Omnivore Atlanta

Often, people ask me where I get my inspiration. I don’t usually have an answer. I may ramble about the farmers’ market, or detail an epiphany I had while visiting a new city. But it’s very difficult to delve into the process in a few sentences. It’s poetic to talk about inspiration being all around you, and that if you just open your eyes wide enough, you’ll see. Smell the roses … or garbage bin, for that matter.

The romantic notion that inspiration can strike anyone, wildly and without rhyme or reason, simply isn’t true. As with any creative endeavor, inspiration is only useful when you have a firm foundation of experience and technique to filter it through.

But if you have a moment, I’ll walk you through the inspiration behind a dish that I’m doing at a private dinner this month. The dinner happens to be in a graveyard. At night. Outside. In total darkness, except each diner is armed with a flashlight.

I’ll be describing the last savory course of a five-course meal.

Continue Reading “Sacrificial inspiration”

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It’s the type of place that doesn’t really feel like a restaurant. You walk in whenever you want. Wearing whatever you want. And sit down without the prerequisite formality of most dining experiences. It’s somewhere between the atmosphere of a diner or Waffle House and that of a high school cafeteria. You’re there to eat. Hang out. Share some good times with friends or family. And you leave with the feeling that you’ve gotten way too good of a deal. Both monetarily and in terms of the food experience. Your boss will love this place for a business lunch. Your mother-in-law from Cincinnati wants to eat there while visiting over the holidays (and that sounds better than having her cook). Your kids won’t feel out of place. Your husband won’t think it’s too fancy. Professionals in the restaurant industry will return to their own workplace and say it was all right, but not good enough to be that busy. That’s when you know you’ve succeeded. A little competitive smack talking is healthy in this industry.

It’s my dream restaurant.

Although that imagery is very serious to me, I’ve also come up with a few not-so-serious ideas through conversations in the walk-in, long plane flights, and bar stool shit-shooting.

Continue reading “Knife’s Edge: Dream restaurant”

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Right now, I’m at a coffee shop. A few moments ago, I signed an autograph on one of those papers you find in front of such places. Probably looks like the one you’re reading now. I’m in a baseball cap, pulled just over my eyes, and a pair of camouflage carpenter shorts I got from Target. And a nondescript navy blue sweatshirt.

I’m Joe, Anytown USA. But I’m not.

I’ve achieved some sort of celebrity status. Falling in rank somewhere between the E and Z lists. Probably more toward the back of the alphabet. A fact that has been made increasingly obvious through some surreal experiences.

Often, I’m just that guy from TV. A food channel dude. That chef.

Sometimes, I’m a guy you think you know from somewhere, but can’t quite place.

I recommend that if you find yourself going through this metamorphosis, do not tell the person who is stumped about your identity who you are. Telling them you’re from this or that TV show has the potential to yield a most humiliating result. As it did to me once in Jacksonville. Early in my newfound life, the curious person who thought they knew me responded that no, they didn’t know me from television. They just thought I was Craig Wilson from their intramural softball team.

I now refer to this as the Craig Wilson rule.

Continue reading “Knife’s Edge: Z list”

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A few weeks ago, my wife decided after careful research, and I believe (in all honesty) after watching an episode of “Oprah,” that she would embark on a lifestyle challenge: going completely vegan, no gluten, no processed sugar, no alcohol, and no caffeine for 21 days.

At first, I didn’t think I would participate. Jazmin got started on July 1, along with her cousin Nicole who’s interning with us. I decided as a show of support to follow along loosely. And I’d help cook at home, or guide their efforts in the kitchen. But my competitiveness came to the surface and I had to see if I could do it.

It may be important at this point to remind you that I’m a chef. Currently running a hamburger restaurant. Frying potatoes in a mixture of duck fat and lard. Pureeing Krispy Kreme doughnuts into milkshakes. You’re more apt to find me at a local coffee house than my own kitchen. And I do a ton of consulting for beverage and liquor companies.

This lifestyle challenge would be difficult if I were an accountant. But in my line of work, it seemed impossible. (more…)

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I’m a big sports fan. I’m the type of person, when I have tickets to a game, I show up three hours before kick-off. It’s not that I want to reserve my space, or tailgate, or heckle the opposing team. It’s because I’m almost as interested in what happens before the game as I am in the final result. Actually, I’m usually bored and off to the parking lot before the final whistle. Way before it.

I swear I’ve said it a thousand times: A professional kitchen is like a sports team. And each night’s service is very similar to a competitive game.

My favorite part of any sporting event is the moment where the teams enter the field: the team huddle, the players getting themselves prepared. The coach may be yelling. He may be singling people out. In sports, and maybe kitchens as well, this is motivation. The team gives the last rallying cry and soon after the drums and fireworks, run full speed onto the pitch. In a restaurant, this happens as well, sans fireworks and drums.

It’s called lineup. (more…)

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I was the underdog and I knew it. There was no way, on national TV, anyone was expecting much from a young chef from Atlanta. Especially my competitor. At the end, I was sweating. But so was he, in both the literal and street definition. It was a sneak attack. When I went to shake his hand, the superstar celebrity chef, he said “You should be cooking in London or New York.”

Huh?

It was both a compliment and an insult.

This is going to hurt a bit.  And, honestly, I’m a little hesitant to pull the verbal trigger. But Atlanta isn’t thought of very highly as a culinary city.  Yes, we’ve had our share of press and features in national publications. We’ve had a few chefs pop through the atmosphere to show up in the New York Times, or make appearances on TV. We have Food & Wine best new chefs, James Beard award winners and there are some nationally recognized restaurants.  Alton Brown even calls the Atlanta area home, I think.  But I’ve traveled a lot lately.  And more often than not, amidst professionals, chefs and foodies, when Atlanta gets mentioned…. well, what you get back is blank stares. Maybe the occasional mention of Seeger’s (still).  And almost always the odd comment, that “I knew a guy who worked at the Ritz Carlton Buckhead.”

Now, I’m going to rip the band-aid off.  We are a medium sized pond. With medium sized fish. And it’s a loose medium! It’s the perception, regardless of personal opinion. It’s cold fact.  It stings, right? (more…)

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It’s the last day of our financial period. Our walk-in shelves are considerably barren, especially for a Saturday with 350 on the books. My sous chef will be working another double and working a station tonight to salvage labor cost a bit. We’ve scrambled around all afternoon, picking up enough provisions to get us through this one night. We are hoping, praying, gambling, that the 34 portions of scallops and halibut will sustain a busy night. But we need to run out, because they won’t be fresh enough to sell Monday after being closed Sunday. And we’ve already calculated that we need to do twelve thousand dollars in food sales to make our numbers.

Although the entire month yields the final result, as in any race, we kick extra hard as we near the finish line. Here’s my Tony Bourdain moment: Want a good time to not go to a restaurant? Try the very last day of their financial month. At around 9pm.

This isn’t what I fell in love with, for sure. I detest it. It’s the only part about what I do that I consider work. And the three days that we wait for the email from the accountant revealing our managerial efforts are sheer agony.
(more…)

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It’s not really even an office. There’s a computer, yes. A swivel chair, sure. But the wall is adorned with clipboards, not university degrees. The desk is littered with small piles of cash and a hundred receipts, not ornate paper weights. The three guys hovering over your shoulder, with their full sleeve tattoos, sporting the delicious stench of garlic and duck fat, aren’t exactly corporate material either. And it’s not office hours. It’s midnight. Honestly, it’s amazing this tiny computer we’re all glaring at hasn’t crashed. Because I’ve hit refresh every five seconds over the last hour.

These are the moments of our lives… At least our restaurant lives.

From the moment a restaurant opens it’s doors, we know it’s coming. The review. That stretch of a few fortnights that will undoubtedly turn a year’s hard work into a dream or a nightmare. It can end in champagne toasts or tears. It can secure people’s jobs. Or it can get people terminated…quickly.

Refresh.

Hopefully, they will give us a few weeks to get going. Perhaps? Will we be able to identify them when they do arrive? (more…)

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ONCE UPON A TIME: Blais has appeared many times in CL’s pages, but this is his first byline.

Almost ten years ago, I remember anxiously awaiting the latest copy of Creative Loafing, with what was to be my first mention in an Atlanta paper. OK, any paper, unless you count my hometown local that had written about how fast I got pinned as a high school wrestler. It would be just a quick mention in CL. The tiniest blurb, but the type of thing that a young chef dreams of. I remember driving to Fellini’s to see if the print edition had been released. After four visits and scouring the distributing cases up and down Peachtree Street with no luck, I finally went back to my apartment.

After midnight, I woke up and went out again. It was easy to bounce up and go because I slept with my clothes on, with my television playing, stuck on the Food Network, and with whatever celebrity chef’s book du jour sprawled out over my chest.

I never got that mention. After all the waiting and anxiety, the blurb just mentioned the name of the restaurant, the owners and, of course, the name of the previous chef. Oh well.

Later that night I headed into work. Very early. Bakers’ hours. I prepared the restaurant for lunch service and set everything up. All the stations. Every sauce strained twice, and every nine pan filled. The grill on. The protein portioned. The menu printed. The side towels neatly folded and anally arranged on every cook’s cutting board. The dishes washed. Breakfast made for the staff. Coffee brewed.

The sun hadn’t even come up yet.

It was a time I remember well. And it’s in that spirit, the one of the hard working, young chef, that I embark on this new adventure, almost 10 years later. (more…)

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