ph: Getting Floored

A portion of the floor filled with putty.

project hampden continues with floor work. The original hardwook oak floors are just gorgeous and it seems such a waste to cover them with any kind of flooring that I'm attempting to fill in the gaps between boards with stainable wood putty. Food service environments require washable floors and I'm hoping that a filled-in wood floor with heavy coats of polyurethane will be satisfactory for our inspector.

There's nothing like sitting/lying on the floor filling in gaps in the floor. It's slow and painstaking work. I haven't quite decided if I'm enjoying it, but maybe.

The back room's floors were painted white years ago and Spike had the great idea of sanding it down until it looked translucent and then sealing it. Good idea. Putty today, sanding starts next week.

A Weekend BBQ

This weekend is BBQ, but not the American, slow-cooked BBQ you're used to. This time it's Philippine style pork BBQ, Korean style Kalbi ribs and Caribbean-style chicken at the Baltimore International Festival this Saturday being held at Poly-Western High School.

Along with teams of BBQ competitors, there will be over 60 vendors and 40 futbol (soccer) games with teams representing a wide-variety of countries.

And yours truly will be the head judge for the BBQ competition, along with Karen Parks (FOX45 Weekend Anchor, Jessica Starr (Fox45 Meterologist), Spike Gjerde (Chef, Woodberry Kitchen), Sam Holmes (Pitmaster, OnoGrill), and Sony Florendo (local restauranteur and cookbook writer)

Click here for Baltimore Sun article.

ph: Do The Demolition

Tunes for the boombox.

Luckily, there's not too much demolition to do in the new project hampden space, mainly a partition wall. In order to do this, I've brought along my trusty Panasonic boombox cassette deck.

Yes, cassette tape. That old trusty servant from days past that archived happy times, sad times and everything in-between with various mix tapes of music and straight recordings of vinyl albums. All the tapes above are circa 1987 and a glimpse back to a time before iTunes and the quick ease of burning a CD.

In fact, burning a CD just isn't the same. Sure, you're selecting some tunes to give to your friend (or hopeful girlfriend), but the act of creating a mix tape was serious commitment. While a 45 minute CD takes just minutes to assemble and burn, a ninety minute mix tape took nearly two hours. Two hours of selecting the tunes, setting up the turntable, adjusting the levels and then recording the songs real time one by one. A cassette tape was a Labor of Love and I've always found it nigh impossible to throw my old collection away - especially with such classics as Xymox and Strawberry Switchblade on offer.

For the day's demolition, I just grabbed a handful of cassettes from a box in the garage. Ah, nostalgia. To be young again and fighting the world...


I want to tear down the walls that hold me inside.

ph: For The Love of Wainscoting

Dad does detail work on the wainscoting.

For whatever reason, I've been/become a fan of wainscoting. It's ultra-traditional and very white (two things I'm not) and I'm just fascinated by it. It's formal and fanciful. Unique yet common. And I found it quite therapeutic to install.

By no means am I a skilled builder. I build because I'm cheap. Because I'm the owner and when things need to get done, the buck stops here. So, regardless of experience or skill, with saw in hand I go. For me, it's the details that make the difference and I sat there and pondered how to finish the raw end of chair railing - finally settling on a detail that I'm quite excited about. It's a detail that's surely elementary to an experienced carpenter, but for me it's wildly exciting. When you visit, I'll point it out to you.

In all truth, it's a very small detail in the space and a detail that I expect most people won't notice or pay attention to. But it's there for those people that are looking at the details. Of course, I'm hoping that these same people won't notice some of the other details where my inexperience rears its' ugly head...

Luckily, Dad came a calling to offer his help. I may be one who tries to think about the details but my father is the one who knows how to execute the details - in excruciatingly detailed detail. While my caulk work is decent, his is smooth and beautiful. Sure, it's something that will be covered by paint but the caulk work is just brilliant and I'm super-excited about it.

More to follow.

The Old Barista and The Sea

Alexandra and Daniela no worse for wear.


When we die, we die alone.

The notion of dying is a lonely thought. Sure, different cultures and religions believe in afterlife or reincarnation or simple obliteration, but we really don't know. We can believe, but we'll never know for sure until that moment eventually arrives for us all.

I never thought too much about it, but I imagine death being a lonely place, and as Duncan and I floated off the coast of Florida in the Gulf of Mexico, swallowed up by a squall, trying to tread water in two foot chop with zero visibility and completely fatigued, I felt very lonely indeed. Scared, lonely and not quite ready to die.

Just a few moments before things had been going swimmingly. We were in the warm waters of the Gulf diving for bay scallops. The sun was out, the water felt cool and we were amongst friends. The ride out to the coast that morning had been through a storm front but we were assured that it has passed. Our skiff was loaded with snacks, snorkel gear and even in the face of questionable fishing, we were hopeful for a large bounty of scallops for that nights' larder. How many ways could one prepare and consume scallops? We were intending to find out.

I found diving for scallops to be about as frustrating as spear fishing for octupus off the coast of O'ahu. You can swim and swim and swim without seeing anything, until someone shows you what to look for then, suddenly, they're everywhere! Once Anthony had pointed out what I should be looking for, I started seeing them hidden amongst the sea grass. These weren't the large sea scallops most people think about, these were smaller scallops that produced muscle meat the size of your thumb.

Bay scallops are tasty, but not as sweet as their larger cousins. Regardless of the size, they were plentiful and the five of us were grabbing as much as we could. In a matter of minutes, my hands were full and I realized that I really needed my mesh bag that I had left back on the boat. No problem, it's only about twenty yards away.

That morning we had set out from Gainesville down to the Steinhatchee River where we rented a skiff to take us out to sea. As Anthony cleared the Steinhatchee channel and started to open her up, the girls were still sitting on the bow as the boat started to skip across the swells. Along for the adventure were Alexandra and Daniela, baristas at Anthony's Volta Coffee and Tea, and their friend Duncan who's manager at the local bike shop.

I have always been a sailor, but this year it seems I've been doing a lot of power boating. And while I very much enjoy the thrill of heeling the boat over until the rail starts to tuck into the water, there's something alluring about throttling forward in a power boat at high speed, seemingly daring the sea to break your hull as you crash from swell to swell.

Eager to collect as many scallops as humanly possible (or permissible by law), I started paddling towards our boat. Twenty yards, and a couple more scallops, and I expected to be near the boat. As I looked up from the water, the boat was still twenty yards away. Crickey, what's up with that? Oh well, keep paddling. After another twenty yards or so, I looked up again to find the boat the same distance away. WTF?

After a couple more twenty yard distances with no achievement, I started to get really irritated. Was the boat pinwheeling on the anchor and I'm just chasing after it in circles? Maybe. I decided to paddle faster and harder.

Admittedly, I'm no svelte man, so it's probably ill-advised to be paddling as hard and as fast as I was, but the boat wasn't getting any closer. Now, I've lived in Hawaii and spent numerous times there snorkeling around the islands. I'm no novice, but I would never say that I'm experienced either.

The harder I paddled, the harder I started to breathe. Not only was I breathing harder but also faster. So fast that I started to think that I might start hyperventilating and maybe I should slow down. It was about this time that it started to rain. Nothing to worry about, just a light drizzle. Maybe if I was dry and on shore, I would run for cover but I'm in the water - I can't get any wetter. But I was starting to feel a little tired.

Off to my right, I spotted Daniela swimming for the boat. She was passing me as it started to rain harder. She looked a little worried but since she was swimming better than me, I didn't bother to bother her. She'll make it back to the boat, I thought.

It was right about then that fatigue really started to lay into me. Had the waters been calm, I would have just rested and floated there but the squall was now a dark wall on our near horizon and the light swells turned into two foot chop, washing overhead as I was trying to get my bearings.

By this point, I had stopped pursuing the boat and was trying to tread water in position to calm down and regain my strength. The boat was rapidly floating away from me and visibility started to worsen as the squall set in over us. Crap.

I had been unsuccessful in slowing down my breathing and started forcing myself to take large, deep breaths in an effort to calm and control myself. I was getting worried. Screw that, I knew I was/could be on the verge of panic. I tried to keep my eyes on our rapidly disappearing boat.

Many thoughts race through your mind at times like this. Mine came at me in a blur. The thought of drowning/dying. The knowledge the I would make it: guaranteed. The deeper knowledge that knew that that was all bravado. Maybe I should never have gone on this trip. I hate deep water swimming. It all came at a rush and as the rain and fog started to obscure my vision, and the chop kept pounding over my head, I knew that I was in deep trouble.

I wanted to call out. I wanted to scream for help. I wanted someone to rescue me. This really sucks. I quickly reflected back on my life and on the times that I got away without killing myself and thought how much it would suck if I drowned here today. Alone, in the Gulf of Mexico: dead. I was on the verge.

The terror of panic started to grip me and I had to fight it back. If I gave in, I would be finished. Breathe deep. Breathe slowly. Don't think too much. Don't panic. Focus. As I fought back the urge to panic, in the back of my mind, I couldn't help thinking that this was going to be it: The End. I would die here. At sea. And be shipped home in a box. I would never get to know my niece/nephew who is scheduled to be born in December. It would just be me: the dead uncle. Killed at sea while diving for scallops.

In many ways, survival is a mental struggle. Lose the mental struggle, give in to panic and die. Not pretty. I didn't want to go out like that, but the truth is, I probably wouldn't have lasted much longer. I probably would have lost the mental struggle. I was right on the edge and about to fall off.

I'm not a very good Catholic. In fact, I'm a terrible Catholic. And I'm just a bad Christian in general. But I think I prayed a little in those moments, hoping that God would not abandon me (or perhaps bring me up for roll call). Some will think it's just coincidence, but maybe it was Divine Intervention that had Duncan swimming for the boat right past me at that moment.

He was about five yards away when he called over to me asking if I was okay.

Sadly, I'm afflicted with the male predisposition to pretend that everything is okay. That I'm a man and, therefore, in control of things. My first reaction, in spite of the fact that I was on the verge of panic and dying, was to tell him that I was okay and continue treading water in the hopes of making it. If I said that and Duncan kept going, I would drown soon after. I literally forced myself to call him over and tell him that I wasn't okay, that I was on the verge of panicking and would he stay with me while I struggled to calm down and regain my composure.

Duncan saved my life that day.

The guy stayed with me and let me hang on to him while we rode out the storm. It got worse. As the storm worsened, we lost all visibility. I lost all orientation. In the pouring rain, we were all alone. Alone at sea. As we floated there together, surrounded by nothingness, I started to think that we might die anyway. All that struggling to maintain sanity would be for nothing. We would be lost at sea and die.

Then, we saw a boat in the distance through the rain and haze. It was searching for their people. We waved. We called out. They couldn't hear us or see us and kept going, disappearing into the haze.


What could have turned out to be Blood Scallops...

As the boat disappeared, I had regained most of my composure, but knew that that could have been out last chance. We might die out here afterall. I didn't know how it would happen to us, but I decided that I would meet our demise stoic-ly. If death was going to come for us, I wasn't going to cry. I was going to try as best as I could to meet death head-on, without regret.

It was about then that Anthony had called out, responding to our calls to the boat. He had been floating and riding out the storm when he heard our calls and decided to seek us out.

One thing to know about this guy is that he's an experienced cave diver who's been in some harrowing and life-threatening events. Evidently for someone with his experience, this squall was nothing in particular. I guess when you've survived being lost at sea, in the water, for four hours, 70 miles offshore, our life-threatening storm is easy peasy.

As the storm subsided, visibility returned for us to see two boats heading towards us. Alexandra had called a nearby boat and asked someone to come aboard to pilot the boat and rescue us, and Daniela had been plucked out of the water by another boat and both boats were heading in our general location.


Something raw, something happy.

Back onboard, our crew looked a bit worse for wear. After I had seen her, Daniela lost a fin then decided to jettison her remaining fin, got caught up in the storm and lost her mask in the process before being rescued by the other crew. She looked shaken but not stirred.

Alexandra on the other hand, was completely blue. She was the lucky one who decided not to swim far from the boat and got back in before the storm hit. Three of her friends had been recently killed, the most recent due to a body boarding accident. I can't imagine her horror watching the four people she came out with slowly disappearing and being swallowed by the storm.

Armchair quarterbacking always reveals the little problems that combine into a force that threatens to kill you. Several things happened that day, but the one event that nearly did us in was the boat. Like I said above, the boat never seemed to get closer, not matter how much I swam towards it. I was wrong, the boat wasn't pinwheeling on the anchor. The anchor had pulled out of the seabed and the boat was being dragged with the current at 4 knots - meaning that no matter how fast I was swimming, I would never catch the boat. Doomed from the start.

In the end, all of us made it back alive. A bit scratched and beaten, but we lived. Sadly, our catch for the day was small. The scallops I had been holding, I jettisoned in the interest of staying alive, though as I reflect back on it now, it would have been just as easy to have given my scallops to Duncan (who was holding a mesh bag). That night, we shared a bowl of bay scallops in a light cream sauce over truffled pasta at Volta Coffee to celebrate our friendship.


A taste of glory: Bay scallops in a cream sauce on truffle pasta.

When Going Large Is Not Better

I don't know why I do it, but I do.

Every day (or most days), as part of my daily reading, I peruse the blog of Elizabeth Large, the restaurant critic for the once-venerable Baltimore Sun, and each day I reel in pain wondering why I subject myself to what is the literary equivalent of dragging a shiv across my neck. You would think that the critic for Baltimore's paper of record could reach no lower, yet every day, she manages to stupend and amaze with mediocrity even more mediocre than the day before (bet you didn't know that was possible).

For the record, I've been banned by Elizabeth Large from commenting on her blog. She long ago tired of my constant criticism of her lack of discretion and standards and stopped approving my comments. I mean, what better way to live ensconced in your own mediocrity when there's no one to critique you?

A couple of weeks ago, the level of mediocrity was even noted by CapitolSwell on his blog, where he writes:

"A good food critic can remind people of what is amazing about a city. It expresses who we are as a people. A good food critic can elevate a great city like Baltimore unto a whole new level."

Read Elizabeth Large's blog and your constantly reminded of the mediocrity that this city has to offer. Cheap "top ten" lists of places she hasn't visited that are written "just because" and a never-ending stream of posts that demonstrate that Large has very little concept of food or cuisine. I mean, any critic that perjoratively states that a restaurants' kale soup "...tastes, well, like kale" is just beyond credibility.

But why am I ranting about this today - when I've been trying to be nice for the past couple of months? When these public criticisms of Large will only guarantee that my shops or restaurants are slaughtered on the day she decides to write about them? Because CapitolSwell is right. It is the restaurant critic that upholds the standard for a city. If the critic of record has low standards and champions them, then the restaurants of Baltimore falter because they know that they don't have to strive for very much to receive a favorable review.

In today's blog entry, Large writes:

" Once, a positive or negative review from the critic of the city's main newspaper would have made a huge difference. My reviews were prominently placed in the Sun's Sunday magazine. They were a must read if you loved going out to dinner because there weren't many other places where you could read about local restaurants in town.

Now we have, to mention just a few other places to find reviews, Baltimore magazine, the City Paper, Zagat, Yelp, Urban Spoon, City Search, MetroMix, and many local bloggers. People may like to read what I have to say about a restaurant, but they certainly aren't going to spend their hard-earned dollars (or not) on just my word anymore.

That's a relief to me. If anyone thinks I enjoy eating a bad meal or writing something that hurts the feelings -- or the business -- of people who are trying to run a restaurant the best they can, he or she is very much mistaken."

Maybe I'm just a bit strange, but I always thought competition (like Baltimore Magazine, Zagat, Yelp and Chowhound) made you work harder and strive better. I always thought the idea was to demonstrate why you're better than the competition. But the critic for Baltimore's paper of record thinks it's a "relief" that the readership isn't "going to spend their hard-earned dollars (or not)" on her word anymore? Am I in some sort of messed up culinary twilight zone???

Today, Elizabeth Large's reviews are no longer placed in a position of prominence, it's no longer a "must read" - and yet, somehow, she's thinks this is okay. It doesn't dawn on her that perhaps her reviews no longer have an impact, not because of the emergence of Chowhound and UrbanSpoon, but because the readership has come to realize that Elizabeth Large has no standards and proudly parades that fact daily on her blog. She doesn't realize that her position has lost its' prominence because of her own fault.

Critics like Tom Sietsema (Washington Post) and Frank Bruni (New York Times) are feared and respected because they have standards. Standards that they aren't afraid to hold anyone and everyone accountable. The emergence of Internet sources hasn't diminished the power and respect of the Washington Post and New York Times reviews, yet Elizabeth Large claims that it's the reason why her words no longer have prominence - total baloney.

Talk to chefs and restauranteurs in New York City and there's the very real concern that Bruni (et al) will not find their establishment up to par. The reviewer for the New York Times is feared and respected. Mention Elizabeth Large to chefs and restauranteurs in Baltimore and you hear ridicule and derision - even the cook slinging thighs doesn't think Elizabeth Large is credible enough to review Kentucky Fried Chicken.

I hear from many people that Baltimore doesn't have the food scene that Washington D.C. has but few people consider that much of the reason we're swimming in a sea of mediocrity and Applebee's is because of The Baltimore Sun's food critic, Elizabeth Large.

Three Rules for Young Men

My friend's son is sixteen years old. His mom tells me about a photo she has of me in their photo album holding their infant son sixteen years ago. Amazing. It seems like yesterday.

My friend and his family are visiting for the holiday weekend and it was just myself, my friend, his son and our other friend driving and taking care of things around town. The wives and girls were off doing other things (like shopping).

He's sixteen and fully aware of how things are in the world. Girls, drinking, drugs, sex - he's fed a continuous stream of this diet through media, the Internet and his peer group. As it was when I was that age, there's little to discuss that he hasn't already heard about from his friends at school. About the only advice that "The Bad Uncle" like me can offer is suggestions on approach and technique.

Amongst the guys, we're just a dirty group. It's guy talk and all of us (save for the kid) have been around the block (so to speak) a bit and there's very little use in pretending so it's a straight-up "have you had sex yet?" kind of questions - both he (and his mom) assure us that he has not (yet).

Listen to the kid speak about the kinds of parties they have nowadays where it seems as though blowjobs are doled out as a form of greeting, Three Rules emerged from his suddenly wise father:

1. Don't get drunk.

2. Don't do drugs.

3. Don't give blowjobs.

Three simple rules for young men to live by...

Cranky Wallpaper

Today was the day. I was finally doing it.

The NCR Trail is a relatively level gravel bed trail built on the former North Central Railroad line running over 20 miles through northern Baltimore County into Pennsylvania. After much delay, I finally rolled my trusty Univega onto the path and started pedaling my way towards the Pennsylvania border (okay, I wasn't going to do the 40 mile roundtrip but rather the six mile roundtrip to the first road crossing). Whatever the case may be, I was getting my fat ass on the bike and on the trail.

The morning was beautifully sunny and a cool 73F. With the wind in my face, I greeted fellow cyclists and trail joggers with a hearty Bonjour! signaling all was well in the world. As I clicked through to higher gears on the Shimano selector and started to increase speed, I started to feel a strange oscillating wobble on my left pedal.

That's odd, I thought and looked down to see the left crank starting to separate from the shaft. Merde. I could just see myself now, pedaling harder and harder when suddenly, snaaap! The crack snaps off the shaft still cleated to my foot on the downstroke. The force of the snapping crank as my left foot charges downward sends the cleated foot straight to the ground at 25 mph.

The results of that occurrence didn't play well in my mind and only seemed that it would result in my crashing and burning in a very painful (if spectacular) manner. I decided to stop. Not even a mile out and my ride was over. Doomed.

Back in the truck, I had an hour to kill before the bike shop at REI would be open. I decided to head over to Budeke's to check out their selection of paint colors and wallpaper for project hampden.

I don't know how many of you have ever decided to look at wallpaper but it's absolutely bewildering (and I know what I'm looking for). Books upon books upon books of paper samples jumbled together with no rhyme or reason. Want a specific color? You're outta luck - just gotta look. And the books aren't light. They're filled with high-quality wallpaper and they are heavy. Up, down, up, down, again and again. It's exhausting and drives me mad.

After an hour of reviewing papers, I'm starting to freak out over the sheer enormity of the sample collection. This is going to take awhile.

If You Really Want To Drive A Stake Through My Heart...

Yesterday, I blogged about some schmoe getting his panties in a bunch about me being a lame asshole (or something like that). As long-time readers of this blog know, I'm down with that.

While working the bar at The Spro today, I receive a call from Christine. She's returning from a multi-week trip to Manila and needs advice on where to go for ramen - in Honolulu.

Truth be told, I can take being called a lame asshole or dickhead. It bothers me not that some people don't find our vision of coffee to fit their own. And I'm perfectly happy with others hating on me because I don't share their enthusiasm for the barista competitions (or not bathing)...

But, if you're one of my friends and you call me to tell me that you're sunning it up in Honolulu, I'm crushed and ready to curl into a fetal ball in the corner of the room. As I told Christine: "I could have multi-million dollar stores, a house in the country and women half my age on my arm and you still will have beaten me by being in Honolulu."

No amount of being called a lame asshole is worse than calling me from Honolulu...



- BTW, I sent her to Goma Ichi Ramen, 631 Keeaumoku Street, Honolulu, Hawaii 96816, 808-951-6666.

Perhaps This Blog isn't the Right Fit for You

Just got this comment for the Reading The Soul post:

"Fucking lame. Great work pissing on the competition just because you suck at them and you just use them to get attention. If your so worried with all the shit you blog about then you should shut the fuck up and work on making your shop better. Ive been to your shop and youre all talk."


Oh come on, REALLY???. I'm game for being called "lame" or an "asshole" or whatever descriptive you might want to hurl my way (it's probably true anyway), but you want to act macho and hide anonymously? Come on, show some balls. Gordon Ramsay has the balls to call someone a "fucking donkey" without hiding.

Truth is, I suck at the USBC Competitions. Have you seen my scores? They're terrible. I can't win. Hell, I can't even place. I can't even get a 6 in creativity. It's really sad and if winning the USBC was everything, I'd be lost.

But really, it's good that you're pissed. Maybe that means you care about your craft (or something). Maybe you're some hipster barista with tight jeans and you're ready for a shower. Good for you! Your customers will be grateful.


And as far as The Spro not being up to your standards - like I've told more than one person over the years:

"Perhaps we're not the right fit for you."




Note to our coffee industry readers: I did take a moment to consider taking a cue in responding to this message by quoting my former Portafiler.net Podcast co-host: "I'll punch you in your dick," but that's not really my style.

Reading The Soul

"But by Certified Master Chef (CMC) standards - those set primarily by the Culinary Institute of America, an institution that did not attempt to teach soul or happiness, but rather technique and knowledge and theory and practice - many CMC candidates did succeed. Perhaps the ones who succeeded, then, not only were technically gifted but also had never cooked to make people happy in the first place and therefore did not have that particular cord bound up in their standards. Maybe they'd cooked for money, as a job only, and happened to be really good at it. Good reason to cook: a job, a paycheck. Maybe they cooked because it pleased them personally and they were content to ride this one out. Maybe they cooked for the sport, the adrenaline rush of working a line, the way some people lifted weights or became compulsive joggers. if they had begun cooking for these reasons, cooked their whole lives this way, had never needed to make people happy to justify their work, their existence - and how many professions did? - then this absence built into the CMC test would never bother those chefs; that kind of chef would not feel its absence and would just cook as he or she always did."

- Michael Ruhlman, The Soul of a Chef, page 324


There are several books I return to and read every year or two, Ruhlman's The Soul of a Chef is one of those books and each time I read it, I can't help but create a parallel between the CIA's Certified Master Chef program and the Specialty Coffee Association of America's United States Barista Championship. I've competed in the USBC six times and have never found satisfaction participating. Sure, there's the camaraderie amongst baristas and the joy of spending time with friends across the world, but I've always found it lacking. Personally un-fulfilling. Disappointing. And, at times, outright corrupt.

As I was re-reading The Soul of a Chef this week, I ran across the above quote and found the parallel to the barista world unmistakable. Substitute "USBC" for "CMC" and "SCAA" for "CIA" and "barista" for "chef" and I think it's 100% applicable. In the barista world, there are those who do it to win at competition. They claim to "love" coffee and even put on affectations to make you think they have that level of care but really they're in it for the accolades. The accolades of winning, the accolades of being loved. For many baristas, it's about slinging coffee as fast at they can while combating the line dragon forming in front of them. Never mind the mound of wasted ground coffee that's piling up in front of the grinder, they're busy slaying the dragon.

Maybe I'm just a malcontent but I've never found satisfaction in the competitions or much of the barista world. There's a certain level of disconnect for me. A wondering where the craft meets the care. Too many baristas are too concerned about being "right" and being "hardcore" for no other reason than maybe to mask the fact that they haven't showered recently.

I read and re-read Soul, and it's sequel Reach of a Chef mainly because I want to study more on Keller. I'm fascinated by the man. Not in some fanboy stalker kind of way but rather I'm amazed at the level of finesse, pursuit of perfection and adherence to standards the man possesses. I want to hone that level of standard and finesse, and maybe that's why I find the whole barista world not very satisfying.

Why, I wonder, buy commercial syrups when you can make them better in-house? It seems everywhere I turn there's a laziness to craft. Commercial this, commercial that. Claims that an automated brewer is "better" and "cleaner." Absurd rationalizations that a timer stepped grinder that doses straight down is, somehow, more accurate than an infinitely adjustable grinder. "Signature" drinks that demonstrate a near lack of understanding of cuisine: I'm adding cocoa to highlight the cocoa character of the coffee" or "Have a sip of grapefruit juice to complement the citrus-y grapefruit note in the coffee.

Never mind contrasting flavors or complimentary flavors, let's just add more of the flavor already in there. It's so mind-numbing I might as well bash my skull against a concrete wall.

At least I have The Spro where I can practice our form of coffee pursuit to my standards. I can't imagine being a barista for someone else in any of the shops across America - I imagine it would be worse than being back in the movie business.


" Keller combined extraordinary technique and knowledge with humor, imagination and intelligence, and he did so in a setting straight out of a Monet painting. It was the perfect combination, and Keller never underestimated the important of the place he had found.

This was how he saw the world, and this was how he understood cooking, with a Zenlike spirituality but with his feet firmly grounded. Cooking had never been a means to an end for Keller. That was why he never got sidetracked by money or the lack of it. The first thing was care for food.

He loved this. He loved to wipe a counter clean. Because this was where perfection began. At this clean counter was where we learned not to waste anything and not to err, because when you made a mistake or when you didn't care, or you didn't appreciate that carrot that you were peeling, it was a waste of life itself."

- Michael Ruhlman, The Soul of a Chef, page 329

Seven Too Many

Dayboat scallops seasoned and at the ready.

For the past couple of weeks, I've been having a scallop craving. Every time I'm at Swirl hanging with Austin and James I dream of going to the fishmonger next door and buying a pound. But I've either been with Twyla (who hates seafood) or not in a position to run home and start cooking. Now that she's moved back to Arizona I'm back to my usual Tour de Force and can indulge on scallops again.

The local fishmonger stocks some nice dayboat scallops. They're dry and lovely. Beautifully fresh, happily sweet - they're a dream to eat and I never seem to get enough. With a pound in tow, I head home to season with salt and pepper then pan sear in cast iron with canola oil. The results are just beautiful. Success. With some steamed rice as the backdrop and a little extra salt and a squeeze of lemon, it's scallop perfection.

The first bite is divine. That balance of sweet scallop meat accented with the salt and the zest of lemon is sublime. It is God's Perfection. I'm blown away. I must have more.

This is where I should have stopped.



Seared scallops seasoned with salt & pepper, and drizzled with lemon.

In total, I seared eight scallops. Eight beautiful scallops. I should have stopped after eating the first. Not because of any bad experience that necessitated a Ruling of The Kingdom, but as I ate the successive scallops, palate sensitivity lessened. The more I ate, the more my palate became used to the flavor and the more I had to eat - always trying to recapture the beauty I had tasted in the first bite. Like a drug addict chasing his first high, I ate each successive scallop chasing the sweet beauty of the first. My palate had grown accustomed to the beauty and the beauty of each successive scallop was diminished.

This is something that Thomas Keller had talked about that I had forgotten. So used to massive servings, we lose the flavor we seek as our palate becomes used to the flavor. I'm sure each scallop was just as amazing as the first but as I got used to the flavor it lost something. One scallop would have been the apotheosis of flavor. Two would have been beautiful symphony. Three would have been a wonderful meal but after that, it was just excess.

Not that I discourage excess when it comes to fresh, dayboat scallops. Just be prepared to lose a taste of the flavor with each successive bite. I may profess here that one perfectly prepared scallop is the apotheosis of flavor but I don't think I'm Keller enough to only prepare just one. Next time I'm faced with a mound of scallops I'll probably be consuming them en masse.

Steamed Milk in Your Iced Latte

I've been openly critical about Baltimore Sun food critic Elizabeth Large. Even though I find her taste in cuisine to be vastly different than my own (and of a completely divergent agenda), I still take a moment now and then to read her blog - if only to practice the exercise of bashing my head against the wall in frustration.

In fact, I've been so openly critical of Liz Large that I've been effectively banned from posting comments to her blog. Long ago, she stopped "allowing" my comments because they tended to be highly critical of her position in the food chain - how anyone makes the claim that kale soup tastes too much of kale and retains credibility is beyond me.

In today's blog entry, she writes about iced coffee and how it's surpassing iced tea as a restaurant breakfast drink. Now, I don't know if that's true but consumption of iced coffee from the Brew Tower of Power at The Spro has been on a sharp rise. Anyway, the point is that she writes:

"My favorite version of iced coffee is an iced latte, but the milk has to be steamed first or it doesn't taste right. You can't just put espresso and cold milk together and call it an iced latte."

Which makes me go: "Hmmmm..."

Lots of places in Baltimore serve something resembling iced coffee or espresso with cold milk aka "iced latte" but no other shop that I know of steams their iced latte milk other than The Spro. Has the kale-handicapped Liz Large made clandestine visits to The Spro under the guise of a regular customer? Could I, God Forbid, have actually served the mysterious Lady Large myself? Maybe even treated her with our usual blend of friendly hospitality? I wonder.

I'm guessing that because of our history, she won't acknowledge this but I wanted to put out a message to Mrs. Large:

"Come visit and enjoy our iced lattes. We welcome all at The Spro."

Showoff

I enjoy reading Chef Shola Olunloyo's StudioKitchen blog. He's progressive and centered and not afraid to pronounce his opinions that may rankle the goats of others. The StudioKitchen blog is a fascinating journey of Shola's food and it's quite enjoyable to follow.

Recently, he's posted about Storing Spices
and Artist and Artisan
. Two posts where he shares images of a very sexy storage system for his spices crowned by the complete collection of Ferran Adria's Texturas line of food chemicals, or his pseudo-museum display of his equipment collection of Polyscience AntiGriddle, Polyscience Immersion Bath, PacoJet and Thermomixes. He shows us pictures because it's too sexy for words.

To Shola and his images, I say: "Showoff."

(but really, I'm just envious...)

StudioKitchen
: Read It.

project hampden: Something's Afoot at Spro

The new Compak grinders await their vetting while our old standbys wait in the distance.

Here's a quick sneak peek at some of the new equipment that's slated for project hampden. As some of you already know, in spite of the fact I've been using Mazzer grinders for over five years, I'm a big fan of Compak grinders from Spain. Our 2006 K10 has been grinding it out for over three years with no problems making beautiful coffee. How could I not continue the flow?

Featured here are the new Compak R80 bulk grinder, Compak K10 WBC espresso grinder and the only one in America prototype K10 WBC Doserless Timer Grinder. And if it looks strangely familiar and you think you've seen this grinder before, that's because you have seen it before.

New Sunglasses at Cabela's

On the way home, I decided to swing by Cabela's again. One hour on Tuesday wasn't enough. The store is immense. Shock and Awe.

As I approached the behemoth, I spotted a tractor trailer pulling up alongside the building. Dwarfed, actually. And I wondered: How many trailers does it take to stock this store??? Inside, it reminded me of a casino. A very large casino. Anything and everything outdoors can be found inside. Amazing. The prices were good too.

Even their camping section had a nice array of kitchen equipment, like the stainless steel butcher's saw, or the rebadged Excalibur dehydrator, or the sausage stuffers or monolithic meat grinders for $400. Tre cool. With my paid off Visa card in hand, I marched up to the cash register.

And bought a pair of sunglasses to replace the ones that had broken earlier today.

Tending The Bar-Bee-Que

Getting jiggy with pork barbecue at the Fiesta Filipiniana in Towson.

Barbecue in the Philippines has a completely different meaning than BBQ in the United States. Traditional Filipino-style barbecue is typically chicken or pork cubes marinated in a secret sauce, poked onto bamboo skewers and then grilled for caramel perfection. Like American BBQ, the recipes are murderous secrets and the rivalry between camps is heated, fierce and blood-letting.

I guess when it comes to blood-letting, they figure that I'm the ideal person to get caught in the crossfire.

This week, while not spending my brain facilities focusing at the Mid-Atlantic Barista Jam, I'm occupying my mind with thoughts of Philippine Barbecue and standardizing them for a winner-takes-all battle on August 1st.

Somewhere along the way, certain people heard that I am now a certified BBQ judge by the Kansas City Barbecue Society and figured that I must be the right guy to write the standards for a Philippine-Style BBQ Competition. Great. One wrong move and some angered Filipino guy is going to come after me with a bolo knife. Yes, good deal indeed. At least I'm from Baltimore: The City That Bleeds, so I know how to handle things.

Developing standards for the competition is not without its' trials. BBQ is intensely personal and passionate. The recipes are guarded secrets prepared in seclusion and darkness. Recipes will be open for interpretation but the flavors should include a level of sweetness balanced by savoriness with hints of garlic and soy, I think. Categories will be: pork and chicken and they must be mounted on wood skewers.

So, if you're a bbq chef that thinks he/she has the chops to win the title of Filipino BBQ Champion, then get your stuff ready because on August 1st - it's on!

You can contact me directly for entry details and a complete copy of the rules and regulations.

Have You Been Missing Out?

The splash page at onocoffee dot com.

Several months ago, I started telling all of you to switch your bookmarks from onocoffee.blogspot.com to onocoffee.com - have you?

If you haven't and you've been coming here directly, then you've been missing out on some of the content that Barista Magazine readers have been taking for granted. Not just the direct link to the articles but the new season of Barista del Mundo Episode 1 Part 1 is out and available for download as a file for your iphone or ipod. Just click on the video link and we'll be adding new videos on a regular basis.

Upcoming episodes of Barista del Mundo follow Bronwen Serna as she milks a cow in Wisconsin, meets Rouki Delrue in Addis Ababa, journeys to Tokyo to visit Caffe L'Ambre, as well as stops in Paris, Las Vegas, London and Los Angeles.

Open Road, Again

Cabela's

Hiring and Alternative Brewing Techniques

I'm back on the road again. This time I'm off to Easton, Pennsylvania to participate in the annual Mid-Atlantic/Northeast Barista Jam being held by Cosmic Cup Coffee and New Harvest Roasters. It's a fun event and I've gone every year. Mark Inman of Taylor Maid Coffee in northern California will be giving the keynote speech and I will be presenting the alternative brewing techniques station.

Just what is "alternative brewing?" Well, it's certainly not quite brewing to the sounds of Clan of Xymox (but it could be). It's "alternative" in the sense that we're going to be showing brew methods different than espresso and drip - let attendees have the opportunity to try the brewing techniques they've read about elsewhere. Brewing methods like French Press, Vacuum Pot, Chemex and even the much-maligned-by-me Pour Over.

However, what we won't be brewing is the Never-Maligned-Enough-By-Me Automated Brewer aka Clover. I mean, how much can one tolerate the pushing of a button as "alternative"? I mean really.

Joining me will be Counter Culture Coffee's Guru Phil Proteau - that slightly strange, odd and definitely funny guy from Philadelphia, who will also be demonstrating brewing techniques and certainly schooling me on the finer points of Pour Over methodology.

There's a couple of other important people also giving demonstrations and lectures on Wednesday and Thursday but I can't recall who they are off the top of my head at the moment. But, Oswaldo Acevedo will be a guest of honor and that in itself should be reason enough to go.

How about more info?


Speaking of baristas and hiring. It's time to start thinking about the hiring of baristas for project hampden. If you, or anyone you know, is interested in learning our method of barista craft and can provide the highest quality coffee in a nurturing environment of hospitality, then send me your resume. Quite simply, we're going to build the most amazing coffee experience in America. Hiring will take place over the next month or two as we move closer to the opening.

Steak It Up!

Twin ribeyes at the ready.

Yesterday was Father's Day and what better way to celebrate dad than with a fatty ribeye steak or two?

While out with Twyla on Saturday, we swung by Springfield Farm to pick up an allotment of beef. A twist of skirt steak for her dinner and a couple of ribeyes for dad. The ribeyes were done the usual way: seasoned with salt & pepper, pan seared with butter and canola oil in the cast iron, then plopped into a 400F oven for seven minutes.

As I stood there waiting for the meat to rest, my attention was enraptured by the steady flow of juices and fat globules emanating from the roasted meat. Beautiful.

Happy Father's Day.


My meat gets its' juices flowing...

project hampden: Almost a Sneak Preview

As the days progress and we take each tiny step towards opening a new shop, we also seem to take another step further away from the original drawings for the space. Sadly, pretty much what you see here has been tossed for something new and brighter. Something spiraling out of my control.

These were our original drawings and the basis for the millwork we were about to put into motion. Then it all came to a halt and we turned left. Now, we've turned right and this map is no longer valid. Oh well, at least I'm having a good time at it.

Iced Espresso

Many of us have heard the old monniker that iced espresso tastes nasty. Nasty and metallic. Years ago, I tried pulling a shot of espresso over ice and it was nasty and metallic. Sometimes one never learns...

The other day, as I was wandering around a local store, I spied a cool silicone ice mold to make ice shot glasses. I had to have it and brought it back to The Spro for a little informal testing. Filled the mold and into the freezer it went. Six hours later, the water had frozen and the ice shot glasses were ready so i popped one out.

What to do, what to do? Sure, I could have planned it out better and made up some nice coffee concoction to play around with, but I didn't. I was too busy working and making drinks for customers. instead, I decided to pull a double shot into the ice shot glass. Maybe the shape and the ice would do something wondrous.

Or maybe not.

While it looked very cool - especially if you let the ice warm up until it becomes clear, the espresso was just as nasty and metallic as I remember. Ugh.

But at least I've got some cool ice molds for future experiments.

project hampden: Zell, Zen and the Art of Stress

Millwork notes on the wall that have been abandoned. For now.

Two weeks into project hampden and I kinda feel stressed. No, let me correct that: I am stressed. It's been three years since I opened The Spro, seven since we built the second Jays Shave Ice and ten since we built the first Jays Shave Ice, and I think each time the stress gets worse.

Or maybe not.

While I don't remember being stressed on the first day of Jays Shave Ice nearly ten years ago, I do remember that forgot to wear shorts or pants that day. I ended up opening and working the little stand in my black Calvin Klein boxer briefs. I think they looked like tight bike shorts (with an escape port). Either no one noticed or no one wanted to embarrass me, but no one ever mentioned it. In fact, I didn't notice until we were there and about to open the doors.

We built the second Jays Shave Ice during the off-season, so it didn't matter if it took months to build, we had the time. And building the coffee bar at the Library that became The Spro wasn't that stressful either. We took our time and I drove the hour out to Jeff Givens' place in Sykesville to work on the cabinetry.

But this time, I feel under the gun. Rent is looming over my head and we need to get things finished and opened before my lease terms says we need to start paying rent. Doom on you, dickhead.

In my mind, things were rolling right along. I had a basic design that was ready to go - even if it did have some unanswered questions. My vision for project hampden was something very simple. Something refined. Elegant, even. I was thinking "French Laundry."

My problem is that I'm not very good at executing colors. Sure, I studied graphic and interior design and have an idea of what I want, but what if it isn't the right idea? Or the right execution? Perhaps I'm second-guessing and getting caught in analysis paralysis. Either way, I wanted to get out of my preconceptions and head trash and go for something new. I called up an old buddy and asked him to come and have a look.

Two weeks ago today was our first meeting. What I expected to be a quick, one-hour session about layout and colors turned into a four-hour marathon of design, discussion, marketing, concept and directions for the space that I never had even considered.

Take the bathroom, for example. It's a nice bathroom and I thought it is nicely appointed. No. It needs to be redone. All the detail work we talked about incorporating into the space and then to leave the bathroom as is? Evidently, I must be a charlatan. He made a good point: all the detail and the customers will see it as a facade if the bathroom detail is incongruent with the rest of the space. Then I remembered that even the French Laundry put custom lampshades on their bathroom wall sconces. Damn that Keller.


Casual rusticity in Baltimore City.

I liked the space for its' rustic charm. Luis, the designer, wanted to alter the interior and smoothen things out. Bring elements together and making them seamless. Incorporating the downstairs basement into the overall look of the space. We should smoothen this wall and eliminate that one. Good Lord, I must look like Daddy Warbucks.

Of course, in the back of my mind, I'm thinking that costs are already spiraling out of control yet we're nowhere near the $100K mark. I think about the stories I've heard about Doug Zell and how much it took Intelligentsia to open their Los Angeles operations and smile to myself. All this fret and stress for what Zell would consider a pittance to open a store. Somehow, the thought of Doug Zell not being too concerned about the cost of this buildout soothed my mind and lowered my heart rate. The percocets can stay in the drawer for at least another week.

Luis and I have met several times over the past two weeks and it's been a constant battle. For him, it's been about understanding our processes, where I come from and what we want to do in the new space. For me, it's been about letting go and being open to new things. I feel like I'm constantly repeating my mantra of: I'm open to exploring anywhere you want to take us not because Luis needs to be reassured of my support but more because I need to remind myself that it's okay and you can keep breathing.

Trouble is, I want things to move. i want things to happen. I wanted to open three days ago.

Interestingly enough, Luis has taken our discussions to places that I never thought before. He's even taken us to concepts that are being pioneered by others. It's really interesting when, without prior introduction, your designers' natural train of thought brings you to a concept where you have multiple espresso machine stations that can handle your customers - Intelligentsia's new shop in Venice Beach sprang quickly to mind.

In the coffee business, we spend a lot of time thinking about how other coffee people have done it. We want to see the other shops to get ideas. Lately, I've been spending a bit of time at the mall observing other retail shops. These companies have spent hundreds of thousands of dollars getting their presentation right and there's lots to be learned from just observing. Even the Venice Beach Intelligentsia's concept of organic stations with baristas who greet you with handheld checkout computers comes right out of Apple Computer's retail playbook. Looks like I'm not the only coffee person lurking around the mall.

In order to bolster our ranks at The Spro, I put out an ad in the Baltimore CraigsList for new baristas. While I needed only one, I ended up with four promising candidates. This poses a unique problem. The Spro is now labor heavy. Luckily, a couple of them currently work other jobs and we can take our time training them over the next month or two as we build to bring them up to speed. The concern here is to control our costs during this period of excessive costs and stable revenue. Let the labor costs run amok during this period and there could be some problems.

But things are rolling along. We've got a great crew of baristas and barista candidates, and we've assembled a great team of designers, contractors, equipment suppliers and finance people to help us move forward. I'll report back again as things progress.

First In First Out

The face of things to come.

As I was walking around the National Restaurant Association Show in Chicago, I bumped into Laura from Espresso Supply. It's kinda funny odd when you run into coffee people at other trade shows - the community seems so puny and miniscule compared to the vast foodservice industry. Against a tide of ignorance, unawareness and poor quality coffee, it feels as though we're caught in a Perfect Storm and we're losing.

One of the things the crew at Espresso Supply wanted to show me was the very simple Fifo Bottle. It's a relatively new squeeze bottle that eliminates the need to turn the bottle over (and reduces the risk of repetitive stress injuries) by placing a valve at the bottom of the bottle. Simply pick up the bottle, squeeze, the product comes out and put it back in its' mise. Cool, I thought.

A couple of weeks later, a box arrives at The Spro from Lizanne - who was thoughtful enough to send me a couple of Fifo Bottles to try. I've long envied those workers at places like McDonald's with their fancy Secret Sauce, ketchup and mustard dispensers. A simple squeeze of the hand or pull of the trigger and out plops a perfect, portion-controlled dose. Lovely. While the Fifo Bottle doesn't portion product, visions danced in my head of happy baristas freed from the tyranny of turning the bottles of chocolate, honey and agave upside down. Repetitive Stress Disorder from turning bottles? Bah! Begone!

Best of all, the honey we source from Cybil no longer can crystallize at the bottom of the squeeze bottles since the First In is the First Out with the Fifo Bottle. No more digging out the bottle and scooping out the crystals. It's just happy-happy, joy-joy all around.

But with all things new, lessons must be learned. First, the Fifo Bottle comes with two different bottom caps with two different sized orifices: one large and the other small. Make sure to screw them on tight. Second, after you've placed the product in the bottle, the top cap must be screwed on airtight, otherwise you squeeze and nothing happens. You don't think about it with regular squeeze bottles but the bottle must be airtight to provide the pressure needed to force the product out through the orifice. Not tight enough and the product just squeezes in the bottle and you're wondering if you've been Punk'd.


A calm before the storm.

Once you sort out those concerns, it's easy peasy. The bottles are in the ready position and all you have to do is squeeze. Simple and effective.

What about dripping, you say? Initially, there were very little drips but after a couple of weeks in service, I'm sad to report that my crew has resorted to keeping the bottles upside down because the dripping has, at times, been severe. We keep the bottles on top of the espresso machine to keep the honey and chocolate sauce warm and runny. This has caused some problems where it hasn't been uncommon to find a pool of chocolate sauce on top of the Linea.

So, what are the culprits? And is the Fifo Bottle a disaster? I don't think so. As I was writing this it hit me that perhaps we're taking the wrong approach. It's a new product and we should look at it from a new angle. Some of the worse chocolate spillage we've encountered is during the morning hours, right after the bottle of chocolate sauce has been pulled from the refrigerator.

Our chocolate sauce is essentially a ganache. Which means that under cooler temperature, the sauce hardens. When it hardens you could ball it up, dip it in tempered chocolate and make chocolate truffles all day long (which is a pastime my tummy studiously avoids). The chocolate in the bottle is hardened when it's placed on top of the espresso machine to warm, soften and turn liquid. I realized that the heat liquifies from the bottom up and as it heats, the sauce expands. The hard chocolate on the upper part of the bottle is still hard, forming a seal around the bottle, as the lower sauce heats, it has nowhere to expand except out the valve at the bottom, coating my polished Linea and irritating my baristas.

Solution? Perhaps keeping the products off of the machine so that there is no heat to force expansion and release through the valve. It's something we're going to have to try over the next week because it's just a shame that our Fifo Bottles are upside down.

Porchetta di Testa

Our ingredients.

Not too long ago, there was a Pig's Head at Spro. Some of you may have been wondering why a pig's head would be at a coffee bar - well, here's why.

During my trip to Chicago for the National Restaurant Association show, I had the opportunity to view a demonstration by Chris Cosentino of San Francisco's Incanto restaurant. Chris is an avid devotee of all things offal and awful - those nasty bits that most people fear. Pancreas, brains and whatever assorted oddity that usually gets lopped off at the meat factory - if it's considered offensive by the mainstream, he's ready to prepare and eat it.


Midway through deboning the head.

Chris was giving a demonstration on how to make a porchetta from a pig's head. I was thrilled. I was fascinated. In our little world of Baltimore, I only hear or read about things such as this. I rarely get to taste this kind of cuisine and I certainly never get to see it prepared. Chris was at the show giving a quick and dirty demo on just how to do it and I paid rapt attention.

It was my mission to make it at home and prepare it with an eye towards including it in our repertoire at project hampden. Sure, I could bring it to The Spro in Towson, but once our friendly suburban clientele heard they were eating pig's head with tongue, they'd be running for the nearest Starbucks.


Ah, lovely cheek meat and skin!


Fully seasoned and ready to roll.

As soon as I returned from Chicago, I gave David Smith at Springfield Farm a call. Order me a pig's head from the abbatoir as soon as possible, please. That Thursday, along with our usual order of eggs, came a pig's head in a plastic bag. I left it sitting on the back bar of The Spro as our proud testament of exciting things to come.

The results were expected and amusing. Our customer, who by now are getting used to certain strange antics with coffee, were a mixture of surprise, shock, disgust and intrigue. They wanted to know why? Why was there a pig's head sitting on the counter? What were we doing with it? Those who knew our penchant for going outside the box with coffee drinks tentatively asked (with great concern) if the pig's head was somehow going to be an ingredient in some coffee concoction.

Rest assured, I told them, this pig's head was destined for other things than your demitasse cup.


Mariano assists in the wrapping and rolling of the porchetta.

With the pig's head slung over one shoulder and my knife roll tucked under the other arm, I headed over to Woodberry Kitchen to use their prep kitchen and their supply of curing salt (since I didn't have any of my own). Making the porchetta is pretty straightforward - simply take the pig's head, slice it down the center from the tip of lower mouth and start cutting the skin and flesh away from the skull. In anticipation of this, I had spent part of my afternoon at The Spro sharpening my boning knife with an assortment of Japanese wet stones. Razor sharp knives are an essential necessity.

The tricky parts of the skinning process is to keep as much of the cheek meat intact and not to puncture the skin. The butcher already has removed parts of the skin around the eyes to check for disease so holes are to be expected. You also want to keep the ears attached and the snout intact as it will be an integral part of the porchetta.


Six hours of sous vide.

Trimming around the skull isn't as difficult as it may sound. In fact, it's pretty easy. Just make sure to keep as much meat intact as possible. Then, once the skull has been deboned, pull the mouth open and start cutting out the tongue from the base of the throat. I should also note that you should check the end of the skull (where it has been severed from the body) for the glands - remove them if they are still there and discard.

Did I mention that you should have made sure to shave or burn off any and all hairs that may be remaining on the animal? Or that you need to remove the "skin" of the tongue? Be sure to do so unless you like the feeling of stubble in your charcuterie.


The pig's head finished, cured and chilled for three days.

A great way to judge the suitability of a girl is their reaction to the pig's head - especially in these moments of extreme disembowelment. Some girls can't stand the sight of it, others are interested and even a few are excited by the prospects - we call these girls "keepers." Amy S. is one of those girls who just wanted to hang out and watch it all being done. Sexy.

From there, simply layout the head, skin side down and flap the ears under to cover the open gaps in the skin where the eyes once were. Sprinkle with curing salt then season with salt, black pepper, aleppo pepper, crushed garlic and rosemary (or whatever else you fancy). Now's the time for the challenge.


Unwrapped and ready to slice.

It seems that nothing excites an Italian cook more than the making of traditional Italian cuisine. I don't know how traditional this porchetta really is but once Mariano laid his eyes on the beast he was very excited and wanted to be a part of it. Hailing from Argentina and working at a Michelin one star in Italy, Mariano is as die hard as any Italian. To him, cooks just don't "know" pasta. He's even got some roe laden fish salted, hanging and drying somewhere around Woodberry - just in case.

Place the tongue, with the thick side tucked into the snout, in the center of the head and roll the whole thing together from one side. You're approximating the look of the head with the roll but it will still be a roll that just has a snout. Chris Cosentino recommends tying the roll with twine or running it through a butcher's netting machine but Mariano had a better idea: just roll the sucker with plastic wrap.


The detail of the gelatin is amazing.

After some careful moments (and quite a bit of plastic wrap), the pig's head was rolled and formed. And big. The sucker was pretty large. Too large, in fact, to fit in any of the vacuum bags in Woodberry's inventory. I had to take it home.

Back at the house, with a custom cut FoodSaver bag at the ready, I vacuum sealed the head inside the bag and let it cure in the refrigerator overnight. By Friday afternoon, it would be time to cook.

At three o'clock on Friday, I filled up a large Cambro with water and got the circulator from PolyScience working. 85C for six hours. By the time I came back at eleven that night, the porchetta was done and the waiting begins.


Slicing it thin.

Once the porchetta has been cured and cooked, it needs to be chilled quickly in an ice water bath and then cured in the refrigerator for at least two days. I opted for three days rest before calling some friends to invite them to sample the new porchetta and since my slicer is at Woodberry, it would have to be done there.

As the head came out of the bag and was unwrapped, I was a bit thrown off. What looked like plastic wrap fused onto the porchetta was actually the gelatin taking the shape of the wrap. The gelatin was beautiful. Amazing. I stared at it in wonder for ten minutes.


Meat Ready to Eat.


A small plating for some special guests.

Into the slicer it went and I went to town slicing off thin slices of porchetta for all to try. Cooks, servers, diswashers, bussers and runners all got samples to taste. Mariano, after tasting some of the slices, grabbed a 9pan to take a stash home. It was delicious, delicate, slightly salty and deliciously fatty. I plated up some for my friends to try at the bar. They devoured it and I sent another plate. A hit.

By the end of the evening, we had eaten a third of the porchetta. A victory. I bagged the rest to save for later.

In retrospect, if we can recreate these results on a consistent basis, I think some very exciting possibilities lie in store for project hampden once we get the prep kitchen there built and installed. Some nice charcuterie cold plates and cheeses. Could be beautiful.


The cross section of the porchetta - notice the ear. Exciting!


Vac bagged and ready for another day.

Firing and The Big Foam

Big foam cappuccino super hot and dirty steam wand at The Spro.

With the impending doom of opening project hampden, I've fallen upon the task of shoring up the staff at The Spro in Towson and starting the search for qualified barista candidates.

To my mind, hiring is utter agony. It's one of the most difficult parts of the job. Hire poorly and you might as well shove a shiv in your neck. Hire well and life can be very good indeed.

Over the years, I've hired and employed over a hundred people - each one I vetted personally. I'm happy to report that I've only fired one employee with prejudice in ten years. Some left of their own volition and others were excused during their training phase but only one was truly fired outright.

In 2002, I hired this person whom I didn't entirely vet out. I hired the person because some on my staff thought we could use this person - to be clear: a bunch of my girls wanted to bring on a guy and campaigned hard for me to hire this person. Against my better judgment, I brought him onboard. From the get go, it was clear he was the wrong person for the job. Within a week he thought he was the new hot shot on the team: the star player.

While the girls worked hard and grinded it out, this guy was hot dogging and showboating. He wanted to chat it up with the girls. He wanted to hit on our female customers. He thought he was The Shit but could barely perform the basic requirements of the job. Technically, he was absolutely horrible. After two weeks, he could barely complete the technical aspects of the job and the girls were now unhappy with his presence.

Firing someone is one of the most unpleasant tasks of my job. I don't enjoy doing it. It's physically wrenching. It's not something that I want to do. But it is something I will do when the time comes.

And that time was fast-approaching.

After two weeks, many of my staff were unhappy with this person. They wanted him out. I agreed. He had to go, but firing is very unpleasant and I wanted to put it off as long as possible. I decided to have a cigar to think it through.

As I sat at my friends' shop smoking that cigar, things became very clear. I could put off firing him and risk alienating my crew, which could result in my best people leaving, or I could go down there that morning and fire the person and be done with it. Losing my best people and being stuck with some lame-ass, showboat, hot dogger was about the worst possibility there could be.

I dropped my cigar, drove to Jays Shave Ice and fired him on the spot.

In spite of that glitch in 2002, I've always taken hiring very seriously. Especially since I don't want to get stuck with a non-performer like that again. From time to time, other operators ask me my methods for hiring and they've changed quite a bit. Once upon a time, we had very formal interview and vetting standards. Lately, they've been much more organic and dynamic.

But one component of the interview process that hasn't changed is when a candidate has prior barista experience (not superauto experience), I'll throw them on the machine and let them make me a cappuccino. The cappuccino they make is whatever they are used to making and know how to make. I just point them in the general direction of the milk, the grinder and steam wand and let them go to town.

Perhaps years ago, I would have been horrified to see what I've been seeing lately. But in my old age, I've come to accept the world as it is and accept that perhaps baristas around the world just aren't up to the same standard that we perform. It's okay because I just want to see what I have to work with and where we need to focus should they make it to the training phase.

Whatever the case, watching the candidates perform is always entertaining and informative. For example, I never really understood how people were able to create that super dry and thick milk foam. I knew they pumped but wow - seeing it live and in person was something else entirely.

Now I know what I'm missing...