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 About two years ago, I was forwarded a link to a rant on YouTube by one Randy Taylor, dissatisfied Jimmy Dean sausage customer. Sometimes I’m reminded of that irate phone call—which was actually rather hilarious—and the clever images someone added to the soundtrack. If you want to listen and see it for yourself, here is the link, but be advised there is some pretty strong language in there toward the end.
I usually remember the recording under two circumstances: when I’m having a really poor customer service experience, or when I’m making biscuits and gravy. Luckily, I seldom encounter the former, and more unfortunately, I rarely do the latter. Biscuits and gravy isn’t exactly on the regular menu for someone whose prescribed diet consists mostly of lean proteins, fruits, and vegetables, supplemented by a glass or two of wine and a tasty dessert on weekends.
But like Randy Taylor, I am a Southerner, and every now and then, I just need some biscuits and gravy, J and when I prepare this time-honored dish, I have to be in the B&G zone to get the gravy just right, or I end up with grayish wallpaper paste. This morning, the B&G gravy muse was upon me, and I whipped up a batch of whitish-gold, cream gravy the likes of which would have made Mr. Taylor quite pleased.
This was a rare weekend when there is little on my calendar—actually, this weekend was completely unscheduled, and I can’t remember the last time that happened. It was before Christmas, I guess. Today I woke up early, and while my husband slept in, I made coffee and read the paper, waiting for him to rise. In the quiet of the morning, I was content and peaceful, and that’s when the B&G gravy urge came over me. Maybe that’s why they call it “comfort food.”
When Ben got up, I went about the business of sausage gravy-making because it’s best when it’s fresh-made. Here is how I did it.
I used:
6 ounces mild pork sausage
2 tablespoons butter
About 2 cups milk
¼ cup flour
Salt and pepper to taste—and I like a lot of pepper
I melted one tablespoon of the butter in the skillet to facilitate crumbling, and then I cooked the sausage over medium-high heat and broke it into small crumbles. When it was done, I reduced the heat a little and I took out all but about a half cup of sausage and melted one more tablespoon of butter for extra fat. I put a ¼ cup of flour into 1½ cups milk and thoroughly whisked together. (I’m using the leftover sausage in some chili later.) With the heat on medium-low, I slowly stirred the milk-flour mixture into the pan, stirring the whole time. I loosened up the sausage and drippings and kept stirring. The texture was trying to get too thick too quickly—you want it to reduce a bit for optimum flavor—so I slowly added the rest of the milk and stirred and cooked for about five minutes. Then I added salt and pepper.
When it cooked to a perfect, creamy texture, I pulled apart a couple of big, fluffy biscuits and doused them with a dollop of gravy. My husband and I sat down to fresh biscuits and gravy with fried eggs, and all was right with the world.
Sometimes I’ll see where some celebrity chef decides to make “comfort food,” or “down-home cooking,” and they’ll make a batch of “rosemary parmesan biscuits with herb cream sauce,” or some such nonsense like that. We Southern gals say, “To hell with that! That ain’t no biscuits and gravy!” We know that gravy is about sausage, flour, milk, salt, and pepper with a little extra fat added. Just keep it simple!
And I know if Randy Taylor were consulted, he would agree with me.
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 One of my favorite Food Network personalities is Alton Brown, who combines the food sensibilities of Julia Child with the delivery style of Bill Nye, Science Guy. I was lounging in bed last Friday night after a long week when Good Eats came on, and Alton was doing a show about vanilla. It provided a real “Eureka!” moment for me.
The show was hilarious, and I was disappointed that I couldn’t immediately find a link to that particular episode online just now. I did, however, find one of the featured recipes, Fruit Salad with Vanilla Dressing, which is nice—I’d wanted to try that one out.
But what really got me excited about that show is that Alton demonstrated the correct way to glaze the top of crème brulee to get that wonderful, crackly crust. I’d tried various different methods, all of which tasted good but lacked that all-important texture as featured in one of my favorite movies, Amelie.
And truthfully, I’d previously used a cheater recipe that produced a fine-tasting custard, but not necessarily an authentic crème brulee. If I was going to get the crust right, I might as well go for the whole shee-bang and beat the scalded crème into the egg yolks, etc.
I got my cooking mojo on Sunday afternoon, one of my favorite times to go hog-wild in the kitchen. I whipped, scalded, and blended up a batch of beautiful little custard dishes, baked them to just the right consistency, and then left them chilling in the fridge and awaiting their final glory.
When the time came, I sprinkled a fine layer of granulated sugar onto the crème brulee, and just like Alton, I got out my husband’s hand torch, lit it up, and focused on the dead center of the ramekin until the sugar bubbled and turned lightly brown. Then I picked up the dish, and with the flame still going, I turned until the whole surface was covered in a caramelized sugar. One thing Alton wasn’t quite truthful about—the dish DOES get hot, so you have to move fast!
Back into the fridge for five minutes, and then I summoned my family for the moment of truth. Spoons poised, we counted, “One, two, THREE!” and plunged into the crème brulee.
CRRRACKKK! Ahh, so satisfying. Everything was just perfect—the glaze, the creamy custard, and the thrill of victory.
You can’t learn everything you need to know in life from TV. However, you can get closure on your crème brluee.
(And oh, yes… I also learned that vanilla is an orchid. Sweet.)
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On the FIRST attempt, no less…
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 Dallas is full of fabulous restaurants—I’d be hard-pressed to pick a favorite. However, I have to admit that Chamberlain’s Fish Market is now definitely in the top five for me.
One of the reasons is Chef Chamberlain himself, who has to be one of the most personable celebrity chefs in the area. I’d interviewed him about a month ago for a continuing series of articles on Escape Hatch Dallas, and I was struck then by his politeness—he’s a busy guy, but he took his time talking to me, as if I were an A-list journalist.
When my husband and I went to Chamberlain’s Fish Market for our Valentine’s dinner last Saturday, Chef Chamberlain made it a point to come over and say hello. Ben (hubby) was struck by how warmly the Chef welcomed us.
As nice as Chef Chamberlain is, it’s THE FOOD that blows me away. For our main courses, Ben had a filet mignon with truffle béarnaise sauce, and I had crab-stuffed flounder. We also had lobster bisque, tiramisu, and super-rich chocolate cake. It was all exquisitely prepared, perfectly timed, and beautifully presented. Double yum-yum.
Our lead server was delightful—lively and conversational without being intrusive. Without my even noticing, my water glass mysteriously re-filled itself several times. I never reached for the wine bottle on the table because of all the attention, and she was even gracious enough to bag up the half-drunk bottle of the lovely Meomi Pinot Noir.
It was fabulous—definitely not a cheap date, but worth every penny. Now when I want a great surf-and-turf, I’ll have to flip a coin between Chamberlain’s and Pappas Bros—they may be competitors, but in my mind, they are both tops.
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 Ever had someone say something rude to you, and then hours (or days) later, you thought of all the sharp-witted things you could have said in return? It’s not a very adult longing, but I sometimes wish I could step back in time and put “George and Julia” in their place.
My husband and I were on our modest honeymoon in April of 2006 when we encountered George and Julia (their names have been changed to protect the discourteous). We had just met up with Ben’s former college roommate and his wife hours before at a beautiful Napa Valley B&B.
Our friends were incredibly generous—they gifted us our stay at the inn and took us to what should have been a lovely dinner that evening. However, they were also a bit shy about meeting me for the first time, and perhaps to feel more at ease, they invited another couple to dinner to facilitate conversation—at least, I guess that’s what they were thinking. Ben’s friend cautioned us that “George can be a little pretentious.” I think the word he was looking for was “obnoxious,” but that was yet to be determined.
Ben and I were introduced to George and Julia at the restaurant. He was a professor of optometry at a major university, and she was a well-known landscape designer. We sat down, and George presented the impressive bottle of wine they had brought to share at dinner. The restaurant did have a good wine selection (it was Napa Valley, after all), but he probably preferred to pay a corking fee rather than restaurant mark-up on a premium wine. Again, this is an assumption on my part.
The wine was soon opened, and after it was poured, I took a reflective sip and said, “I taste a note of anise—you know, like licorice.”
George promptly rolled his eyes and said, “Oh, it always slays me when people who know nothing about wine say, ‘I taste black cherry,’ or something like that.”
Mind you, I had known this goober for all of 5 minutes, and already he had been pointlessly arrogant and tactless. True, I was just a wine neophyte at the time, and I couldn’t have told you the difference between a Grenache and a Sangiovese. Nevertheless, I was an invited guest and a newlywed, and my mama had raised me to have better manners than George had just exhibited. Ben and I both spent the rest of the dinner looking like deer in the headlights.
There wasn’t much else we could do. When George wasn’t extemporizing about art, science, and philosophy, Julia was endlessly dropping the names of her glamorous clients. They also had a college-age daughter who apparently was a cross between a Rhodes Scholar and a Playboy Playmate, if you believed all the gas they were giving out.
I don’t think the other four of us said more than 10 words the entire THREE hours we sat at that table with those two dreadful bores. I remember that I had lamb that night and that I was wearing a gray cashmere sweater. But what I truly will never forget is the haughtiness and discourtesy exhibited by those two blighted individuals all evening long.
I forgave our friends immediately—they are kind, well-meaning people. They don’t talk much—how were they to know the difference between self-aggrandizing babble and witty patter? Or maybe George and Julia acted differently around strangers in an effort to conceal their own social awkwardness.
Whatever the reason, I’ve never felt so relieved to be rid of anyone’s company as I was when we politely bid George and Julia goodnight—and good riddance. That was the last time we ever laid eyes on them, thank goodness.
That was a long time ago, and I don’t know if it was because of George or in spite of him that I went on to develop a solid knowledge of wine. If I were to sit down with those two people tonight, we would have a very different kind of conversation.
For example, if I could replay the evening, I could wait until they took a bite of food and then launch into a lecture about how the WWWII allies used French wine shipments to track the movements of German troops. Or maybe I’d tell them how Chile had the only Camenere grapes that survived the big phelloxera epidemic. Or perhaps I’d talk about how the Paris Tasting of 1976 really happened, as opposed to the way it was portrayed in the film Bottle Shock.
Then again, if I could do all that, what would that make me? Just another self-important, insensitive snob who insists on showing off to the detriment of everyone else.
I still have much to learn about wine, but even if/when I do possess an encyclopedic knowledge, I don’t think I will blather on and on without encouragement.
About 5 months ago, I was talking with an acquaintance when he said that he and his wife also enjoyed wine. I told him that I’d just drunk some white Burgundy from Macon Villages (pronouncing it correctly as “Ma-kohng Vee-lahzh”). He immediately replied back, “We like that Macon Villages (as in Georgia and Native American settlements).”
To which I responded, “So do I.”
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 Martini fans can (and will) debate at length what makes up the “perfect Martini.” There are many angles on the topic—gin or vodka, olive or twist, dry or dirty, and so on.
I have my own personal preference, and so when I order a Martini, I always ask for it this way: “Very cold and very dry, two olives, Grey Goose (or Stoli).” I like to see that beautiful, glacial-looking glass coming toward me with a light frosting of ice and a couple of olives resting near the bottom. I may be imagining it, but I think I can tell just by looking at my Martini whether or not the bartender nailed it. For a simple drink, there sure seem to be many ways to get it wrong.
While my husband and I enjoy Martinis, we really don’t drink them very often. I usually have the stuff at home to make them, but in spite my exacting instructions for bartenders, I fail to impress myself with my own spin on the Martini. And the darned things are so strong, you have to have a whole plan for dealing with the situation after you drink one at a bar or restaurant. So maybe, in addition to how it tastes, the perfect Martini is defined by the surrounding circumstances–everything has to be just right.
Last Saturday, my husband and I achieved that perfect alignment of situation and opportunity. We took care of some errands and other business that morning, but after our workout, we found ourselves relaxing in the hot tub at the gym, talking about how one year ago we planned a Valentine’s ski trip in that same spa.
Afterwards, we showered, dressed, and made plans to see a movie. But first, we wanted to grab a bite to eat at someplace nice yet within budget—we have travel and other expenses in the pipeline–and I knew just the place.
We headed south on the Dallas Tollway to Macguire’s and as we walked toward the door, I thought/said, “Martini!” Ben was immediately on board with the idea.
It had been a while since we went to Macguire’s. I’ve always liked their elegant, wood-paneled bar with its contemporary furnishings and muted lighting. They have a good selection of appetizers, including wonderful beef crostini, and we so we planned to enjoy a couple of appetizers with a Caesar salad—and not feel ridiculously extravagant.
We ordered our Martinis to our specifications, and as soon as the bartender brought our cocktails, I could sense they were just perfect, and my premonition proved accurate at first sip. My drink was wickedly cold and deliciously dry with just one gigantic olive bobbing around the bottom.
Ben and I traded stories over our Martinis and laughed like a couple in the early stages of their romance, rather than a married couple of four years with teenagers and full-time jobs. The rest of the evening was just as pleasant.
There is something slightly glamorous and reckless about a Martini. Maybe that’s why we just seemed to drop all the cares of the day and live for the moment there at the bar. Life just seemed… a little lighter and brighter all of a sudden.
So, based on my recent experience, I maintain that the perfect Martini isn’t just about the liquor, the blending, and the temperature. It’s also about how you feel about where you are and who is with you. When you mix it all together, you get perfection.
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 After interviewing Chef Richard Chamberlain for EscapeHatchDallas about Cotes du Coeur, I was inspired to buy the cookbook he co-authored with Betsy Hornick, entitled The Healthy Beef Cookbook. Last Sunday I tried his recipe for Tenderloin Steaks with Expresso Bourbon Sauce, and my whole family agreed it was tres magnifique!
(I’ll issue a quick disclaimer here: yes, I’ve been apprised of the effects of the cattle industry on the environment. Yes, I know that some ill health effects have been attributed to red meat. However, it’s likely I’ll continue to enjoy the occasional steak, even as I look for more ways to decrease my carbon footprint, eat lots of organic vegetables, and work out 4 times a week. I’m from West Texas, folks. I cut my teeth on T-bone. My great grandfather died on a cattle drive. You might say it’s just in my blood.)
Ben and I played hooky from church on Sunday morning, and after enjoying breakfast at one of our favorite diners, we set about the weekly grocery shopping. I had my ingredients list in hand, and since I already had some Maker’s Mark Bourbon, I figured it would be easy to round up the rest of the necessary items—none of them were particularly exotic. Mainly, I was concerned with getting the best possible cut of meat to do the recipe justice.
We were able to find some beautiful tenderloin steaks—just the right amount of thickness. But getting the other ingredients together for the Expresso Bourbon Sauce was a little more challenging that I would have predicted. We needed instant powdered expresso. We tried Tom Thumb, and then we tried the Kroger Signature store. Finally, we decided Whole Foods was bound to have it, and so we made the 20-minute trek, and there we found the much-hunted powdered expresso at last. Of course, I should have known!
The scavenger hunt was so worth it. Although they probably didn’t need it, I treated the tenderloin steaks with tenderizer, I let them come to room temperature, and I brushed them with a little olive oil before I put them on the medium-hot grill. I cooked them about 7 minutes on each side, turning only once. They were almost buttery soft.
And the sauce… dark, slightly sweet, smoky, and rich. Mmmmm. We were all dragging our rolls across the plate to get the last taste. (I also served the tenderloin with some homemade scalloped potatoes and asparagus.)
I will share the Chef’s recipe here, but if you’re left wanting more, you need to get a copy of the book—it’s available on Amazon. Or visit one of his beautiful restaurants here in Dallas: Chamberlain’s Steak and Chop House and Chamberlain’s Fish Market Grill.
Chef Chamberlain’s Tenderloin Steaks with Expresso Bourbon Sauce
4 beef tenderloin steaks, cut 1 inch thick (about 4 ounces each)
2 to 4 teaspoons coarsely cracked black pepper
Espresso-Bourbon Sauce:
1/4 cup bourbon
1/4 cup maple syrup
1/4 cup reduced sodium soy sauce
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
2 teaspoons instant espresso coffee powder
1/8 teaspoon black pepper
Combine all sauce ingredients, except pepper, in small saucepan; bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer, uncovered 12 to 15 minutes or until sauce is thickened and reduced by about half, stirring occasionally. Stir in pepper. Keep warm.
Meanwhile press coarsely cracked pepper on both sides of beef steak. Place steaks on grid over medium, ash-covered coals. Grill, uncovered, 13 to 15 minutes for medium rare, turning once, or 13-16 minutes for medium.
Evenly divide sauce onto 4 plates. Place steak on top of sauce. Enjoy!
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 Student Chefs, Art Institute of Dallas Lisa Madame Librarian over at the Art Institute of Dallas turned me on to the restaurant at the culinary school. I’m happy to announce that Pegasus News published my little piece about it.
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 You just never know who is going to love to cook. A case in point is our friend Lynn Seaton, jazz musician extraordinaire and music teacher at the University of North Texas. You may know him as a world-class bass player that has played with the likes of Count Basie’s orchestra, but last Sunday I got a glimpse of another side of him.
“If I were anything other than a musician, I’d be a chef,” Lynn said. Well, shuck my corn! I had no idea.
We were both out in the lobby before church, and his son Aubrey was in his usual spot fund-raising for his class’s trip to Boston this summer. I was munching on a cranberry muffin made by his wife Marianna, who I already knew to be a good cook.
This led to a discussion about cranberries, and I said that I liked them in salads. I noticed that Lynn was instantly interested—fresh cranberries, he wanted to know? I said no, dried ones, along with some crumbled goat cheese, sliced Asian pear, toasted walnuts, and raspberry vinaigrette. That’s when he told me that he’s into cooking.
I asked him about his specialties, and he said Chinese and barbeque, and lately, he’s been experimenting with Indian. As someone who has struggled with the nuances of the Asian spice palette, I was impressed.
I confessed my lack of Indian food know-how, and he told me that basically all the spices that start with “C” are used in Indian dishes: curry, cumin, cinnamon, coriander, cayenne, and so on. He’s a fan of Madhur Jaffrey, whom the New York Times calls “the Indian cuisine authority.” I need to check her out. He also likes Alton Brown’s show, Good Eats, on the Food Network.
Unfortunately, the service was starting, and we ran out of time before I could pump him for barbeque tips, but I could just tell by the way his face lit up that the man knows his stuff.
It was the second time in a week that I made the music-food connection (see earlier post on New Orleans), and I’m starting to wonder what it is about each art form that draws them together. Maybe it’s that eating and music are both activities that are best when shared. I toss it back to you all—what do you think?
Meanwhile, don’t forget that Lynn’s band, Corner Pocket, is giving a concert this Saturday, January 23 at Horizon UU Church in Carrollton. Show starts at 7:30 pm, and tickets are only $10. I can’t help but hope that Lynn or Marianna will have some of their home-cooked “good eats” for purchase at the refreshment counter, but I’ll be fine with just the fabulous jazz. They’ll have their hands full enough, putting on the concert.
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Wine, food, and music—I challenge anyone to come up with a better combination than that. Even that unlikely party animal, Martin Luther, is quoted as having said, ““Who loves not wine, women and song, remains a fool his whole life long.”
Brother Martin is a controversial figure, and I heartily disagree with him on many points, especially his anti-Semitism (despicable). However, when it comes to the wine and song premise, I think he was on to something. I’ve touched on that quote before.
I’m trying to think what the peak music/food/wine experience might resemble—flamenco, tapas, and Garnacha in Barcelona? Dom Perignon and handmade chocolates at the Vienna opera? I’ve not had the privilege of those experiences (I hope I will someday), and so for now, I’ll lay claim to the New Orleans Jazz Festival. And, as of yesterday, my cup runneth over! The festival organizers have announced the headliner for Weekend One, and it is none other than Simon and Garfunkel!
Ben and I had already made plans to go to N’awlins for the first weekend of Jazz Fest before the announcement was made. I’ve been four times, but the last time was in 2003 before I met my husband. There’s been a lot of water under the bridge since then, both literally and figuratively, and we have yet to go together. He’s heard me rave about how amazing it is, and finally he just said, “Why don’t we go?” I was all over that idea like sunburn on a redheaded Scotsman!
My friend Marianne always goes the second weekend, but it tends to be just a little more crowded, and for me personally, 100,000 or so sweaty bodies are plenty of company. Therefore, I have always gone the first weekend. It’s also easier to get reservations at one of the top restaurants—and there are beaucoups. Many of the most famous celebrity chefs, including Emeril Lagasse and Paul Prudhomme, first made a name for themselves in New Orleans.
Two weeks ago, I looked up the schedule for Weekend One, and I was surprised that the slot for the headliner said, “TBD.” Hmmm, usually they have announced the headliner by early January. What if it was going to be some really lame act, like R.E.O Speedwagon? Unlikely, but possible. Although I had questions, the seats on Southwest were already filling up, and if I didn’t make reservations soon, we’d miss out. So, I went ahead with reservations, including a phone call to my favorite NO host, Randy Griest of Anabelle’s House B&B.
I checked back yesterday to see if the headliner was posted yet—sure enough, right there in big bold letters, it said, “Simon and Garfunkel.” Wahoo! That information might not send you straight through the stratosphere, but Simon, Garfunkel, and I go waaaaay back. I’m talking about the 60’s, when I was just a pre-schooler trying to sing along with “At the Zoo.” I own a 4-CD discography of Simon and Garfunkel, and I have most of Paul Simon’s solo albums. I last saw him during the Graceland tour when Ladysmith Black Mambazo joined him onstage for “Diamonds on the Soles of her Shoes.” It was amazing!
I’m now poised for a weekend that could approach the peak wine/food/music experience. Randy says the Crescent City has come back to a great extent, and the joie d’vrie that I so love about it is still alive and kicking. The restaurants are busy, and the Quarter is wild as ever.
I get wound up thinking about all the awesome music, everything from Dixieland to Zydeco. Even the festival food is like none other—it’s not your plain old turkey legs and funnel cakes. There’s jambalya, crawfish poboys, mufalettas, and gelato. Smothered chicken, etoufee, and pralines. And it’s all washed down with cold lemonade, Hurricanes, or Blackened Voodoo beer. You just have to be sure to drink lots of water, too, because it is darned HOT outside, and you sweat buckets.
I’m so fortunate to look forward to such a fun trip, and I’m extraordinarily lucky to have such a wonderful life. Every day, the evening news reminds me that even on my worst day, I have it better than three-fourths of the world.
I guess I could feel slightly guilty (and I do), despite all the work I’ve done over the last year for causes ranging from human rights to animal welfare. On the other hand, if ever a city needed tourism dollars to continue the rebuilding process, it’s New Orleans. So I guess I can think of our wonderful Jazz Fest 2010 trip as part entertainment, part contribution to the revitalization of a truly great American icon.
Such rationalization is a stretch, I know. I guess I’ll call on Mark Twain to back me up: “Whoever is happy will make others happy, too.”
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About two years ago, I was forwarded a link to a rant on YouTube by one Randy Taylor, dissatisfied Jimmy Dean sausage customer. Sometimes I’m reminded of that irate phone call—which was actually rather hilarious—and the clever images someone added to the soundtrack. If you want to listen and see it for yourself, here is the link, but be advised there is some pretty strong language in there toward the end.
