Duck Fries

Scotty was in town for a friend's sake, and we managed to cram in brunch between the serious business of his visit.  Traveling down Elmwood Avenue offers lots of choices for food, and usually is discussed while walking and perusing the menus posted by the cafes and restaurants.  The cold rain prevented this regular method of research, and so we drove slowly by several places, craning necks to see if they were open or packed to the gills with college graduation families.

The immediate neighborhood was overflowing with parents and adult children, a few in cap and gowns, beaming, roaring for plates of food to restore the strength used in the champion effort necessary to fulfill grueling coursework.  Well deserved, well done.  Scott and I headed then downtown, knowing that a certain establishment would have room and a decent menu, when signage that yelled BRUNCH snagged our vision.  The restaurant was once a bar, redone very nicely and maybe a bit pricey but it was what I hoped for; I wanted a bit of graduate celebration myself, as I had skipped out on yesterday's ceremony.

The list of food was fascinating, simple, and not exotic in the least.  Do not mishmosh ingredients together and congratulate the kitchen on being edgy, that sort of thing scares the cat and ruins good components.  There were different ideas, but this menu kept food in it's proper place, as an accompaniment to conversation and table chat.  No weird contortions or combinations, and no sauces were plopped out of a squirt bottle in abstract design around the edge of the plate.

I need to say: few professional kitchen habits irritate me as much as does the dolloping miniscule amounts of a good sauce around a plate in dots or crisscrosses.  I don't want art, amusement, or that word that I hate the most, whimsy.  You are giving me freaking whimsy on a plate when you scribble a decent sauce out of a squirt bottle.  I want a puddle, a short ladleful to dip into without it drying like Elmer's glue; make it unctuous, more mass keeps the temperature longer and I don't have to chase around the plate for an apostrophe of Bernaise.

I have worked in many kitchens, and most of them reconstitute those little yellow envelopes of dried base just like you can buy at the supermarket.   Sauces from scratch are temperamental and can curdle at the drop of a napkin, they are notoriously tricky to maintain in a steam table, will change texture by evening's end, and therefore are not conducive to proper restaurant work.  Packaged mixes are mostly necessary since they can be remade in a rush.  The point is, you haven't slaved over the thing, there's more in the pantry, so for heaven's sake find the right size ladle and nap the entree properly.  Done.  Even if made from scratch, be kind to the customer and let them marvel at the velvety glistening of butter solids suspended in warmed milk or cream, wine, beef essence, aged cheeses, lovely structures of fish bones, celery or onion.  Have mercy, go home and paint dots on canvas if so inclined.

Scott enjoyed a well-made plate of Eggs Benedict where one could see the eggs were really poached in a pan of swirling water, and I opted for a slice of quiche made with steak and mushrooms which was quite good, with the steak somehow being a sort of medium rare.  Following our waitress's suggestion, a plate of Duck Fries were brought to table and declared delicious.  A curiosity at first, they are merely cut potatoes first fried in duck oil, then tossed in a bit of truffled oil; lord knows a duck certainly is loaded with fat, here is a good use.  You could taste both the luxury of duck and earthy truffle, neither so overbearing to be the focus, but simply a pleasantry.

It was lovely, a treat, and refueled the brain cells used in deep thought over these past academic years.  Thank heavens it is over, or, wait: why did I find myself digging through the college catalogue for a summer course, and looking for what entails a Fine Arts degree?  Ach, so it goes.

Tonight is blessedly cool, and the rains have finally let go of their all day soiree.  Gray clouds scutter low across the sky, the moon and stars will have to circle above, out of sight.  For some reason, I arose at 5:30 this morning, and am feeling a bit gelatinous in the cerebellum at the current evening hour.  Perhaps a sauce made of pillow and blanket will remedy this, and turning in will be agreeable.  Tuck under covers. recount your accomplishments, you have done well and moved forward.  Good night, dreamer.