Sep. 25th, 2006 09:31 am
I'll never be your Top Chef
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muckefuckBefore I left for the shore, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
monshu instructed me to bring back some meat for dinner. Remembering the big bag of walnut meats he had handy, I was inspired to pick up a chicken breast (what can I say? None of the pork looked good) with the intention of crusting it and finishing it in the oven. It would be something a little different while still complying to the strictures of South Beach.
Alas, I didn't know what I was doing. The untoasted nuts ground down to a fine powder that came out like a paste; it didn't so much "crust" as "smear".monshu had suggested brushing the breast filets with pomegranate molasses to make them sticky, but I was afraid they'd stick to nothing so much as the pan and brought out the white flour after all. Most of the nut meal ended up stranded in the pan, so we deglazed with wine, poached the breasts in the oven, and then reduced the liquid to a glaze. By no means a disaster, but nothing like my original vision either.
Meanwhile, he was watching Bravo, which was endlessly promoting the new season of Top Chef. Between Frankie the Bull and the return of Tom Colicchio, I didn't see how I could pass on this, trash television or no, but I've resolved to be strong and boycott it. Looking over the chef bios, I see that--just like last time--absolutely everyone is from (1) California, (2) Vegas, or (3) NYC. Y'know, we may not have the French Laundry or Le Cirque out here, but a town with Alinea, Tru, and Charlie Trotter's can hardly be called a culinary wasteland. Too cheap to do a casting call in Chicago, Bravo? Then fuck you people.
monshu instructed me to bring back some meat for dinner. Remembering the big bag of walnut meats he had handy, I was inspired to pick up a chicken breast (what can I say? None of the pork looked good) with the intention of crusting it and finishing it in the oven. It would be something a little different while still complying to the strictures of South Beach.Alas, I didn't know what I was doing. The untoasted nuts ground down to a fine powder that came out like a paste; it didn't so much "crust" as "smear".
monshu had suggested brushing the breast filets with pomegranate molasses to make them sticky, but I was afraid they'd stick to nothing so much as the pan and brought out the white flour after all. Most of the nut meal ended up stranded in the pan, so we deglazed with wine, poached the breasts in the oven, and then reduced the liquid to a glaze. By no means a disaster, but nothing like my original vision either.Meanwhile, he was watching Bravo, which was endlessly promoting the new season of Top Chef. Between Frankie the Bull and the return of Tom Colicchio, I didn't see how I could pass on this, trash television or no, but I've resolved to be strong and boycott it. Looking over the chef bios, I see that--just like last time--absolutely everyone is from (1) California, (2) Vegas, or (3) NYC. Y'know, we may not have the French Laundry or Le Cirque out here, but a town with Alinea, Tru, and Charlie Trotter's can hardly be called a culinary wasteland. Too cheap to do a casting call in Chicago, Bravo? Then fuck you people.
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