Almost Isn't Good Enough?

Whoever said, "Almost isn't good enough," is full of shit. I call your invalid statement and raise you this: Almost is more than good enough.

The best things arose in response to situations that revolved around 'almost.' When it is almost lunch and just past breakfast there is this wonderful meal called Brunch. And when it is almost time to go out partying, but not quite, we can indulge a little earlier at Happy Hour. Brunch and Happy Hour are the miracle children spawned by 'almost.' Necessity is the Mother of invention.

Why am I so fond of these two almost-meals? Partially for the food, partially for the drink, and partially because I am impatient. Honestly, I could retire the breakfast and lunch hours altogether. Who needs them? I think 9am is a perfectly civilized time to rise and by 1030am (much more immediate in my case, like 9:05am. Remember: Hungriest girl alive) a slight growl is creeping up from the stomach. Brunch accepts that you are hungry and doesn't expect you to wait. Brunch doesn't limit you either. Maybe you are weird and you are upset that you overslept and missed breakfast. That's OK, brunch offers all that and more. And by "more" I mean an omelet station. Any fixings you want, eggs done any which way, and an assortment of toast and spreads. Anyone who attended college knows the need for brunch runs much deeper than this. Brunch also has a cleansing, atoning, and enlightening effect.  Too much can be said here so I must, regrettably, move on.  Now, maybe you are upset that your cat was running the Penn Relays across your face and woke you up too early. So, it's 1030am and you're starving but don't fret. Brunch menus list magnificent sandwiches and you can have fries, too (reference Facebook page, photo album: Parc). Let's not forget the beverages. It is kosher if you order chocolate milk, coffee, or champagne. There will be no judgements passed, only a basket of warm croissants and danish. 

After eating brunch you are too full for lunch and all sorts of anxious to get your Saturday night started. However, it is only 5pm. Happy Hour has you covered. Small plates and discounted drinks can get you through until it's officially party time. I'd rather munch on delicious pub wings and sliders and sip cold, draught beer than go through the strenuous motions of getting ready to go out at a later hour. There is definitely no dress code at Happy Hour (ahem, No Shower Happy Hour at the Ocean Drive). What is better than snacking and getting buzzed while the sun is still out?  It's actually genius because you get a hangover sooner and the sooner you get it the sooner it's gone. Just in time for brunch the next morning. Now this could backfire and you could run the drinking marathon until the next morning, but that is at your own discretion. While, on the weekends, it helps bridge the gap between lazy afternoons and crazy nights, Happy Hour is most necessary during the work week. It gets us through. That half-priced extra dirty vodka martini with 4 olives helps us remember that every little thing is gonna be alright and helps us forget that we have to start all over again tomorrow.

"Almost" is looking better and better, wouldn't you agree?

Thanks to a Longshot and a Bear on the Mountain

In a belated tribute to father's day I would like to recognize a few father figures in my life and thank them for feeding my addiction. I'll start with the biggest of them all...

Daddy Porkchops, aka Johnny Bear:
You surrounded me with great, gourmet food at a young age. I will never forget the giant, roasted pig sprawled front and center across the carving table at my First Holy Communion party. I was too scared and rambunctious (my cousins, sisters and I did lots of cartwheels and splits that day) to try it, but I watched in awe as you and your friends fearlessly dug in.
I appreciate all of the upscale, award-winning restaurants to which you exposed me. I had no business being in Le Cirque at age ten, but you made the reservations, I'm sure, without flinching ("Felix party of 6." DiFeliciantonio party of 6 causes too much frustration). You also encouraged us to try everything. I think that once I was old enough to form sentences and order for myself my choices were not from the Kid's Menu. I want to say that without tasting great food I would have never developed such a yearning to be close to it and to attempt to create it myself.
Moreover, thank you for one of the greatest food memories I have: rolling homemade gnocchi in our kitchen one Christmas Day. As usual, I ate tons of chocolate that morning and I don't remember what the final product tasted like (probably cacao), but I do remember making a mess with you and loving it.

Pop-pop Porkchops, aka Longshot Lou:
Thank you for never saying, "no." You made indulgences possible. My first cup of coffee was with you, in your Philadelphia row home, at 5am. I loved sleeping over. You and Mom-mom woke up before the sun and although you tried to creep past the pull-out couch into the kitchen I was secretly waiting for you to come down. I'd jump a few feet from my make-shift bedroom into the kitchen where you filled that blue-flowered mug with black steaminess then added half the sugar from the brown sugar bowl and lots of milk. Ice cream for breakfast? Sure. Chinese wings from JC's? Every time we were there. You flagged down the guy with Federal Street soft pretzels in a shopping cart with no problem. We had lots of great sandwiches from Primo's on visits to your house but the best sandwiches were packed on ice and eaten track side. Mother's Day at Delaware Park, eating peppers and eggs on a Sarcone's roll, and betting on the ponies were things I looked forward to all year long. It felt like hitting the trifecta. While I'm sure Mom-mom did most of the cooking, I think you were the master-mind menu planner.

Grandpop Porkchops, aka Boss:
Saturday night was date night. Mom and Dad would go out and we couldn't wait to get to Mountain Street. You were ready for us. Two pitchers of iced tea, Jiffy Pop, and cheesesteaks with onions soon to be fried were prepped and waiting. I later discovered that iced tea was a powdered mix but I could never re-create it as you served it. Your Jiffy Pop was unlike any other due to the velvety, melted butter you poured on top of each bowl you served. And although you only used chip steak and sliced American to make our main course you made it with such love and care for each ingredient that it tasted like sliced ribeye with aged cheese. I always had seconds, even though I knew it was only a few short hours until the next meal. Sitting up on the edge of the bed next to my two sisters, I carefully hopped off the pull-out avoiding the iron sides, shimmied through the skinny opening between the end of the bed and the TV stand then raced down the steps. Overcoming obstacles is always worth it in the end, especially if at the end they are serving bacon and eggs.

I know I have said "thank you" a million times but I don't think you have ever understood the impact you had and what it all really meant to me. Hopefully, somehow, now you do.

Walk a Mile in My Crusty Shoes

I am convinced that everyone should spend a week or two working in the food industry. I would like to conduct a study that goes something like this:
During the first week the hard labor is done. Participants can see how hot and strenuous working in a commercial kitchen is. The second week they will be on the customer service end. They can field all the insane questions and requests and take all the berating on the front line.

After this experience I believe that people will never be rude to a food service employee for as long as they live and breathe.



During that first week, legs will cramp. Participants will get burned, cut, and bruised. They will learn to work fast and efficient. There is little room for error when things need to be done yesterday. They will think on their toes and try not to freak out. They will do three times the work because a dishwasher called out and someone else just quit. Participants will be amazed at the things we cooks can do with food. The parsley stems that home cooks trash, we put into soup. The peaches that are to soft to sell, we make into a sauce. There will be more profanity, slurs, and sexually harassing statements thrown around than any outsider can stomach.


But week two is worse.


Throughout week two they will remember all the hard work they put in because they will probably still be in some pain. Then, they will watch as some bratty kid tosses their Sicilian Orzo to the floor and shouts, "That's gross, Mom." They will stand there and try not to fly over the counter as a lady who is missing half of her teeth complains, "Your turkey was tough. I could barely chew it." And just when they thought they have met the worst, the corporate lunch crowd rolls in. These people sit at their desks all day, stare into a computer, make senseless conversation via phone, and then probably catch a load of shit from their boss. As the CLC walks in they look important talking on their Blue-tooth and they certainly act important, but the percentage of them that actually is important is smaller than the cubicles in which they reside. But here, they feel above someone, and that 'someone' is you. So they proceed give instruction on how to correctly make polenta or fried chicken. These people, who watched a few episodes of Rachel Ray's '30 Minute Meals,' want to stand there and give direction. By the way, that's like taking fashion advice from RuPaul. Just another loud, crazy lady whose presence is vaster than her knowledge.

For some reason, people feel entitled to demand things at their whim. And when these requests are not fulfilled, or fulfilled quickly enough, they proceed to flip out. "You're a fucking idiot, that's why you work here," customers will say. Appropriate, don't you think? No, what is appropriate is to respect the profession until you walk a mile wearing its crusty, clunky, slip-resistant shoes. At the very least you will think twice before complaining that the coleslaw wasn't made correctly and in the fashion of your Southern-born grandmother.

Waiting On You- Episode Two

Once the hyperventilating ceased, Housekeeper #1 said she had a plan. She alerted the Estate Manager that we were going to the market. While we were in the market she explained how things worked at "Jardin" (this is the name of the estate). Here is a breakdown of the rules:



1-Do not speak, unless you are spoken to but always attempt eye contact. Do not ever avoid acknowledging the X's.

2-Mr. X comes second to Mrs. X. She rules the roost.

3-Mrs. X hears and sees everything.

4-Do not say, "You're welcome." Say, "It is my pleasure."

5-Do not speak to guests, even if you know them or have met/seen them before. You are there to quietly serve.

6-Everything must be triple stocked. You NEVER want to run out of something.

7-Be ready for everything. Things change at the speed of light.



An hour later we were back at Jardin and I was preparing dinner. I devised a menu of Mint crusted Lamb chops served with Pearl onions and Garden peas in a Champagne Butter sauce. For dessert I planned to serve Creme Brulee. I was still unsure of the exact time the guests would be arriving. I couldn't ask since I wasn't previously addressed and the Estate Manager left after another emergency had arisen. Housekeeper #1 didn't know either. She was busy herself re-washing 3 sets of linens for company.

My plan was to have everything prepped and ready to serve within 20 minutes time. I made the sauce, blanched the vegetables and par-cooked the lamb chops. The creme brulee was done and just needed to chill. I pulled the individual servings out of the oven to bring them to the "morgue" (walk-in freezer/refrigerator located across the service entrance way). Mid-turn I heard, "Hello, Mayhrie." I stumbled, hit the edge of the table with my foot, tripped and lost the tray. Tears rushed to the corners of my eyes and I quickly bent down to pick up the broken porcelain ramekins and wipe up what remained of the last course. As I scanned my brain for the appropriate response Mrs. X said, "What on Earth are those for? Captain (her pet name for Mr. X) and I are going to the theatre tonight. We are leaving in 15 minutes."

At this point I had to fight the urge to collapse and play dead. With a quivering lip I said, "Oh, I didn't realize. Will you be eating dinner at home tonight?" She snapped back, "A quarter of an hour is not sufficient time for a proper dinner. Even if we intended to have dinner at Jardin, on what would we dine? You seemed to have flipped our dessert." She turned and walked out.

Fifteen minutes later I heard the car start and pull out of the long, pebbled driveway. I sat there and cried.

Another Kind of Hero

It was very insensitive of me to exclude vegetarian sandwiches. Not everyone enjoys meat and there is nothing wrong with substituting grilled veggies as your third component. I forgot that one of my biggest heroes is hard provolone, fried eggplant, roasted red peppers, and broccoli rabe. Thanks for the reminder, Michelle 50.


Who is the Clark Kent to your Superman? Vegetarians, I'd love to hear your alter-ego sandwich ideas.

*I failed to explain exactly why sandwiches are my heroes. Here you go...

"A hero can save your life."- Eating a sandwich was the only was I stayed awake and survived steering the graveyard shift during a 19 hour drive to Daytona Beach.




"A hero can head your life towards positive progression."- Sandwich snacks at 3am pushed two shy kids towards the realization that they loved more than just salami, mayo, and Italian rolls.



"A hero can redirect your life for the better."- My life has been pretty good so far. I'll let you know when this prophecy is fulfilled. Maybe once I open up that sandwich shop I've always dreamed of....

You're My Hero

Ladies and gentlemen...this is my first post post-recommendation. Ask and ye shall receive.

Let's talk about sandwiches, shall we?


This could all be so simple. But I once heard a wise man say, "Sometimes the hardest thing and the right thing are the same." That is true on so many levels, in this case hard bread vs. soft bread. Please note that I am not talking about wraps; a wrap is not a sandwich nor is it bread. It is an entity of its own. Challah may be the only soft bread that I would consider worthy of sandwich status. Otherwise, the softies would collapse. Sort of like a Superman/kryptonite-esque fiasco. Now, hard doesn't mean stale, teeth-cracking bread. It means crusty, chewy, preferably warm slices protecting and nurturing the inner layers. A good bread will coax the best qualities out of each inner layer.
*Note: toasting or grilling soft bread will make it acceptable.


Speaking of the inner layer, there are combinations to infinity and beyond. However, there are only three essentials. The first is your spread. For arguments sake, no light versions allowed. We are constructing a superhero, here. Pesto, mayo, hummus, mustard, oil, vinegar, peanut butter. Something must stretch over the entire surface area of your bread. MUST. And lay it on thick. Second, you need cheese. I like to consider a few things when picking a cheese: type of bread, type of spread, and ingredient genre. Mozzarella would taste best with pesto or sun dried tomato spread. Pair cheddar and sourdough. Go for blue cheese when you're smushing bacon, tomato and a burger together. See what I'm doing here? I'm putting thought into it. Lastly, the third component: the goods. Without this you have a cheese sandwich. Salami, prosciutto, and ham, oh my. Don't be scared. The task can be daunting, but the challenge is worth it in the end. Like you did with the cheese, think about it.

Some sandwiches that will carry you above clouds:
1) pesto, mozzarella, prosciutto
2) mayo, cooper sharp, turkey
3) honey mustard, swiss, ham
2) mayo, american, salami

Some protest superheros are born, not created. Ahem...Batman. Think of the heroes in your life. Some may have saved your life. Some may have helped you towards positive progression. Some may have redirected your life for the better. To this I say, "Sandwich, you're my hero" (hero, submarine, grinder, hoagie-you're my heroes too).

Whatever you call them and however you eat them, these guys can turn a bad situation good, an awkward situation meaningful, and a drunk situation sober. Find your favorite combination and tell everyone (or at least everyone who follows this blog) how it changed your life.

Waiting On You- Episode One

For a brief period of time I was a private chef. At first, it all seemed so simple. Making two meals a day for two old people would be cake. WRONG. Have you ever seen the movie 'The Devil Wears Prada'? If not, have you ever heard of the Devil? Okay, that should set the scene.

She was seemingly gentle and sweet. I could tell she was very wise but I didn't know much else about her except that she and her husband had a famous, obscenely rich last name. I'm talking 'dinner plates cost more than my car' rich.
I feel as though she liked that I wasn't aware of her yet; it was just another thing she could teach me.
I pride myself on being a good judge of character right off the bat. That I can recall, I have only made only one bad assessment. But this lady was going to be a hard nut to crack. And she was definitely nutty.

With a staff of fifteen it seemed like she was paying people to make her look important. What could fifteen people possibly have to do for her? I'll tell you: walk the dogs, service the cars, chauffeur her and guests, organize closets, do her laundry, garden and landscape the acres of land, polish sculptures/floors/wall hangings, clean the estate, set elaborate arrangements for dinner parties, shop for her clothes and underwear, change light bulbs, refill bar supplies, write her schedule, pack her suitcases, fluff pillows, buy gifts for family and friends, write out cards for anyone for any occasion, search for lost pets, find anything else she misplaced, update her ITUNES, and do all of this without asking how, which, when, where, or why. The "why" was implied: because she said so.

My first day was the worst day. My first mistake was thinking that all people were equal. Probably because I never received the memo marked: Servitude. It was like I had driven an hour from home and ended up on the other side of the mirror where there were queens, mad hatters, and flamingos on sticks.

I approached Mrs. X in "the butler's pantry" to ask a simple, direct, and necessary question: "What would you like for dinner, Mrs. X?" My first lesson had begun. She rotated her neck around with great flexibility for an elderly person, rolled her eyes down to my shoes and up to my face, squinted, then pushed a piece of paper towards me and walked away. That piece of paper might as well have been a bullet to the spine, because I stood paralyzed.
Housekeeper #1 ran in not a second after Mrs. X had left, grabbed my arm, and pulled me into the kitchen. "Don't ask Mrs. X any questions," she whispered. "In fact, only smile at her until she speaks to you. Oh, my God, did she see you wearing this jacket?" I replied, "Yes, why?" Housekeeper #1's eyes grew wide. She grabbed my arm again and took me to the cellar.
She threw a clean, pressed chef's coat at me. She grabbed black shoe polish from a basket and bent down to my feet. "From now on," she said, "I will do your laundry. Just leave your jackets down here at night." I nodded my head and walked up the stairs. I still had no idea what to do for dinner. Was Mrs. X a vegetarian? Did she have allergies? Did she hate all food with a green shade? At this point I gathered the ridiculous was possible. Halfway up the steps I turned back to Housekeeper #1. "What should I make Mr. and Mrs. X for dinner?" She quickly replied, "Mrs. X is having a dinner party for 10 guests tonight. No one told you?"

TO BE CONTINUED...