was building up inside his maniacal mind. Not siree it was not the anger I was about to get a full emasculating dose of. He looked me directly in the eyes, and with his most compassionate paternal demeanor, his eyes teared up, and he laughed uncontrollably. A laugh that came all the way from the balls of his feet. In between his deafening guffaws the chef attempted to tell his sous chef Andre what my intentions were, and that was met with a roar of laughter that could cause a soufflé to fall. Regardless of their snickering daggers of contemptuous chuckling I maintained a stiff upper lip, and decided I would take charge of my own soapy destiny.
As empowering as it may seem, it wasn’t the joy of busting suds for a living that kept me coming back. It wasn’t the dream of one day being admired, no revered as the Chef, the absolute ruler of the kitchen. It wasn’t that soul warming food, it wasn’t even the lure of the attractive and flirtatious waitresses that continually tempted my teenage libido with a false sense of possibilities beyond imagination. No, there was something else about this experience that tugged at my inner Cheshire cat causing me to smile from ear to ear. They paid me.

Over/Under…Over Whelmed And Under The Influence

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drunk

As a Sous Chef in Soho, after being a line cook at Windows On The World, my career was on track. The Smoking Moon Café was a quaint little 45 seat restaurant in a very hip part of the city. The chef trusted me to run the dinner shift which in truth wasn’t all that hard. A limited restaurant with a lot of specials, the sous chef is a one man show behind the range. Our staff was one dishwasher, one waitress, one bartender, and me. But we all had the right attitude and abilities to make it a fully functional team.
Our clientele were mostly young hip professionals with an edgy style. Very often a diner would enjoy the meal I prepared so much he would send me a drink or a joint, or a piece of hash (quality stuff). Every once in a while a regular would come in an cut up a few lines after dinner then invite us all over for a snort. What can I say it was the eighties, the age of excess and everyone in New York City played a role in the Bright Lights Big City clubbing and drugging culture. The really hip clubs had no signs, one had to be “In The Know” to have the address. That was our clients, we catered to the in the know clientele, many of which came to us for dinner before bouncing around the various clubs.
It was a great place to work, the owner treated us like family, even when he wasn’t there when our shift was over he allowed us to lock up and have a few drinks at the bar before heading out. I was the back of the house and back of the house restaurant people complain about business a lot. Whenever its really busy I bitch wishing for down time, and whenever there’s too much down time I bitch wishing for customers. But on July 4th, 1986 I experienced the most excruciating downtime in existence followed by a near impossible power service. The city was alive with celebration, the streets packed with people in anticipation of the annual fireworks display. This year we celebrated the centennial of The Statue Of Liberty so the fireworks were on the West side that year. Being near the West Side ourselves lunch was crazy busy, I had to come in early to assist the chef, but by dinner just about everyone was out jockeying for a good spot to view the works. By seven o’clock we had had one single customer who only ordered a burger. The area was like a ghost town with everybody and their brother on West Side Highway. It was so slow Moss, the waitress, Eddie the dishwasher an I sat at the bar chatting with Stolie, our favorite bartender.
I mentioned that a customer who had requested a very hot meal had given me a bottle of Mt. Gay rum. I made some my patented dragon juice, assorted hot peppers stepped in sherry vinegar to an order of lamb couscous which I topped off with some harisa. When I came out to chat with him his face was covered in sweat but he loved the meal. He asked me if I like rum. Of course, who doesn’t so the next day he bought me a bottle of Mount Gay, his favorite, to say thanks. Before I knew it Stolie, Moss, and I were in a rum drink competition making each other rum drinks. Eddie didn’t compete but happily accepted the privilege of judging. My concoction was a combo of 151, Meyers, and Bacardi with a drop of every juice I could find then a splash of coke. Delicious and deadly. By 10:15 the four of us were toasted and still not a soul to serve, not even anyone passing by. Closing up in 45 minutes. We were laughing loudly when the door opened and a couple walked in. Shit! Now I am really buzzing and have to cook some dinners. When I started heading to the kitchen I hear Moss say, “Holy fuck!”
From the kitchen door I could hear the decibel level increase rapidly. It was like the floodgates opened allowing customers to come charging through the door. The fireworks were over and we were right smack dab in the middle of the path of hordes of happy hungry people leaving the highway extravaganza in search of a place to eat. Within ten minutes every table was full, a line of revelers out the door. Half hour to closing time, but now closing time no longer existed.
Most restaurant people stay in the field working because we thrive on the pressure. All four of us were thriving our asses off. Moss handled the tables expertly, Stolie made the customers drinks and helped Moss by bussing. I really would need a new ass, thriving or otherwise if I didn’t cook it off I was certain to sweat it off. Eddie was promoted to assistant sous chef and he did a fantastic job. For the next two hours the four of us worked together half drunk on pressure, half drunk on rum. For me the best part of the crazy scene was after the last two tables had been seated, while things were semi calm, Moss came back to the range with her cocktail tray holding one large drink. “The happy customer on table seven wants to send a drink back for the chef so Stolie made you a JT Rum Special.”
I was literally drenched in sweat, rivulets of saline trailing from my temples. I was breathing hard because I had been cooking non stop even slapped myself hard and shook my head many times to try instant sober up, and Moss was standing there, also exhausted, but still smiling handing me a drink. “Are you fucking kidding me? A drink now?” Moss tilted her head, lifted her eyebrows, smiled at me shaking her head yes. All I could do was smile back, “That sounds about right.” I accepted the drink with a laugh, giving half to my newly promoted assistant. We didn’t have our usual close up drink that night, all of us wiped out, but we talked about our fourth of July experience for months after. Those were the days….PEACE

Chef Jekyll and Mr. Run And Hide

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cray cray chef

Pot Sink Diaries
J.T. Hilltop

Working for a manic depressive chef can actually make life in the restaurant more interesting. I say manic but I mean maniacal. Granted if you were the target of his demonic wrath it was not interesting, but frightening, but overall it added to the experience. Chef Jimmy could be unbelievably paternal one minute, handing me a bowl of beef bourguignon and offering sage advice (not the herb), and showering me with spit as he screamed directly at my face loud enough to insure everyone in the restaurant heard my total dehumanization the next. Could never figure out why he felt he needed to get nose to nose to communicate his displeasure, I was well within earshot and fully capable of understanding what a dumb godamn Ben Dayho I was. When he got pissed his evil twin Chef Jekyll came out and everyone else ran to hide. When someone angered the Chef he morphed into something non human. His face got all weird and contorted, taking on a smoky red hue. The wrinkles in his face turned into evil scales, his teeth rattled, veins popped out from all over his forehead and neck, and while this part was probably my imagination little horns protruded under his chef hat. His words found their target escorted by a military formation of saliva to make soggy strikes with surgical precision. All I could do was cower in fear like an abused puppy hoping that my trembling wouldn’t piss him off even further. From the corner of my eye I can see everyone else in the kitchen moving slowly and deliberately away trying to get as far as possible from ground zero. When the painful barrage of rapid fire insults dispensed at uzi speed subsided, the chef walked away mumbling as my comrades came to comfort me. By laughing! “Whew, you really pissed him off this time JT, chef giving you big ole cigar today.” “Ew we baby, cigars coming like grapes today boy, you getting them in bunches.” Wasn’t bad enough I just got eviscerated by the chef, now my co workers come over to gloat that it wasn’t them. When ever a chef or manager bitches you out in the industry we say we’re getting a cigar. It goes back to an old saying about someone being so mad they had a baby, but to be more cryptic restaurant people call it getting a cigar, which the angry person passes out after the birth of their tirade.
The best defense from receiving cigars is keeping the chef mentally balanced. I was skilled at creating such a delicate balance by virtue of subtle ass kissing coupled with schmoozing the hell out of him with my witty youthful charm. Holding up a mixing bowl of seasoned ground beef, putting on a sly smile saying “Want me to roll you balls chef?” Or “Chef, here’s the filet mignons. By the way, I heard they call you Mr. tenderloin.” To which he would give an approving chuckle and begin bragging. Little things like that kept the chef feeling good and when the chef feels good I don’t have to worry about flying knives or being stuffed in the meat grinder. I never witnessed any of that but the rumors abounded.
But fuck ups were like little ghosts all over the kitchen hanging out waiting for their chance to be called out for a haunting, and try as I did all too often I was possessed by the spirit of screw up. Sometimes it comes out of nowhere, during an otherwise uneventful shift. Jimmy had a thick Spanish accent an called me Gay Dee, having problems with J’s. Even his own name was pronounced Himmie, short for Jimenez, but he went with the traditional English pronunciation of Jimmy. He used a drawn out Ahhhhh so he could think about the right enlish word to use….Ahhhhhh, Gay Tee? You feel ahhhhh, hungry?” Sometimes took him over a minute to ask a simple question. On One particular shift started out as a quiet night and Chef was prepping something when I got the call. “Ahhhhhh, Gay Dee…Make me one favor por favor.” I immediately abandoned my post of suds busting by my sinks and ran over, “Yes chef, what do you need?” Ahhhh, Gay Dee, go a downstair anda getta me ahhhhh one case ofa gripeece.” Okay, chef needed something and I was the one he called on. Time to build some kitchen creds. It was considered an honor to do the chef a favor, get on his good side. “Yes chef, right away.” I ran down the stairs two at a time.
When I got to the bottom I began to think, “What the fuck is gripeece?” I looked around first in the storeroom, then the walk in, nothing even remotely close to gripeece. Shit! Now what? I ran upstairs as fast as I could an ran up to Jimmy, “Um chef, I couldn’t find the gripeece.” Believing I showed enough disappointment for the both of us I gave him my “what so you want me to do now” sad eye stare. “Gay Dee, please, ahhhh no fool around. Please go a downstair anna get me ahhhh one case of gripeece from frisser.” A light went on in my head, “Oh, the freezer, okay, be right back.” Back down the stairs I ran and directly to the walk in freezer. I scoured the shelves, all kinds of frozen things, ice cream, veggies, puff dough, pasta’s, meat product, but nothing even close to a gripeece. I double checked. Nothing. Triple checked. Still nothing. That light in my head dimmed as nervousness began to settle in. Now I have to go tell Jimmy we are out of gripeece and I don’t even know what a gripeece is.
I trudged up the steps in a state of severe gloom with a side order of fear. I walked up to the chef to give him the bad news, that we have run out of gripeece. “Um, I-I don’t think we have anymore gripeece chef, I checked everywhere.” Then it happened, almost in slow motion, the face contorted, the veins began popping, the scales showed up on his face and his chef hat moved slightly to allow room for the evil horns. “God a dammit Gay Tee I’m a tella you one more time.” Not good. No drawn out ahhh, the octaves rose as the decibel increased dramatically. Smoke rose off of Chef Jekyll’s neck and I could sense the hidden smiles on the rest of the guys as they anticipated evil Chef unleashing a pit bull of fury at me. “You go a down stair, go a to the frisser, and ona da tird chelf you get a me one case of a gripeece okay? Grie…..Peece.” The light went back on as I trembled under his wrath.. GREEN PEA’S!! “Sorry chef, right away chef” A ran to the basement in record time, flew into the walk in freezer and there on the third shelf, big as life sat a case of green pea’s. I tore back upstairs, brought him the pea’s then just stood there like a dog waiting to be rewarded for giving its paw. “What da hella you want Gay Tee? Huh? Getta you culo back to work you Ben Dayho.”
Knowing I dodged a round of bullets I returned back to my familiar soapy space, took the helm over my three compartment sink where I was more comfortable and commenced to scrubbing away, eagerly awaiting the next opportunity to kiss ass and maybe atone for the stupidity of not understanding my mentor. The chef was mumbling all kinds of shit, mostly about me I’m sure so I decided it was not the time to ask him why he called me and the other guys Ben Dayho. I just assumed it must be the name of the biggest asshole pot washer in restaurant history until one of the guys explained it to me. As soon as he told me what chef meant all I could say was, “God damn, I am such a vendejo!”

The Sick Bastards Network presents : The Buck Bone Naked Chef

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naked chef

The hottest new kitchen competition in town
Rated WSC (Warped Sexual Content) Parental discretion advised, in fact, everyone’s discretion

Its hotter than Hells kitchen, bigger and harder than any of the Top Chefs, more dangerous than having it Chopped. Its here and its sure to make the Doughboy rise and pinch Melba‘s peaches. The Buck Bone Naked Chef lets it all hang out in this bare bones competition that leaves no sharpening stone unturned. Watch as three culinary contestants ply their culinary trade in the buff. That’s right, three naked chefs competing for the coveted title of The Buck Bone Naked Chef.
Tonight We’ll see if Jack has what it takes to whip up your soufflé or fall short. Will Destiny get the dough to rise or end up going down? Will Stan fluff his meringue into stiff peaks or take it on the chin. Join our three judges Ben Dover, Hal Apeno, and Helen Back as they choose who’s naked body raises their bar and who goes home fully dressed and unsatisfied…
I’m your host, Hugh Jass so come join me now. First let me introduce our contestants. From Pullet Pennssyvania, Master Chef of “The Back Door”, Jack Mioff. “I’m Jack Mioff and I work 16 hour days so I won’t stop until I’ve given every ounce I have.” …He sure looks like he can go the distance, next here from Deepcavern Nevada , chef Destiny Dancer who heads up the culinary staff at “Swinging On The Maypole” in downtown Twin Peaks, “Me and my girls are coming for you boys, you better be up for it.” ….Hoho, threatening words from a pretty lady. I’m even feeling it,haha. And finally, Stan Duprite, the very popular New York City chef at “The G spot”,.. “ When I pull out my secret weapon it will bring them to their knees.”…. Oh boy, sounds like he’s got more than just a few tricks under his apron, we’re gonna have some very stiff competition tonight. So Let’s get right to it contestants. In the first round we’ll be looking to see what these naked culinary competitors can come up with using the secret ingredients, Zucchini and Oysters. Chef’s, take off your clothes and get to work, you have 20 minutes to pull it off.

Jack has turned on the Hobart 10 gallon mixer ..Oh my god look at him go, he has the mixer on low and he’s rolling his hips in time to the machine. Lets listen in on the judges, “ Hal, it looks to me like he’s hanging A bit too low and….Ohh snap, that had to hurt!”.. “I’ll bet it did Helen, not sure how he’ll get that out of the whisk. I would have used a paddle myself whada you think Ben?” “I don’t know Helen I think the paddle would’ve pulled it just as hard.” “You might be right Ben, but either way he’s gonna have to get that thing out of the mixer.” …. Lets go on over and see what Destiny has working up. Well look at this folks Destiny is giving you viewers quite a treat as she rolls out her dough. That’s some serious bouncing right there, haha. .. Back to the judges, “Holy crap Helen what ees she doing with dat zucchini?” “I can tell you this Hal, the way she is washing that thing the zucchini may come squeaky clean but I can’t wait to see how it makes Stan Duprite deal with the sight, he hasn’t taken his eyes off her.” No kidding Helen, Hal you seem to be staring yourself. I hope they can get back to work..”….. They aren’t kidding folks, Stan hasn’t moved a muscle. Well hasn’t moved a muscle aside from the obvious hanging chad muscle, haha…. Tell you the truth I’m not sure she’s washing the zucchini it looks to me its more like she’ greasing it for something. Lets go see if Chef Duprite has his head back in the game. I see he’s not standing still, he’s just having trouble getting his oysters off. Seems the shell is clamming up him, hahaha. But it looks like all three are making headway. Whoa, hear that bell, 2 minute warning constants, time to wrap things up and start plating for the judges.
While our contestants plate their appetizers lets meet our judges for tonight’s competition. From Mexico, the man who puts then heat in the meat of Mexican food everywhere, Hal Apeno. “Tank a you, tank a you, I am berry pleased to be here.”…Okay Hal. A man of few word, haha, and now the lady who has gone from being a homeless crack addict to restaurant whore, I mean restaurateur, Helen Back. “Hellooo everybody. So nice to be here on Naked Chef Bone. Can’t wait to see all the booty. Heheh, I mean bounty Hugh, not booty, hehehehehe. I‘m just happy to be near you Hugh Jass, teehee”… And I‘m certainly happy to be near you Helen. I can see you have your big cleavage…Oops, hahaha, I mean your big cleaver tonight Helen. Better watch out for my meat, hoho. How much did that monster set you back. Four dollars and ninety cents I think, I gave the guy a five dollar bill and he gave me back two nipples. Oops, heheheheh, I mean I don’t know how much Hugh.” ….No worries Helen, we speak blond here on Sick Bastard Network so we know just what you mean honey. And now our final judge, the man who puts the coarse in intercourse, Ben Dover. “Oh piss off Hugh, when your tip reaches your butt you can just fuck yourself.” … haha, eat shit and live Ben. I see Ben is in rare form tonight so contestants, bring out the dishes. What have you got there Jack?
“Well I got off to a rough start putting too much of myself in the bowl there, but I made autoerotic oysters, Oysters tied around this slice of zucchini bread with smothered onions.“ Mmmm, looks good Jack, lets see what the judges think, Hal? “No very spicy but still she’s a hot, not bad there Jack Mioff, not bad at all.”…All right. Confidence from Hal, not bad at all, Helen? “It feels good going down my throat but its much too big. I like to start off with small mouthfulls.” Okay Helen, well said, how bout my angry friend Ben, what say you? “Piss off Hugh, this looks and tastes like shit.”…Oh no, not much praise from Ben Dover. Next we have the well endowed Destiny. What do you bring to the table Destiny? “I made a dill cake with greased zucchini and raw oyster because they make me horny.”…. Hahaha, I think I’m horny too Destiny, but what about our judges, Hal? “Spicy and hot. I want her.”… Ho ho, I hope you mean it not her, Helen? “I just can’t get that image of her greasing the zucchini out of my head, so slow, up and down, and up and down. I vote for her to do it again. How on earth did you get the bread so tasty Destiny?” “Oh, hehehe, I used fresh dill because fresh dill makes a tasty dill dough.” …. Okay lets not go there, too deep for me, haha, lets move on. Ben? “piss off Hugh, I just want to screw her. I’d like her to Ben Dover, haha.” ….Good enough Ben, good enough, believe it or not that’s big props from Ben Dover. Finally what did you make Stan Duprite? “Well not Ben that for sure Hugh, haha, I made a zucchini pancake with oysters absolut. Vodka glazed oysters with some bacon and Vidalia onion chutney on top.” …Mmmmm sounds delish to me, whadaya think there Hal? “Actually this shit looks good and tastes amazing. Maybe just nees a little hot sauce.” …Another nice compliment from Hal, lets hear what Helen has to say… “My God Stan is hung like a horse. What I’d really like is for Destiny to grease his zucchini, hehe. But I really like the way this whole thing feels in my mouth.” …My that’s a ringing endorsement from the slutty, oops sorry, I mean sultry Helen Back. Now our final judge, Ben?…. Get your head out of your huge ass Hugh, you know this food rocked it. But does he have to keep swinging that humongous sausage around?” ….Well Helen seems to lick it, I mean like it. Contestants, one of you will be eliminated this round lets see who has to get dressed.
Well the judges have spoken. Jack, your zucchini bread was pretty flat but your sticking it in the mixer was entertaining, Destiny, greasing that zucchini was so intense all three judges voted for you to have immunity this round, and Stan, I gotta say, you better not get too hard or there’s gonna be an accident for sure. So the first one to put their clothes back on… Jack Mioff. Sorry jack, get dressed an go back home. “Fuck you guys, this game sucks. I want to slap you Hugh.” …Whoa!! Ha ha, I’m ready for it, go ahead Jack Mioff. There goes one sore loser, but then if I had my beef jammed in the mixer I’d be black and have the blues too. Lets go to the final round. Contestants your ingredients for tonight’s entrée is banana, figs, and pork tenderloin. Destiny, Stan…..get to it, you have thirty two minutes.

Stan is off to a fast start, he has his tenderloin up on the counter and it looks like he’s… massaging it? Oh wait, I see what he’s doing, look at Destiny fixated on Stan’s tender loin. Lets listen in on our judges… “Conyo man, dat some huge tender dere Helen, si?” “Oh yea I see that thing Hal, Destiny seems to be staring too she better snap out of it and…oh wait, oh my God, I never knew anyone could peel a banana like that!” “Holy cheet Helen, Stan just dropped his meat pounder.” ..“Will you two idiots quit babbling, of course he dropped it for chrissake, look at the way that broad is eating the banana!” Wow!! Damn she’s not eating it, she’s sucking that thing and I want to take notes, if I could do a banana like that I’ll have both of you guys licking my fingers and eating me out.” ….Hoho, I think Helen meant eating out of her hand but either way everyone has stopped everything and…..Wait, what’s this?? Oh oh, this could be bad news for Stan, he may get disqualified. He has piled up all the ingredients in a tower. That’s quite an erection he’ got there, no pun intended, hope he can recover. Destiny is back by the stove and is she ever giving our viewers a view. Ten minutes to go contestants, Stan, better calm that thing down before it gets disqualified. We want you to stick it out, but not that far out, haha, and Destiny I sure hope you have something to lay on your plate. We’ll be back after these messages from our sponsors, Trojan Condoms, with their new stealth rubber, she’ll never see you coming, and our favorite fast food chain, Mc Do-me’s, they give you the meat but hold the pickle.

Welcome back folks, the final bell has rung and its time to find out who gets dressed and who gets their own reality show. Judges, lets see what Destiny and Stan have for you. Destiny, what is your entrée? “I have roast tenderloin with rolled up balls of figs. As a side I placed the tip of the banana into a sliced fig.” Oh my, that’s an interesting presentation, it looks almost phallic, Hal? …“Phallic schmallic Hugh, I jus wanna see her eat another banana.” …Sorry Hal, that trigger has already been tripped, Helen? ..”Destiny, meet me after the show!” ….Helen I’m not sure, “Piss off Hugh, let them meet Helen said I can watch! Just give her the prize and get rid of the dude.” ..Um, oh, I..I.. It doesn’t work like that Ben, we need to judge. Lets go quick, And I mean quick to see what Stan cooked up for us, Stan? …”Not that I think its even gonna matter, but I made scaloppini of pork tenderloin wrapped in grilled banana, with a cognac fig reduction and a purée of savory banana over cinnamon infused Jasmine rice.” …That sounds mighty tempting Stan, what do you thin Hal?…”Taste good, but not as good as dee chick.” Yikes, Helen? Helen? Stan, you can’t do that, get away from Helen…”Shut up Hugh, don’t stop Stan, if you keep going until I come you get my vo….oh shit, that was pre mature!!” Helen, please, this is…”Piss off Hugh. We all voted and the dude is out. Clean yourself off and get dressed Duprite! Bring those melons over here sweetheart, you’re the winner.” …. Ben you can’t say that kind of….oh, damn…We’ll be right back…CUT!!! Go to commercial now!!”
Shsshshshshshsshshshshshshshshshshshhsshhsh……….
Hello folks, welcome back I’m Hugh Jass here at The Buck Bone Naked Chef on The Sick Bastard TV Network, along with our celebrity judges, Hal Apeno, Helen Back, and Ben Dover. Well we had an unconventional show tonight to say the least but with this cast its about what we’d expect around here. We have to say good bye to a fierce competitor, but quite frankly Destiny made it hard for him from the start. In fact she made it hard for just about all of us. Stan plunged in and gave it his all but in the end he got beat by his competitor. Destiny made it so long and hard for him he just had to down, and not just on Helen, haha. His cream wasn’t rising to the top no matter how hard he was…I mean tried. Stan, put your clothes on and hit the road dude, Destiny will remain naked. “Can I just say I had a great time here. I won’t be able to beat it for a while but I am glad I came. Helen, thank you for your number I’ll give you a call. Destiny, if I had to go down I’m glad it was on you, I will never forget seeing your milk pillows bounce as you rolled out your dough. I think my only mistake was with the thickness of my pork, I didn’t pound my meat enough, but Destiny’s knockers knocked it out of the park anyway.” …Indeed they did Stan, glad to see your not a sore loser. Personally I can’t wait to watch Destiny beat her next opponents on Buck Bone Naked Chef Champions. In the meantime I’m gonna Ben Dover my Hugh Jass to Helen Back until Hal Apeno makes it Stan Duprite so Destiny Dancer can Jack Mioff. Thanks for joining us, I’m a Hugh Jass and we’ll see you next time on, The Buck Bone Naked Chef.

Making A Banshee Scream Using Only A Cupcake

On By Terrapin - The JourneyIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

The Cupcake That Made A Banshee Scream

A special St. Pats cupcake may be normal but The Screaming Banshee cupcake is paranormal!. Every year around this time we take out our Saint Patrick’s cupcakes specials and parade them around. No floats, bagpipes, or Grand Exalted Marshal of the shamrocks. No Mayors, marching bands, or baton twirlers. But what we do is bring our most popular celebratory cupcake of the year, The Screaming Banshee out from the woodwork. Daring anyone within taste bud range to rain on it’s parade it will march front and center on Sunday. The jig is up so keep your shamrocks, Kiss Me I’m Irish buttons, and the wearin’ o’the green. That’s not how I envision being Irish. When I imagine Ireland it conjures up other images. Leprechauns, pots of gold, rainbows, and those not so friendly ghosts, the screaming banshees. Screaming banshee cupcake? Seriously why? The Screaming Banshee in Irish legend is a spirit of a woman who moans woefully as someone is about to die. That doesn’t sound like a nice premise for a sweet little cupcake, but after all this special treat is…….TO DIE FOR!!
Here at Jarets Stuffed Cupcakes however we think it’s worth living for. What kind of a cupcake could possibly have enough chops to honor this female spirit that makes shrill sounding utterances to coax the reapers of the underworld? What on gods green Eire can make banshee a special wondrous snack? My goal is to make it magically delicious. I asked myself what flavors for a cupcake rise to the level of Irish mythology? To start, I made the batter. Devils food cake of course, except I made mine using Guinness Stout. A dark stout for a dark spirit. The important thing to remember when making a Guinness chocolate cake is to overbuy the evil liquid. That way as the banshee cakes are cooking I can finish the remaining Guinness. Now for the filling, something strong and Irish. After consuming the leftover dark brew I’m left feeling slightly incomplete. What I need is a shot or four of some Irish whisky. MMMM, whiskey.
Whiskey is Gaelic for “water of Life”, or “lively water”. It’s a distilled beverage made from grains and is alcohol legend in history. The wild west was weaned on whisky in saloons, and its what the bootleggers loved to boot. Yahoo, mountain dew, the official beverage of the Blue Ridge Mountains. (and Appalachians too) . Across Europe whisky was distilled and consumed from back in the 3rd century. It spread quickly across to the UK and spread gigantic smiles on the faces of the Irish and Scottish lucky enough to have barrels on hand. There in that little corner of the world is where they brought whisky to new heights. It brought consumers to new heights as well and is likely why the Irish are so well known for having a penchant for imbibing. The Scotts even have a special whisky category with the creative name of Scotch Whisky. So whisky custard it is!
To make the whisky custard more evenly palatable is a tad tricky. I don’t want my cupcake to burn going down but I want to highlight the wonderful oak flavor and have just enough to not make you smile in a drunken stupor but to accentuate the smile brought about from eating. There is some controversy over whether cooking eliminates or lessens alcohol content so the first decision I made was not to cook the whisky at all. That removes all doubt, you will taste and feel the whiskey. I chose to add it raw to the custard. I make my vanilla custard a smidge thicker than usual and temper the whisky with some molasses. The molasses gives the whisky a smooth an sweet flavor and softens the strong oaks notes in the booze. And as the custard cools I slowly stir in the tasty hooch making sure to lick my fingers when completed. Now the Banshee is just about ready to make you scream.
The topping of the cupcake is of great importance. It not only is the first image one gets of the mini cake but it serves to give the cupcake sense of Nirvanic completion, a cosmic recognition, and it bridges the tower of flavors created underneath it. The topping gives the cupcake it’s propers and lends to it’s overall credibility. A nice rosette of whipped cream using a pinch of whisky in place of vanilla, then a coating of green sprinkles leaves no doubt as to its Irish origin. You may not find a leprechaun hiding a pot of gold here at Jarets Stuffed Cupcakes, but one bite from a screaming Banshee and you will feel like the richest person in town. Just remember that The Screaming Banshee cupcakes is safe and fun and meant to enhance your eating experience, not overpower it. Never abuse cupcakes, moderation is the key…………………….Peace

Potsink Diaries

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If You Can’t Stand A Dead Rat Get Out Of The Kitchen
My gastronomic voyage had officially begun. I dove in with a work ethic beyond reproach. I scrubbed and cleaned pots and pans until my fingers acquired the same status Mother Nature gives to prunes and raisins. I happily mopped the floors and cleaned ovens. I was willing to do any thankless job they sent my way. I then learned about one of the mysterious job tasks held by any great chef. A great Chef has the keen acumen into the driving desire of a young pot washer’s eagerness to please. Jimmy picked up on this rather quickly, and informed me of a special “time” in restaurants, when things were quiet. He called it “downtime”. Downtime sounded harmless when I first heard it escape from Jimmy’s lips, and I thought it might be cool. JT my boy” intoned my illustrious leader, “Ees a little slow tonight. Looksa like we have some downtime.”
Well I could barely contain myself. An opportunity has arisen for me to show everyone how gracefully I would be able to handle this newfound downtime. It never occurred to me that the word itself could enlighten me as to what may be in store. The Chef planned to put me “down” and keep me “down”, by assigning me an assortment of unmemorable chores that will get me “down” in the dumps. As for the “time” portion of my endeavor, it actually meant time consuming. Flagrantly left out of the phrase was tedious. It should be called tedious downtime. This inspirational portion of the evening I get to perform seemingly insignificant time consuming tasks. Did I mention tedious? There are various levels of joy associated with downtime tasks. It could range from the somewhat joyless job of peeling 50 – 100 pounds of potatoes, to the absolute joy depleting role of shrimp peeler. How many shrimp can people eat anyway. Don’t they know you are what you eat? Inclusive of all these food related tasks, are a mysterious set of thankless jobs given the official name of maintenance. I say mysterious, because I could never figure out how washing the Chef’s car in any way contributed to the dining experience. But wash it I did, along with every piece of kitchen equipment, and every floor within a 5 mile radius. On this particular evening, I was mopping the downstairs. A serene and peaceful place where all foods and food products meditate. They remain at the Storage Inn, a kind of bread and breakfast for the grocery set, until they are summoned upstairs to become part of something monumental. In a back room, seldom used, was where I was sent. Upon arrival, my keen observation noted two non-moving members of the family rodentia lying on the floor. Damn they looked gross. Summoning all my energy to keep my dinner where it belonged, I walked into the next room and informed Edwin, the Chefs nephew or “senior potwasher” whose true job and intellect were yet to be determined. He was however, assisting me, and his having been here so long gave him a queer aura of authority. “Hey Edwin man, there are two dead rats in the extra room.” Edwin’s English was worse even than Jimmies, and he just repeated what what what and stared at me puzzled. So of course I motioned with my hands as I said very slowly, for some reason believing that would help and I said. “Next room….dead rats…” This is too fucking tedious, and I needed a cigarette so I lit up and walked out of the room until I heard the blood curdling scream followed by a pounding of wood to wood. I ran to Edwin and there he was still screaming and beating those two already dead rats as if they were zombie rodents rising from the dead. Hard as I tried, the sight of Edwin clutching a broom and beating the shit out of two dead rats took over every rational bone in my body and I broke out in a laugh so fucking hard if Jimmy and Didier had seen me upstairs they would have felt like rank chuckle amateurs. Tears forced their way across my cheeks like rivulets of saline. I had to hold my stomach and fall to the floor in an epileptic fit of uncontrollable laughter. To date this may have been the funniest thing I had ever seen in my life. This is restaurant life. Now my mood was great. Hope it lasts.
Just when I thought Edwin couldn’t make me laugh any harder he moved into action. At first I was repulsed and grossed out to the max. With his bare fucking hands he grabbed one dead rat in each hand, looked at me with a dopey smile that had me wondering if he smoked my hash and said, “Come witta me JT. We godda bigga sue-prize forra da cheff.” With the rats dangling at his sides he climbed up the stairs like happy from the seven dwarfs. When he reached the top he made room for me to stand next to him and he held these dead god damn rodents as high as his arm would allow and yelled loud enough so the entire kitchen could hear. “Hey Cheff…..Lookit a what we gotta for you soup!” As the chef and company began laughing wildly I looked on in horror. “Jesu shit Ed, you can’t bring thee disease ridden mother fuckers in a kitchen!” Mortified I looked around and everyone was laughing except Laura. Oh Jesus I thought, she’s the only other one grossed out besides me. Jimmy yelled back, “getta Jense inna here, we gotta special entrée tonight.” The laughter continued and Edwin took the rats back downstairs’ and no sooner did he get to the bottom when he tripped and fell allowing the lifeless rats to go airborne.. I ran down to see if he was okay and he was frozen on the ground looking up in horror. Across the room was our illustrious asshole manager with a face so red I thought the beets would turn green with envy. Over one shoulder hung one of the dead rats, the other at his feet. His eyes were exploding volcanoes and if had found the capacity to speak it would have flowed a molten lava of pissed off. I had to leave because my head was about to pop from not laughing at the sight and air was forcing its way through my nostrils. I knew if I let my tears of joy flow I would have have lost my job, and I was thinking Edwin may have already lost his. I will never ever forget the look on Didier’s dead rat slapped face. This too shall pass.
Damn that was a rough night I thought as I stopped at the corner of my block that had once served as my bus top. I reached to the bottom of my front pocket and pulled out the tiny piece of aluminum foil Ken had left me, then pulled my trusty hash pipe from my other pocket and unraveled the leftover piece of black hash. “One or two more hits before heading home.” As I lit the hash I thought about how funny it was that I was talking to no one, yet it felt like it needed to be said. I held the smoke from this sweet relief in my lungs and smiled at my ritualistic behavior. As I exhaled I let out a chuckle, remembering Didier, the dead rats, and Ernie ineffectively beating the shit out of them with that broom. Can’t wait to tell Ken all about it tomorrow. “But for now, one last hit before going home.”