How To Open a Bottle of Champagne---and other Gruesome Sparkling Wine Stories

Most folks celebrating New Year’s Eve will likely be popping the cork on a bottle of Champagne that night.

But are you REALLY drinking Champagne?

I’ll explain.

Champagne is a sparkling wine.  But not ALL sparkling wine is Champagne.  Champagne ONLY comes from the chalky and fossil-rich soil of the Champagne region in Northern France.  The use of the word “Champagne” is carefully controlled by the AOC (stands for “Appellation d'origine contrôlée”, France’s “quality control” for food and wine) and most of the civilized world has agreed to abide by their rules and play nice.

A list of rules that reads like a book of Sharia law. 

Just for starters:

Champagne can ONLY come from three grapes---chardonnay, pinot noir, and pinot meunier.

The grapes MUST be grown in one of the five vineyard areas of the Champagne region.
 
They also regulate everything from how you prune the vines to how you turn the damn bottles.
 
And that’s not even close to Champagne 101. 
 
The top Champagne producers are VERY old houses that are still run like the first season of Downton Abbey---lots of fuss over a missing snuff box.
 
But at the same time, it’s a very rock ‘n’ roll, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants operation.  Unlike other wines in France that are often judged by their year of vintage----most Champagne is NON-vintage.  In fact, it’s one of the AOC Sharia laws that a certain amount of wine from the house HAS to be saved to blend with the following years’ vintage to give Champagne that certain “je ne sais quoi”.
 
It’s also largely a matter of guesswork.  You really have to be a master to be able to throw stuff into the pot and know what the soup will taste like 2-10 years from now.  The big houses strive for consistency every year---though a few super biggies like Krug put out vintage bottles in years when the grapes are especially exciting.  The smaller, renegade grower's houses may not have the same prestige, but they can wow you with certain vintages and their “I’ll do what I want!” attitude.  
 
In short, Champagne is crazy town---but there’s nothing else in wine quite like it. 
 
Those are the basics.  But start getting into Champagne history and you’ll find hundreds of years of interesting stories.

For starters, Northern France ain’t no Cote d’Azur.  It’s freaking cold!  This has always limited the grape growers of the region.  Back in the day, they would pick the grapes and make their wine in the fall.  The cold winter would send the yeast in the fermentation process into hibernating like a freaking bear. 

Then by spring, the weather would warm up and the yeast would begin to RE-ferment.  The winemakers would open their carefully crafted wine and find….

Bubbles?!?!?!!!!

WTF?

This was seen as a horrible thing.  Good wine gone bad.

In truth, it WAS a bit of a problem.  Bottles of wine were exploding all over the place in the spring.  One bottle would explode and cause a chain reaction, seriously injuring the workers in the wine cellars.   

They tried everything to fix this.  Even a simple Benedictine monk (who didn’t even drink) named Dom Perignon couldn’t keep the bubbles out of his wine. 

Dom Perignon didn’t create Champagne.  He was just trying to turn lemons into lemonade.

He changed production methods, growing methods, harvesting methods.  He was also a savvy business man who increased the value both of the church’s estate AND their wines.

But he considered it a personal failure that he could never keep those damn bubbles out.

The tradition of Champagne on New Year’s Eve is a bit sketchy----but seems to have taken root after the French Revolution.  Champagne was beloved by the nobility in France.  But the Champagne in those days bore little resemblance to what we drink now; it was much sweeter to mask the acidity of the wine, a bit on the pink side, kind of gritty---and of course, they were still trying to get rid of those pesky bubbles. 

But it got the moniker “The Drink of Kings” due to its region more than anything. 

Reims cathedral is in the Champagne region of France.

The King of the Franks, Clovis I, was baptized in Reims in 496 A.D.  If you know nothing about French history, know that he’s kind of like our George Washington.  So because he was “the father of the country”, from then on, French coronation ceremonies were traditionally held in Reims.  They even built a huge cathedral on the site.  All the royals of Europe would show up and enjoy the local beverage---Champagne.

That’s why it’s called “The drink of kings.” 

It was such an important place that when the English took Reims during the Hundred Years War----it was Joan of Arc who got the cathedral back and made it possible for the dauphin (later Charles VII) to be crowned in the cathedral later that year.

Unfortunately, Charles VII was the equivalent of that guy who takes a lot of selfies and posts positive affirmations on his Twitter page to act like a leader-----but was really a self-centered, trust fund baby with no marketable skills. 

His depression and indecision during crucial moments of battle came across to his immediate circle as, “Why didn’t my general “like” my Instagram picture on Facebook?  I know he was still awake at midnight.  He wrote “LOL” on my court jester’s post.  I mean, why am I even fighting a war?  I should just quit everything I’m doing.  Like “opposite day” on that episode of Seinfeld.  I mean…what’s the point?  This is like…work.”

And right about then, a teenage Joan of Arc stepped up.  I know I complain about the youth of today----but SEE!  Not all young kids are lazy and good-for-nothing.

Jean d’Arc took Reims back from the English, met Charles VII, got him crowned-in as king, saved France, and then sometime around three o’clock in the morning, the tweet went out….

“Dudes!  I’m freaking KING!!!  Let’s par-tay!”

“Um…what about that girl who saved your ass?  You know she’s on trial now---right?”

“You r NOT invited, Debbie Downer!”

“I’m not kidding.  Here is a link to the pamphlet.”

“Lesbo.  Let’s PAR-TAY!!!!  Champagne in R-Town.  Ha!  OUR Town!”

“THIS IS NOT A JOKE.  BITCH WHO SAVED YOUR ASS IS GOING DOWN IF YOU DON’T HELP HER!!!!!”

“Tweaking so hard, dude.  Who’s the king?  Who’s the muthafucking king?”

“Unfriending.”

“Beheading.  LMFAO!!!!”

No secret---I’m not the biggest fan of Charles VII.

A few centuries later, the French Revolution was on, Louis XVI was reduced to the title, “Citizen Capet", they oiled up the guillotine, and suddenly---everyone was equal! 

Hooray!!! 

The newly formed National Assembly (in an attempt to wipe the slate clean---and to dip into the rich coffers of the Catholic church) abolished religion in France.  At one point, an entire convent of nuns was sent to the guillotine.  Poulenc’s opera “Dialogue of the Carmelites” ring a bell?

Okay, I’m geeking out.  But when you’re killing off nuns, your government is getting a bit kooky.

What Robespierre and his band DID realize was that they had to offer new traditions to replace the old ones.  Can’t worship your papal god?  How about our new “Supreme Being”?  Hmmm? 

They put on a whole festival and street fair to introduce “our brand-new god for your worshiping pleasure”. 

Unfortunately, while the fan-fares played and the paper-mache mountain designed by revolutionary artist David was unveiled to a public eagerly awaiting their new (and hopefully familiar) god-----Robespierre (perhaps as leader of “The Mountain” side of the aisle in the National Assembly) positioned himself at the TOP of that mountain.

Yeah---the guy shimmied himself up a wooden ladder and “appeared” as a vision in the azure painted-clouds that kind of made people wonder, “Um---are we supposed to be worshiping HIM?”

And if you thought Mark David Chapman resented the fact that John Lennon compared himself to Jesus…

It wasn’t long after that Robespierre had an unbreakable appointment with The National Razor.

But one of the non-religious customs that was encouraged by the secular government was to drink Champagne.  Because we’re all equal!  And you, too, can get drunk on the same stuff as the Kings of France.

Well, okay----you’re still poor.  We’re working on that.

So since you can only afford it once a year…

How about that non-religious day we all know and celebrate?

And THAT is why you drink Champagne on New Year’s Eve.

Does it HAVE to be Champagne?

Don’t be silly. 

If you’re simply looking for a cork that pops---it all falls under the category of “sparkling wine” and can be anything from a Brut Rose from California to a Prosecco from Italy to a Sparkling Shiraz from Australia.  Whatever rocks your boat.

A few things you should know:

Sparkling wines are traditionally served in a glass called a “flute”.

There's also the coupe.

There's a legend that it was supposedly molded to the shape of Marie Antoinette’s left breast.  Okay---that story is partially true.  Marie Antoinette supposedly DID have glasses molded in the shape of her breast---but they were supposed to be for drinking milk.  It was called a “jattes tetons” and had goat heads as a base. 

 
And yeah---that's a nipple at the bottom.

I know---kind of creepy.  But she was going thru this Rousseau back-to-nature phase that was hip and trendy in the day.  She and her lady friends would have these farm-to-table-like brunches where they’d dress up like farmer’s daughters and milk cows and churn butter outside her little palace Le Petit Trianon.  It was their way of convincing other noblewomen to breast-feed their babies instead of sending the kids off to a wet nurse.

Over the years, the coupe has been said to have been modeled after the boob of pretty much every King’s mistress or powerful woman the opposing political group hated---the sort of slut-shaming and women-hating that has been going on for centuries.

In any case, the titty glass is HORRIBLE for sparkling wine!  It spreads the bubbles all over the surface of the glass and causes them to dissipate---in short, flat Champagne.

Truth is, in the Champagne region, they just drink their bubbly out of a wine glass.

Now here’s where it gets dangerous…

The Champagne bottle is SPECIFICALLY designed to keep the forces within inside the bottle.  The glass is thicker than a normal wine bottle and the shape is different to help spread those forces around.  This took centuries to figure out.  This is also why you need to use great caution when opening one of these puppies.

As a server, I’ve opened hundreds of bottles of sparkling wine.  I’m always super careful.  

In my entire waiting-tables career, I’ve only had ONE bottle of sparkling explode on me.  Unfortunately, it was a bottle of sparkling red.  Shit.  As I loosened the cage, I could feel something was wrong.  I barely twisted the bottle when the whole thing exploded.

Red wine.

Luckily I knew what I was doing beforehand and had aimed it properly.  Only a napkin was injured.

But the pressure behind a bottle of sparkling wine can be up to 60 miles per hour.  Like that line in A Christmas Story---“You’ll shoot your eye out.”

The vast majority of eye injuries that turn up in emergency rooms across the U.S. are due to mishandled bottles of sparking wine.

So unless you have dreams of becoming one of those film directors with an eye patch…

Handle this stuff with caution.  Point it away from your face and anyone else’s face----and body.  Point it at the ceiling or a wall.

Also, Champagne should be properly chilled---about 45 to 48 degrees.  That’s about the same as your refrigerator.  If it’s opened when it’s too warm it may explode on you.

And it actually shouldn’t make that popping sound we all associate with sparkling wine.  As Karen MacNeil writes in her definitive book, The Wine Bible, “Unbidden, more than one older Frenchman has advised me that a Champagne bottle, correctly opened, should make a sound no greater than that of a contented woman’s sigh.  Frenchmen are French men after all.”   

So, what’s good this year?

Well, everyone has their preferences.

Jeffrey Goldin, general manager of Red Farm Broadway, prefers something on the sweeter side---a sparkling Muscat.  But as far as actual Champagne that won’t break the bank, he recommends the reliable crowd-pleaser, Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin.  And then he went on to tell me the whole history of the wine and how it was named after the first woman to take over a Champagne house---The widow (“veuve” in French) Madame Clicquot.  

He then proceeded to entertain me with his impressions of stuffy and ridiculous sommeliers that he once did at a wine dinner---impressions that made even the sommeliers laugh.

The thing about wine is that once you start to learn stuff about it---you realize how much you DON'T know.  But the more you learn, the more this whole wonderful world of stories and people (and, oh yeah---wine) opens up to you.

Wine knowledge isn't all stuffy old guys making weird slurping sounds and inventing stupid descriptive words and phrases like "chalice-y" and "the musk of a satiated otter".

It really is fun and exciting and WAY more down-to-earth than you would think.

It's like drinking beer with your smart friends.

I also contacted a few of my sommelier friends this week to get some quotes and recommendations.

I quickly learned that trying to get a quote out of a sommelier the week between Christmas and New Year’s is like trying to interview a fighter pilot in the thick of battle.

The emails came back, “I’m SO sorry I didn’t get back to you.  I’ve been working 15 hour days back-to-back.”

Luckily, my old and dear sommelier friend, Dana Farner, had just enough time to scrape out the message that she had already put something together for the website at her work.  Dana is the Beverage Director of CUT and sidebar, Wolfgang Puck’s outposts at Beverly Wilshire in Beverly Hills (A Four Seasons Hotel).

“Do you want to add that link? Or copy paste? I could add an intro for you to personalize it or something if you want but you're right- I am out of my mind busy.”

As a gal who just worked 14 hours on Christmas Day----I totally understood.  

So here are her top five recommendations (and notes) on her favorite bottles of bubbly this season.

1. Camille Savès Rosé Brut Grand Cru, Bouzy, Champagne NV

A delicious red cherry but not sweet Champagne from Grand Cru Bouzy, the village that’s as fun to drink as it is to say. If you look closely, you’ll find a tiny RM on the label which stands for Récoltant-Manipulants, meaning that Camille Savès grows all their own grapes — a rarity in Champagne.

2. Gaston Chiquet “Special Club” Brut Champagne 2004
The Special Club refers to a collection of 27 Growers (RM) who have organized to promote the flavour of the earth in Champagne. Only their best can be bottled as “Special Club.” A lean, bright, mouth-watering Champagne.

3. Jacques Selosse “Grand Cru Blanc de Blancs Substance”, Avize, Champagne NV
Another RM in a class of its own. Selosse blends vintages since 1986 to make this wine, with the intention of highlighting the specific beauty of the village of Avize. The wine is deeply layered with toasted nuts and candied citrus. A luxury “wow” bottle that tastes unlike any other.

4. Lanson Rosé Brut Champagne NV
An extremely popular Champagne in Europe, Lanson is less well-known in America. This rosé is surprisingly low in sweetness with dried fruit and lots of minerality.

5. Ca’ del Bosco “Cuvée Annamaria Clementi” Franciacorta Riserva 2004
Not all great bubbles come from Champagne. Franciacorta in Lombardy, Italy produces some of the greatest sparkling wines in the world. It’s made the same way as Champagne and often matches it in quality. You’ll find a little toastiness in this luxury bottle along with bright citrus notes.”

She also has an awesome video tutorial on how to correctly open a bottle of sparkling wine, which you can view here.

 

So watch, be safe, drink responsibly, and Happy New Year!  

Shot Glass Gardening

The window of time to purchase garlic scapes at your farmer’s market may not be QUITE as narrow as the eye of a needle that Biblical camel is trying to wedge his hump thru…

But it sure ain’t no damn tomato season, either.

I can get them in NYC for about a month in the spring.

Scapes are the greens that shoot out of a garlic bulb.  Farmers used to just chop them off and throw them away so the bulbs would get bigger----till some adventurous eater gave them a whirl.

And then the foodies started waxing poetic…

Nowadays, top chefs ALWAYS have them on their menu when they’re in season.  It’s their way of saying, “I’m connected to the markets and I know what’s out there right now.  Look what I can do, mom!  Mom!  Mom!  Look, Mom!  Look!  Mom!  Mom!”

Scapes are really just sprouts harvested at different times. 

And despite the fact that I live in a NYC apartment with lousy light…  It STILL doesn’t keep the garlic in my dark and foreboding garlic keeper from eventually outgrowing its Emo phase and wanting to experience the joy of life again.

You may have lost a bulb---but you gained a sprout.

Or immature garlic scape.

And it’s delicious.

I hear that Alice Waters religiously cuts that green center out----likely with an expensive Japanese paring knife—and swears the remaining garlic is milder, but still good.

Yappers online claim that sprouted garlic is “bitter” and occasionally I read the word “poisonous”.

But most chefs just chop it up and add it into the dish and you’ve probably eaten it a thousand times and never known the difference.

So----what’s the scoop?

Well, it’s not poisonous.  You’re thinking of potato sprouts.  Those ARE poisonous.  And that’s a whole other post.

If your garlic sprouts, it’s called “a shoot”.

Those pricey garlic scapes are really just a shoot that grew bigger and got all curly and sexy-looking.

Garlic shoots are milder than garlic.  Think onions versus scallions.  A whole different animal. 

So when life starts happening in my kitchen, I don’t throw the unwed mother out into the cold. 

I plop her in a shot glass! 

Disclaimer:  I have NO idea how I got that glass.  I haven’t had a shot of Jägermeister since college.

But I hang onto it because when a garlic bulb starts to sprout, it’s the perfect size.

You get greener pesto!  Delicate vinaigrette!  And an aioli so precious that you could have the best damn BLT of your life.

I tend to let them grow a few inches before I harvest them.

It’s also a nice bit of something green growing in your kitchen!

In about a week or so, you’ll have “micro-green” garlic scapes.  You can toss it in a stir fry, raw in a salad, or even pickle it in with your kosher dills.

Your garlic isn’t dead.  As Dr. Frankenstein declared, “It’s alive!  It’s alive!!!”

Christmas in a Crockpot

Cold winter days create a longing for things like beef stew and hot cider.

But did you know you can have both of those things in ONE delicious dish?

I’ll explain.

I have a fondness for what’s referred to as “ghetto-ass supermarkets”. 

They don’t look fancy, they’re generally in the more depressed areas of the city, and they don’t carry “free-range” chicken.  But they may carry LIVE chickens.  In Spanish neighborhoods, they’re known as “viveras”. 

Okay---I admit that I don’t go into viveras.  Because I have a fertile imagination and a strong leaning towards anthropomorphism.  I can’t even walk onto a Christmas tree lot without thinking that the scrawny, Charlie Brown tree isn’t crying out, “Why doesn’t anyone want me?  Why won’t someone take me home for Christmas?”

I’ve lugged home too many pathetic pine trees to know that if I walk into a vivera---I’ll come out with a new pet.

But a true food adventurer knows that these markets are a goldmine.

They’ve been there a long time and they’ve learned to cater to the ethnic communities in that particular neighborhood.  Somewhere in that store (and you may have to REALLY look carefully for it) you will find a small section devoted to ingredients that remind that community of home.  And it’s all delicious!

So the other day I was in a ghetto-ass supermarket in Harlem.  C-Town on 116^th St., to be exact.  

Like a truffle pig, I began to sniff out the goodies.

And sure enough, they were there.

Two small sections devoted to Jamaican and West African goods.

And when I saw the Red Palm Oil on the shelf, I KNEW I was making Jamaican Beef Stew for dinner.

For starters, Red Palm Oil (unrefined----don’t even bother with the refined stuff) is one of THE best oils you can put in your body.  Even better than coconut oil.  It actually UNCLOGS arteries, prevents heart attacks and strokes, is an anti-oxidant FULL of beta carotene, and does a ton more great stuff.  Just Google it and you’ll be amazed.   

It’s also one of those ingredients that most Jamaican recipes will change to “olive oil” in an attempt to make things easier for non-Jamaicans.  But it gives your dish that distinctive flavor that only locals can pick out. 

Yes, you want to be careful buying Red Palm Oil from countries with orangutans because it depletes their forest.  But this was from Jamaica, not Borneo.  And the easy way to tell refined from unrefined is that if the oil is red----that’s the good stuff! 

My friend Tommie has a Jamaican boyfriend.  He’s always looking for Jamaican dishes he can cook up for the two of them for their “Date Nights”.  He saw the photo of my stew on Facebook and immediately wanted the recipe.  So I'm sharing this one.

It’s a basic stew with a few added techniques and ingredients.  This is how I tried to share the recipe with my friend Tommie over dinner last night.  I did mine on the stove top, but once you brown the meat and sauté the onions and garlic, you could easily do this in a slow cooker. 

Jamaican Beef Stew

Ingredients:

Palm Oil

Sugar

Beef stew chunks

Onions

Garlic

Chicken stock (or just water)

Potatoes

Carrots

Ground Allspice

Cinnamon

Salt

Pepper

Thyme

Bay leaves

Tomato Paste

Rum

Soy Sauce

Brown Sugar

Red Wine Vinegar

West African Hot Pepper

Pickapepper Sauce

Corn Starch

Do NOT be scared of the list of ingredients!  It's mostly spices and things you likely have around your kitchen.

1. Put a bit of red palm oil in your pot over medium-high heat and stir a spoonful of sugar (I used pure cane sugar) into the oil.  This is a Caribbean technique.  Jamaican food (like Indian food) is carefully balanced.  Think of how they BOTH have curries.  Make sense now?  Anywho----once the oil and sugar are hot, put the beef stewing chunks into the pot and brown on all sides.
2. Add in some sliced onions and chopped garlic and sweat them out.
3. Pour enough water or chicken stock into the pot to cover the beef---add the carrots and potatoes.  Bring this to a boil.
4. Note:  When making stew, I peel my carrots and potatoes---Tommie asked me this so I’ll explain why.  The “peel” of carrots is a bit bitter and while I always roast potatoes “skin-on”, peeling them reminds me of Mom’s beef stew.  Purely sentimental.  I also cut them into chunks of a similar size as the meat so they cook evenly.  Depending on the type of potatoes you’re using, you may want to add the potatoes a few minutes later so they don’t turn to mush.  Older white potatoes will cook quicker than newer red ones.
5. Okay---now it’s time to add your spices.  Allspice is key!  It’s native to Jamaica and you’ll find it in many dishes.  And it's NOT a blend of spices like Chinese Five Spice.  It's its own thing.  And don’t get me talking about the Spice Wars.  I’ll bore your ears off.  But sordid history aside, you’re going to start adding the fun stuff---ground allspice, cinnamon, salt, pepper, thyme, bay leaves, tomato paste, rum, soy sauce, brown sugar, red wine vinegar, West African Hot Pepper (or cayenne or whatever you like) and something called Pickapeppa Sauce, which is the Jamaican equivalent of A-1 Steak Sauce.  But if you’re really going to do this, don’t substitute.  Find some Pickapeppa.  I first discovered it at a burrito shop in Minneapolis, so it’s out there.  You just have to open your eyes.  It’s also my favorite sauce to shake onto a mushroom cheese omelet.  And I don't give measurements here because I just shake stuff in and kinda know what I'm doing.  So I'm just going to trust you.    
6. Bring this all to a boil, then turn the heat down, put the lid on the pot, and let it simmer for about 2 hours.
7. You’ll know it’s done when the meat pulls away easily with a fork.  Now it’s time to turn water into wine----err, I mean gravy.  This is something Tommie didn’t know, so I’ll explain.  When a recipe says to add a tablespoon of corn starch to create gravy, you can’t just put a tablespoon of corn starch in!  The science of corn starch DEMANDS that you mix that spoonful of powder in with a spoonful or two of COLD water before pouring it into the pot.  I’m sure Alton Brown could explain it better, but you HAVE to do this or you will not get gravy.  But it’s easy.  Cold water.  Powder.  Stir with a fork.  Pour into pot.  Then bring your heat up to high and watch it turn into delicious gravy right before your eyes. 

I knew how amazing this stew was going to be right from the get-go.  So I got out some yeast and whipped up a quick batch of Jamaican Coco Bread to lap up all that sauce.  But you can also serve this over rice or use whatever bread you have handy.

While you may not think of Island food as Christmas-y-----this dish will totally change your mind.  It’s beef stew in mulling spices and rum.   And honestly, Christmas food ALL depends on where you grew up. 

So get thee to a ghetto-ass supermarket!       

I Don’t Know Nothin’ ‘Bout Roasting No Chestnuts, Miss Scarlett

When you work in the restaurant industry, the holidays are your busy season. 

We work while you play. 

Every year at EVERY company party buyout, we see the inevitable dumbass who takes a “too-liberal” advantage of the open bar and will likely be making a trip to the Human Resources Department on Monday morning.

And every holiday season, some young hostess making $8 an hour is not allowed even TWO days off to fly home to see her family because she has to work your stupid company party. 

As she’s watching the couple from sales (who everyone in the office party suspects are having an affair) do a dirty dance to the same Christmas Mambo on the SAME 45 minutes worth of looped Christmas music she’s been forced to listen to for the past five weeks, and she finds herself being nice to the Ecuadorian cook who tried to grab her boobs last month just so she can get two pieces of leftover shrimp cocktail because she’s on a double and she’s starving, and then the owner of the company’s wife tosses a mink coat in her face and warns with her collagen lips, “Don’t try it on, sweetheart.  Just hang it up.” 

It’s right around this time that this young woman will break down sobbing in a pile of cigarette-scented winter coats (because she can't even leave until the last drunk person at your party gets their coat from coat check) and she'll sadly cry out, “But where’s MY Christmas?  Why don’t I get a Christmas?”

Note to older restaurant employees----this is NOT a good time to mention seniority.  The idea of still being trapped in your long-running production of Glengarry, Glen Ross for the next twenty years just to get off work Christmas Eve is only going to depress her even more. 

I know this because I was that girl. 

I’ve since realized that you have to MAKE your holiday happen!  You just have to do whatever you can to make it special. 

For YOU! 

Because no matter how much you’re feeling that it’s all about THEM, you have to be your own advocate during the Christmas Season.

MAKE CHRISTMAS HAPPEN!

Even in the smallest way possible.

Find that little thing that makes you happy and do it.

JUST DO IT!!!!!!

So whatever that mini-pocket vibrator of Christmas is for you---I want you to find it, and I want you to go into that handicapped bathroom of your own Private Idaho, and I want you to yell out, “I’m mad as hell and I can't take it anymore!!!”

And that’s your Christmas.

In the restaurant business. 

It’s not so bad, really.

MY mini-vibrator is chestnuts.

Perhaps partly because of the evocative opening lyrics, “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire….”

And if you’ve never had freshly roasted chestnuts, they really are “The Rabbit” of the tree nut world.   

Every year this time I become entranced by the heaping piles of maroon-colored tree nuts on the corner that look like a pile of Nazi-confiscated antiques for sale by the pound.

But unlike those ghetto antiques, you don’t have to worry about where your chestnuts come from.  Most of the chestnuts you buy in the market are “organic”--- even without that faux-FDA labeling. 

It’s a higher likelihood that you’ll get old nuts.

And isn’t that a pleasant sentence?

The best way to test chestnuts for freshness is to toss them to the ground like a tennis ball.  If they bounce, they’re good. 

You can store them for a week or two in an attractive basket that looks quite fetching in your kitchen. 

But if you’re only using them as décor till you FINALLY get a boyfriend to spend a romantic evening roasting them with….

Um, depending on your personality---they might not keep that long. 

I’m just saying.

If he doesn’t call you after two weeks, put them in the fridge.  Chestnuts have a shorter shelf life than other unshelled nuts.  That’s why squirrels bury them under the snow.

And right about now, you’re realizing that a squirrel knows something you don’t know.

But roasting them is EASY! 

One big rule----make SURE to cut an X on the flattest part of the chestnut.  This will prevent them from exploding in your face and giving you third-degree burns.

I’m serious.  Do NOT skip this step!!!

  

 I’ve never roasted them over an open fire.  I live in a NYC apartment.  I think “open fire” needs a permit or something.  But if you pay the annual $2000 fee to the FDNY, rest assured that a hunky fireman will turn up at your door twice a year to inspect your permit. 

You CAN roast them in the oven.  Easy peasy.  Cut your little “x”s into the nuts (I put them on a tea towel so I don’t stab myself with my dull, discount paring knife), put them on a baking sheet, and pop them in the oven at about 400-425 degrees depending on your oven. 

As for cooking time----size matters.  I’d give it 10-15 minutes depending on the size of your nuts. 

And I’m sorry this is sounding so smutty, but when I’m forced to write a post about nuts…  There’s a tiny Beavis and Butthead part of me that just goes there. 

But I waited tables in comedy clubs for too many years to make a dick joke my closer.. 

Now----here’s where it gets tricky. 

While I fall slave to these babies EVERY single year-----it’s only upon taking them out of the oven that I suddenly regret my purchase.  Like a natural childbirth mom on the delivery belt to hell, I start screaming in pain as I attempt to peel the steaming nuts away from their tricky inner-shell. 

“This is YOUR fault!  You’re the one who wanted chestnuts!  Why did you do this to me!?!?”

But eventually the nut comes out of its shell and everyone is happy and the world is a wonderful place again.

I’ve heard that there’s a hormone in women that actually knocks out the memory of the pain of childbirth so women will be willing to do it all over again.

Well, that’s me with chestnuts.

My Midwife Tips for getting them out of the shell:

The “X” helps to pull everything away.  The shell will start to peel away from the nut after about 5 or 6 minutes, but give it a little more time to get that roasty smell in your apartment that’s going to make the next hellish 20 minutes of your life worthwhile. 

Because within minutes of coming out of the oven, you need to stop everything you’re doing and peel them as quickly as possible.  I suggest having a friend or two around depending on how many chestnuts you roasted. 

If they cool too much, you’ll NEVER get them out of the shell.

NEVER!!!!!

If that horror happens upon you, just stick them back in the oven or (I hate to say this...) a microwave....

Okay, I’m NOT a fan of microwaves.  But I own one.  Who amongst us doesn’t?

If they get too cold to peel, pop them in the microwave for 5 seconds. 

SECONDS!.

Any longer, they will burn inside and be completely useless in a matter of…like two seconds.

I’ve avoided some of this nonsense by simply picking up a sharp knife, hacking them in half, and quickly scooping out the innards with an espresso spoon like it was an avocado.

I’m guessing that right about now, this isn’t sounding like a relaxing and romantic night with your boyfriend.

I forget what a pain in the ass these colicky babies are every damn year.

But oh gosh, they do make a great soup.  Or pesto.  Or pastry filling.  Or stuffing.  Or just plain and hot right out of the oven.  

And that’s my Modest Proposal. 

Eat those babies.

Elizabeth David: A Cautionary Tale From the Kitchen

I have a secret thrift store.  And my friends want to know where it is. 

They see the clothes I find there.  The vintage kitchen items.  And the hard-to-find books.

I’ve had people beg me for the address. 

But I won’t tell them. 

Not even my closest friends.

Because it’s MY Secret Garden.  

“But I’m not even your size!  And I’m a man!”

Doesn’t matter.  You’ll eventually tell my doppelganger. 

“But I can keep a secret.  I SWEAR!!!”

People THINK they can keep a secret----but let me remind you that someone pointed out Anne Frank.

ANNE FRANK!

And my Secret Annex is not only an awesome thrift store----it’s magic!

One day I had a free afternoon and was on my way there when I thought to myself, “You know----you really don’t need anything.  Maybe you should take a walk in the park instead?  Or go to a museum?  What do you need that could possibly be there?”

And then I answered back to myself, “Well, I don’t NEED anything, but I wish I could find an Elizabeth David cookbook.”

Five minutes after walking in the door, I had a 1959 Penguin Edition of French Country Cooking in my hands.

For a dollar.

Maybe I just need to make more wishes!  My life is going to be AMAZING from now on!!!

So I kept wishing.

Unfortunately, not every rabbit hole leads to Wonderland.  Sometimes you just step in mud and rabbit poo.

But while my life isn’t always Utopia-----my secret thrift store has never let me down.  I can walk thru the doors of that magical wardrobe and wish for anything from a cool vintage t-shirt to a garlic keeper----and I will find it in Narnia.

For a dollar.

After discovering several of David’s cookbooks in my Boo Radley tree, I began to wonder about the life of the woman who wrote so brilliantly and was so passionately knowledgeable about food.

So this week, I book-wormed my way thru Writing at the Kitchen Table: The Authorized Biography of Elizabeth David.

Elizabeth David was born into an upper-class family in Britain in 1913.  A bit too rebellious for the life of a debutante, she shocked her family by going off to Paris to study acting, quickly realized she was no good at it, and then ran off with her lover on a yacht to sail the Mediterranean. 

Unfortunately, they chose the outbreak of World War II as their departure date.  They spent the rest of the war trying to get away from it----shuttling between Greece, Egypt, India, and even spent time in an Italian prison accused of espionage.    

When she finally got back to England in 1946, she was shocked at the toll wartime food rations had taken on the already bland British cuisine.  To earn a bit of money, she began to write articles describing all the heavenly dishes she had eaten during her Mediterranean years while the folks back home were subsisting on tinned meats and powdered eggs.  Different from most cooking manuals of the day, she wrote about fresh ingredients, seasonality, how to cook with wine, and the emotional response to food and its preparation. 

Far from being resentful at her years of plenty, the still-rationed British public gobbled up her articles like food porn. 

She went on to publish several ground-breaking books that introduced then-exotic ingredients like zucchini, olive oil, and Parmesan cheese to the English-speaking world.  Her books on French, Mediterranean, and Italian cooking won her world-renown.  When she wrote a favorable review of the newly published Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Julia Child was “simply overwhelmed” and immediately penned a gushing letter thanking her for the acknowledgement.  Her scholarly work on the history of English bread won her several honorary degrees and she was eventually made a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature and a CBE of the Order of the British Empire.

Despite all the public accolades, David was intensely private.  She constantly turned down requests for interviews by saying, “Everything I want to say is in my books.”

Her biography by Artemis Cooper gives you a rough idea why.

Elizabeth David may have had a few good days, but she was mostly a bitter, unhappy woman.  She fought with friends and family constantly and held long-standing grudges against editors and business partners.  She appears to have spent most of her evenings all alone and flying into drunken rages---or with scores of sexual partners who cared as little about her as she did about them.

The great love of her life was a young officer of the 9^th Lancers.  But when General Montgomery began to drive Rommel out of North Africa, the officer’s jeep hit a landmine.  He was taken to a Cairo hospital where his legs were amputated.  Elizabeth visited him in the hospital and brought him some home-cooked food----but she knew she wasn’t the sort to play nursemaid and walked away.

He married a wonderful woman and lived happily ever after.

Elizabeth David continued to make herself miserable.

When she was only 49, she became maniacally obsessed with some illustrated plates her publisher had lost----and then she discovered that her boyfriend of ten years was in love a younger woman.

She completely lost it.  Screaming and hurling the contents of her home like a one-woman tornado, she finally collapsed into a heap.  She discovered soon after that she was physically unable to talk----she had given herself a cerebral hemorrhage.

She spent weeks in the National Hospital for Nervous Diseases recovering from what amounted to a stroke. 

While trying to keep her condition from editors, publishers, and the general public----she wrote an article from her hospital bed for The Spectator describing a fish market:

"In the dawn light of the Rialto markets...a sole isn't made of old white cricket flannels but of pale lilac silk, and....if you are looking you may see a pyramid of apricots radiating rose and gilt reflections from a catch of red mullet..."

Her image was all she had.

Her power of speech eventually came back; but it took quite a while longer for her to regain something else she’d lost---her sense of taste.

Only her doctors and a few close friends knew that the famous cookbook writer was putting her latest concoctions into four separate dishes and discreetly asking her dinner companions to taste them "to see which is properly salted".

From there it was more drinking and sleeping pills, more rages and family disputes, and then a whole messy business with her quaint little kitchen shop in London that caused her to fly into yet more rages, leave her own company, and spend years taking out lawyer-like ads denying her connection with them.

Frankly, by the time I got to this chapter, I was pretty sick of her myself.  I looked at the number of remaining pages left to read in the book and thought, “I wish she’d hurry up and die soon.  A hundred more pages!  Nooooo!!!!!”

But I kept reading.  Because I really wanted her to be happy.

And then it came out that her younger sister who lived in David’s upstairs apartment (in exchange for typing duties) was hospitalized for malnutrition.  Likely some form of anorexia, but David appeared more mortified that the famous cookery writer’s live-in sister was starving to death than getting her sibling any actual help.

Her life continued on---writing, drinking, trying to steal archival materials, more drinking, falls causing broken bones (likely from the drinking), suicides of relatives, more falls, more strokes, more bitter feuds.

She spent her final days in a constant dread that someone would write her biography.

And eventually she died---and someone did.

I’m SO happy I’m done reading it.  It’s been depressing me for days now. 

I still won’t tell you where my secret thrift store is.

And I’ll still keep wishing for good things in my life. 

But perhaps the key to happiness is how you handle life when you don’t get exactly what you want.