The Amateur Gourmet

As you are probably well aware, this week marks the beginning of Adam and Lauren's Birthweek. No, this is not some strange feminist mating ritual: it is the beginning of the celebration that is the Quarter Century Anniversary of Adam and Lauren's birth.

Here's a brief synposis of the story: Adam and Lauren met in college. They realized that they had the same birthday (February 18). "Ah!" they said. "We have the same birthday! How odd!" Several years later, Lauren's parents took Adam to dinner. "Which hospital were you born in, Adam?" they asked. "South Nassau County," he answered. "Oh my!" shouted Lauren's father. "By Jove!" shouted Lauren's mother. And then it was established: we were born in the same hospital three hours apart and didn't meet until college. Hence, we are known as The Psychic Twins.

The Psychic Twins will be celebrating their birthday all week (though this psychic twin prefers to celebrate all month) with a 31-course dinner Wednesday night at Blaise (report to follow) and a soiree Friday night with food, fun and Janet Jackson breast cupcakes.

Tonight, though, our friends Josh and Katy--who cannot attend our Friday soiree--took us to a birthday dinner at

Indian food is not my speciality. In fact, Indian food was completely absent from my childhood. To explain this phenomenon, here is a quote from my mother when I told her what I had for dinner: "Ew."

Which is not to say that I'm completely devoid of Indian culture. My entire freshman hall at Emory undergrad was Indian. My vocabularly increased ten-fold that year learning everyone's name: Sunil, Varthen, Ankur, Shivani, Payal, Hetal, Vikhas, Ravi, and so on. My mom's head would spin every time I told her who I was going out with: "Shiva-who? Sun-y-what?"

But food was another matter. It seemed so exotic, so foreign. We all went out one night for Indian food and all I remember is choking on something very hot. Again, Indian food is not my speciality.

Tonight's dinner though was very enjoyable. It was nice to go with people who enjoy and understand what they are having. For example, we started with this:

It was very good: filled with potatoes and onions inside. I liked the sweet brown dipping sauce.

Then they brought out my entree:

It was eggplant baked with breadcrumbs and some kind of sauce and cilantro. I really liked it. But what I really liked was the nan (sp?). Without the nan, the meal would have been just good, but the nan kept it real. Here is Katy eating her nan:

Of course, there were the obligatory nan jokes. Well, obligatory in that only I made them.

Josh said: "It's really amazing how they make nan."

"Whoah Josh," I said. "That was a nan-sequiter."

Everyone groaned.

Then they brought out Lauren's entree. Look at Lauren's entree. How crazy is this?

That thing was ginormous! It looked like a Subway 12-inch sub except thinner, better and without Jared in the commercial.

Lauren let me taste hers and it was very good.

Here we are eating our food:

I got tired about halfway through mine. Then Katy dropped out. But Lauren and Josh kept going.

"So good!" said Lauren.

"Mmm!" said Josh.

I mentioned Thomas Keller's theory of diminishing returns and how the best bite is usually the first and then it's all downhill from there. Josh and Lauren were unimpressed.

"I don't believe that," said Josh. "This is so delicious. Look how delicious this is!"

He scraped more food out of his bowl as Katy looked on:

Finally, all the food was consumed and the check was brought. Josh and Katy paid and Lauren and Adam said: "Thank you."

Our Indian meal was over and I left with the knowledge that when it came to Indian food, I would no longer be nan-plussed.

[I can't tell if was a good ending. I'm so nan-commital!]

Ok I'll stop.

Can't write much because I'm scrambling to write a 3-page paper for my Negotiations class, but my birthday gift from mom and dad just arrived. The story goes that my mother, the other day, said: "I want to get you a really nice pen for your birthday." I replied: "WHAT?! Mom, if you're going to spend money on a pen, I'd rather get a bunch of really good cookbooks." Then I made her a list of the ones I wanted and told her just to get a few. Lo and behold, she bought them all!

In case the picture's too hard to unscramble, they are:
- The French Laundry Cookbook!
- The Zuni Cafe Cookbook!
- Breads from The La Brea Bakery!
- Cooking By Hand!
- Slow Mediterranean Cooking!

I'm really excited and of course I'll keep you up to date as I cook my way through them. Should only take 14 years. Ciao!

Oh, I remember it like it was yesterday: floating in my amniotic sac, sipping through my giant umbilical straw that delicious pre-natal slurpee. The rich glowing red ambiance and everything free.

And then poof! Birth!

The Early Years: Born To Eat
According to my mother, I used to cry when she stopped feeding me. I would sniffle and make a face like "is it really over?" and then burst into tears. My mother was convinced (and from my baby pictures, justifiably) that I would grow up to be very fat. Little did she know, I would instead become an internet food sensation. Heck, back when I was born there was no internet! We had to walk 40 miles to school every day...

The Late Early Years: Things I Hated / New York
Then, between my early years and my teens, I despised many foods including (but not limited to): tomatoes, olives, and cheese. I was a child of limited palate. My calling was unknown to me then. We lived in Oceanside, New York. Great meals consisted of lobsters at The Yankee Clipper, breakfast at the East Bay Diner, and trips into Manhattan where I would beg my parents to take us to Benihana's. The height of high cuisine was anywhere that cooked its food on the table. (My brother still suscribes to this theory).

The Man Years: Bar Mitzvah Boy
Now we are in Florida. The food at my Bar Mitzvah was not particularly memorable. I remember the next day there was a "spread" at our house (that's a very Jewish way of saying buffet with bagels) featuring lox, whitefish salad and other things to "shmere" on your bagel. I thought it strange that my grandfather put whitefish salad on one side of his bagel, nova spread on the other side and sandwiched them together. Turns out this tastes very good. The next day, interestingly enough, I was hospitalized for dehydration.

The Angry Teen Years: Boca
Teenage life in Boca consisted of collecting beepers at the Cheesecake Factory, driving back to my friend Marisa's house and then returning three hours later. School lunches were packed and prepared by my mother in her idiosyncratic fashion. She would call TooJay's, the local deli, and have them make three turkey sandwiches (one for me, one for my brother and one for my dad) and then go pick them up. Mine had mustard, tomato and onion. Michael's had mayonaisse. Dad's, I believe, were made dry.

The College Years: Freshman 15
Eating through college was less about cuisine, and more about sociability. No one went to the Atlanta Diner because it was good. But on my 20th birthday I armwrestled the waitress, Ebony, and won. My dish there was an omelet with American cheese and onions. Home fries. Cup of coffee. Otherwise, it was Chic-Fil-A at Cox Hall or strange concoctions at the DUC (Dobbs University Center). My senior year, I began my trek into the cooking world by making for my roommates, Alex and Rob, the very difficult to prepare Pilsbury Cinnamon rolls that came in a tube. Unwrapping that tube was difficult.

The Law Years: Present Day
And now it's more adventure, more thought going into what I eat. Oral personalities, according to my Law and the Unconscious instructor, crave nurture and guidance and think of food like a giant breast for them to suckle on. Since my personality is primarily anal, I can only imagine that this newfound interest in food is a matter of control. Instead of feeling overwhelmed at fancy restaurants, dinner parties thrown by Martha Stewart and in the face of rich cultural experiences like EPCOT's Moroccan dinner, I will now have the upper hand. Plus I really enjoy writing and thinking about food. Some day I will share my belief that eating (for the faithful) is an act of communion with God and his bounty. (Lowercase bounty, as opposed to the quicker picker upper).

In conclusion, my Pilgrim's Progress has led me on a rich and exciting path. If you can track the quality of a life by the progression of meals consumed, then I am very excited for my future. Specifically tomorrow night's 31 course dinner at Blais, report to follow.

Here's to 25 years of gluttony!

Ok two hours and 15 minutes before people start arriving and there's so much left to do! Why am I posting on my blog?

Here's what's up. I have to go make homemade guacamole and sun-dried tomato dip, scarf down dinner, vacuum, shower and dress myself. Will it happen? Will this party be a flop or a fenomenon? Stay tuned!

by Amateur Gourmet Staff Reporter Tallulah Backwash

Tallulah Backwash here with an instructive primer on party-throwing and deep deep reveling. For those of you who have read my other essays---"Therapeutic Bathing: How To Fight Loneliness With Suds" and "No, You Don't Have To Love Your Baby"---you are probably already familiar with my sassy, irreverent style. So call out the sass police, Tallulah's here and she's ready to spread her legs. I mean information! 'Scuse me while I shed my Freudian slip.

Parties aren't parties without cleanliness. Which is why your first step should always be to drink half a pint of vodka and to call up your favorite male escort to come scrub away. And by "scrub away" I mean: do the nasty! Tallulah, you're bad! Put those demons away! Quiet, witch, I'm writing here.

Here's my favorite boy toy working up some elbow grease, de-furring the couch with a cat-hair-catching sponge:

Grrowwwwwwwl! He can defur my couch any time! Tallulah, bite your tongue. Oh hush you gorilla.

Next step: have your boy go out grocery shopping. Tell him to grab one of everything, it's easier that way. And tell him not to worry about paying. Our capitalistic society is framed on the illusion that paper bills have significance beyond their societally imposed meaning. Nonsense! I never pay for anything!

Here's what our boy brought back:

Then I set him to work. "Make some dip!" I said, cracking a whip.

He quickly set out to make the Barefoot Contessa's "Sundried Tomato Dip." Look, I'll confess: the Contessa and I go way back. There were some food experiments in college, and I'll never shake the memory of that giant tentacle and the Bechamel sauce. But her dips are fabulous, and I quickly instructed my boy to double the quantities because our guests would go mad for it.

Here are the tomatoes being sliced:

Here's everything in the food processor, pre-blending:

And here's the finished product:

Scrumptious! The thing was more tasty than a night at the beach with Alec Baldwin. And I don't even like Alec Baldwin!

Next I instructed the boy to conjure up some guacamole.

"And do it like a Mexican!" I told him. "Wear this sombrero!"

He obliged but wouldn't let me take a picture.

"Come on now boy," I urged.

"Not unless you let me wear it on my head," he responded.

The help can be so difficult these days.

He also used a Contessa recipe for the guac and it turned out splendid. First he chopped the onions and a clove of garlic:

Then he sliced open the Haas avacados:

And then he mushed everything up in the bowl:

Gorgeous! I asked him to slather it all over my body, but he refused, saying that it wasn't in his contract. Who did he think he was, a lawyer?

Finally, he set about making nuts. And I know what you're thinking: Tallulah, you're choc full of sexual jokes today, will you make one about nuts too? No, dear reader, I won't. There is a certain thing called tact, and I've got in spades. Besides: I prefer the word scrotum.

These nuts are a recipe from the Union Square Cafe Cookbook, and they are world famous. First our boy chopped some Rosemary:

Then he added it to a bowl with cayenne pepper, kosher salt, and brown sugar:

He added some melted butter, added the warm nuts straight from the oven and presto! I asked him to pour the nuts on the floor, so I could roll around on them, and again he refused. These boys can be so prude nowadays.

Then we set about arranging the food. Here's a buffet with everything and a little something the boy brought involving a cupcake and a breast. I didn't ask any questions, but naturally I was impressed:

Here's a closer look at the dip and chips:

Here's the guac on the table: (notice how we sliced the top of the bags off, to save on serving dishes):

And last, of course, the drinks. Plenty of alcohol for everyone! That's my motto. This is my own private table, the guests table was located elsewhere:

At last, the guests began to arrive. Here are two strapping youngsters beholding our mighty counter of foodstuffs:

Here are some guests enjoying the guacamole:

(Although some nervy specimen of existence bothered to say: "This guacamole has no cilantro!" I immediately booted him from the party, ignoring his cries of "But mommy! Mommy! I'm only 3 and i'ts cold outside!")

Here are party guests striking up a conversation:

And here's one party guest showing off his Janet Jackson Breast Cupcake pin (sent to us by a loyal reader):

For entertainment, our guests watched Channel 21: the guard gate channel. It allows us to spy on who's coming in at the callbox. How funny to laugh as others foible at the gate! I love mocking the powerless.

Some more arrivals:

A deep conversation about the moral implications of breast cupcakes:

The dip is gone!

Lauren shows off her bridesmaid dress bra stickies:

Pancetta serves up some ice:

Finally, the guests begin to leave. At this point, it is crucial that you get the names and numbers of all the attractive ones. The ugly ones you should hug firmly but then whisper: "A sexual encounter with you is most unlikely."

At last, the party's over. How was it? Splendid, naturally. Did I fix myself a nightcap? Honey, I fixed myself a nightbucket.

This is Tallulah Backwash wishing you and your family a blessed holiday season.