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Devour Cannabis with Edible It’s Chef Just Anymore: Kirk to Recipes Captain Not Brownies
I had to physically restrain him from attempting this tableau. We had been under refrigeration for three days straight when we finally collapsed in the Dreadnaught's cocktail lounge at 4 A. We woke up a few hours later, covered with flies attracted by the tasty, protein-rich gelee that covered us from head to toe.
The garden party was, to be modest, a smashing success. No one in dowdy old Provincetown had ever seen anything like it.
We became instantly notorious, and we made the most of it, printing up business cards for a planned catering venture called Moonlight Menus. The cards, commissioned from a local artist, depicted us sneering in toques. Two highly trained specimens like us had more than enough business, thank you very much. There was, of course, no business. But the strategy worked. In the coke-soaked final weeks of P-town, there were plenty of local businessmen eager to impress their friends with an elaborate end-of-season bash.
And we were only too happy to encourage them in even grander pretensions, filling their heads with names and dishes we'd culled from my Larousse few of which we'd actually attempted and quoting staggering prices.
We knew well how much these people were paying for cocaine-and that the more coke cost, the more people wanted it. We applied the same marketing plan to our budding catering operation, along with a similar pricing structure, and business was suddenly very, very good. In no time, we were able to leave our regular jobs at the Dreadnaught and Mario's, lording it over our old co-workers in brand-new Tony Lama boots, and brandishing shiny new Wusthoff knives when we dropped by for a quick visit and a gloat.
Our customers were restaurateurs, coke dealers, guys who ran fast boats out to motherships off Hyannis and Barnstaple to offload bales of marijuana. We catered weddings, parties, private dinners for pizza magnates, successful leather and scrimshaw merchants. Ah, those heady days of happy delusion, spirited argument, grandiose dreams of glory and riches.
We did not aspire to be the new Bocuses. No, that wasn't enough. Jacked up on coke and vodka, we wanted nothing less than to be like Careme, whose enormous pieces montees married the concepts of architecture and food.
Our work would literally tower over the work of our contemporaries: Space Needles, Towers of Babel, Parthenons of forcemeat-stuffed pastry, carefully constructed New Babylons of barquettes, vol-au-vents, croquembouches We had some successes-and some failures.
A steamship round a whole roast leg of beef on the bone sounded like a good idea; it was, after all, big. Until we overcooked it. An all-Chinese meal we did was so overloaded with dried Szechuan peppers that we could hear the muffled wails of pain from the next room.
But we did have some notable successes as well. The client was a restaurant owner, and we oversold ourselves somewhat. Committed to our pastry terrordome, we soon found that there wasn't a mold quite large enough for this ambitious effort.
What we wanted was a tasty yet structurally sound 'coliseum' of pastry crust into which we could pour about 5 gallons of seafood stew. And we wanted the whole thing to be covered by a titanic pastry dome, perhaps with a tiny pastry figure from antiquity, like Ajax or Mercury, perched on top.
We didn't know if the thing could be done. There was no suitable spring-form mold, something we could line with foil and fill with beans and then blind-bake. We couldn't cook it together with the blanquette; it would never hold.
The bubbling veloute suspending our medley of fish and shellfish and wild mushrooms would make the walls too soft. As game time approached, we were getting worried. We set up our operations center in our client's restaurant kitchen and promptly bivouacked to a bar for some serious strategizing. In the end-as it so often does-it came down to Julia.
Julia Child's recipes have little snob appeal, but they also tend to work. We took a recipe for dough from her book on French cooking, and after rubbing the outside of a large lobster steamer with shortening, stretched and patched our dough around and over it.
It was exactly the opposite of the prevailing wisdom; fortunately, we didn't know that at the time. For our dome, we used the top of the pot, and the same principle, laying our dough overthe outside of the round lid and baking it until firm. When we finally slid the things off-very carefully, I can tell you-Dimitri was characteristically pessimistic. He didn't think so. It was a lot of stew we were planning on pouring into this thing, and Dimitri was convinced it would crumble at the table mid-meal, boiling hot fish and lavalike veloute rushing onto the laps of the terrified guests.
There would be terrible burns involved, he guessed, 'scarring. Dimitri cheered himself up by suggesting that should the unthinkable happen, we were obliged, like Japanese naval officers, to take our own lives.
It's the least we could do. Party time came and we were ready-we hoped. First there were hors d'oeuvres: Our crown roast was no problem. It was the blanquette that filled our hearts with dread and terror. But God protects fools and drunks, and we were certainly both foolish and drunk much of the time. Our coliseum's walls held! The crown roast, decorated with little frilly panties on each gracefully outward-arching rib bone, looked and tasted sensational.
We were given a standing ovation by the dazzled guests and grateful client. When we next showed up at our old kitchens for our weekly gloat, our heads were too big to fit in P-town's doors.
We were already planning on hunting bigger game. We had newer, more sophisticated, even richer victims in mind for our learn-as-we-go operation. What strange beasts lurk behind the kitchen doors? You see the chef: But who's actually cooking your food? Are they young, ambitious culinary school grads, putting in their time on the line until they get their shot at the Big Job? If the chef is anything like me, the cooks are a dysfunctional, mercenary lot, fringe-dwellers motivated by money, the peculiar lifestyle of cooking and a grim pride.
They're probably not even American. Line cooking done well is a beautiful thing to watch. It's a high-speed collaboration resembling, at its best, ballet or modern dance. A properly organized, fully loaded line cook, one who works clean, and has 'moves'-meaning economy of movement, nice technique and, most important, speed-can perform his duties with Nijinsky-like grace.
The job requires character-and endurance. A good line cook never shows up late, never calls in sick, and works through pain and injury. What most people don't get about professional-level cooking is that it is not at all about the best recipe, the most innovative presentation, the most creative marriage of ingredients, flavors and textures; that, presumably, was all arranged long before you sat down to dinner. Line cooking- the real business of preparing the food you eat-is more about consistency, about mindless, unvarying repetition, the same series of tasks performed over and over and over again in exactly the same way.
The last thing a chef wants in a line cook is an innovator, somebody with ideas of his own who is going to mess around with the chef's recipes and presentations. Chefs require blind, near-fanatical loyalty, a strong back and an automaton-like consistency of execution under battlefield conditions. A three-star Italian chef pal of mine was recently talking about why he-a proud Tuscan who makes his own pasta and sauces from scratch daily and runs one of the best restaurant kitchens in New York-would never be so foolish as to hire any Italians to cook on his line.
He greatly prefers Ecuadorians, as many chefs do: You screaming at him in the rush, "Where's that risotto?! Is that fucking risotto ready yet? He's gonna just turn his back. That's what I want. Generally speaking, American cooks-meaning, born in the USA, possibly school-trained, culinarily sophisticated types who know before you show them what monterau beurre means and how to make a bearnaise sauce-are a lazy, undisciplined and, worst of all, high-maintenance lot, annoyingly opinionated, possessed of egos requiring constant stroking and tune-ups, and, as members of a privileged and wealthy population, unused to the kind of 'disrespect' a busy chef is inclined to dish out.
No one understands and appreciates the American Dream of hard work leading to material rewards better than a non-American. The Ecuadorian, Mexican, Dominican and Salvadorian cooks I've worked with over the years make most CIA-educated white boys look like clumsy, sniveling little punks. In New York City, the days of the downtrodden, underpaid illegal immigrant cook, exploited by his cruel masters, have largely passed-at least where quality line cooks are concerned. Most of the Ecuadorians and Mexicans I hire from a large pool-a sort of farm team of associated and often related former dishwashers-are very well-paid professionals, much sought after by other chefs.
Chances are they've worked their way up from the bottom rung; they remember well what it was like to empty out grease traps, scrape plates, haul leaking bags of garbage out to the curb at four o'clock in the morning.
A guy who's come up through the ranks, who knows every station, every recipe, every corner of the restaurant and who has learned, first and foremost, your system above all others is likely to be more valuable and long-term than some bed-wetting white boy whose mom brought him up thinking the world owed him a living, and who thinks he actually knows a few things. You want loyalty from your line cooks. Somebody who wakes up with a scratchy throat and slight fever and thinks it's okay to call in sick is not what I'm looking for.
While it's necessary for cooks to take pride in their work-it's a good idea to let a good cook stretch a little now and again with the occasional contribution of a special or a soup-this is still the army.
Ultimately, I want a salute and a 'Yes, sir! Your customers arrive expecting the same dish prepared the same way they had it before; they don't want some budding Wolfgang Puck having fun with kiwis and coriander with a menu item they've come to love. There are plenty of exceptions, of course. I have a few Americans in my traveling road show, a few key people whom I tend to hire over and over as I move from place to place.
The relationship between chef and sous-chef can be a particularly intimate one, for instance, and it's nice to have someone with a similar background and world-view when you're going to spend almost every waking hour together. Women line cooks, however rare they might be in the testosterone- heavy, male-dominated world of restaurant kitchens, are a particular delight.
To have a tough-as-nails, foul-mouthed, trash-talking female line cook on your team can be a true joy-and a civilizing factor in a unit where conversation tends to center around who's got the bigger balls and who takes it in the ass. I've been fortunate enough to work with some really studly women line cooks-no weak reeds these. One woman, Sharon, managed to hold down a busy saute station while seven months pregnant-and still find time to provide advice and comfort to a romantically unhappy broiler man.
A long-time associate, Beth, who likes to refer to herself as the 'Grill Bitch', excelled at putting loudmouths and fools into their proper place. She refused to behave any differently than her male co-workers: She was as sexually aggressive, and as vocal about it, as her fellow cooks, but unlikely to suffer behavior she found demeaning.
One sorry Moroccan cook who pinched her ass found himself suddenly bent over a cutting board with Beth dry-humping him from behind, saying, 'How do you like it, bitch? Another female line cook I had the pleasure of working with arrived at work one morning to find that an Ecuadorian pasta cook had decorated her station with some particularly ugly hard-core pornography of pimply-assed women getting penetrated in every orifice by pot-bellied guys with prison tattoos and back hair.
She didn't react at all, but a little later, while passing through the pasta man's station, casually remarked. Mom looks good for her age. Do nof fuck with a line cook's 'meez'- meaning their set-up, their carefully arranged supplies of sea salt, rough-cracked pepper, softened butter, cooking oil, wine, back-ups and so on.
The universe is in order when your station is set up the way you like it: If you let your mise-en-place run down, get dirty and disorganized, you'll quickly find yourself spinning in place and calling for back-up. I worked with a chef who used to step behind the line to a dirty cook's station in the middle of the rush to explain why the offending cook was falling behind.
He'd press his palm down on the cutting board, which was littered with peppercorns, spattered sauce, bits of parsley, breadcrumbs and the usual flotsam and jetsam that accumulates quickly on a station if not constantly wiped away with a moist side-towel.
Work cleanf Working clean, constantly wiping and cleaning, is a desirable state of affairs for the conscientious line cook. That chef was right: This explains why side-towels are hoarded like gold by good line cooks. When the linen order arrives, the smart cookies fall onto it voraciously, stashing stacks of the valuable objects anywhere they can hide them.
One cook I knew would load them above the acoustic tile in the ceiling above his station, along with his favorite tongs, favorite non-stick pans, slotted spoons, and anything else he figured he needed on his station and didn't want another cook to get. I'm sure that years later, though that restaurant has changed hands many times since, future generations of cooks are still finding stashes of fluffy, clean side-towels.
It's not just clean that you value in a side-towel-it's dry. It's nice, wiping the rim of a plate with a slightly moist one, but try grabbing a red-hot saute pan handle with a wet towel, and you'll learn fast why a fresh stack of dry towels is a necessity. Some traditional European kitchens still issue two towels per cook at the beginning of the shift: This strikes me as criminally parsimonious.
I like a tall stack, conveniently located over my station, in neatly folded, kitty-cornered, easy-to-grab fashion, and I don't ever want to run out. I'll rip through twenty of them in the course of an eight-hour service period, and if it costs my masters a few bucks extra, tough. I'm not burning my hand or wiping grease on my nice plates because they're too mean to shell out for a few more rented towels.
What exactly is this mystical mise-en-place I keep going on about? Why are some line cooks driven to apoplexy at the pinching of even a few grains of salt, a pinch of parsley? Because we set it up the way we want it. Because it's like our knives, about which you hear the comment: A typical one would be composed of, for instance: A good line cook has to be able to remain clear-headed, organized and reasonably even-keeled during hectic and stressful service periods.
When you've got thirty or forty or more tables all sitting down at the same time and ordering different items with different temperatures, the stuff has to come up together; the various stations-saute, garde-manger, broiler, middle-have to assemble a party of ten's dinner at the same moment.
You can't have one member of a party's Dover sole festering in the window by the saute station while the grill guy waits for a rack of lamb to hit medium-rare. It's got to come up together! Your hero line cook doesn't let the screaming, the frantic cries of 'Is it ready yet? He's got to keep all those temperatures straight in his head, remembering which steak goes with what.
He's got to be able to tune out the howls of outrage from the chef, the tiny, gibbering annoyances from the floor, the curses and questions and prompts from his co-workers: If you're a saute man, your grill man is your dance partner, and chances are, you're spending the majority of your time working in a hot, uncomfortably confined, submarine-like space with him. You're both working around open flame, boiling liquids with plenty of blunt objects at close hand-and you both carry knives, lots of knives.
So you had better get along. It will not do to have two heavily armed cooks duking it out behind the line over some perceived insult when there are vats of boiling grease and razor-sharp cutlery all around.
So who the hell, exactly, are these guys, the boys and girls in the trenches? You might get the impression from the specifics of my less than stellar career that all line cooks are wacked-out moral degenerates, dope fiends, refugees, a thuggish assortment of drunks, sneak thieves, sluts and psychopaths.
You wouldn't be too far off base. The business, as respected three-star chef Scott Bryan explains it, attracts 'fringe elements', people for whom something in their lives has gone terribly wrong.
Maybe they didn't make it through high school, maybe they're running away from something-be it an ex-wife, a rotten family history, trouble with the law, a squalid Third World backwater with no opportunity for advancement. Or maybe, like me, they just like it here. They're comfortable with the rather relaxed and informal code of conduct in the kitchen, the elevated level of tolerance for eccentricity, unseemly personal habits, lack of documentation, prison experience.
In most kitchens, one's freakish personal proclivities matter little if at all. Can you keep up? Are you ready for service? Can I count on you to show up at work tomorrow, to not let the side down? I can break down line cooks into three subgroups. You've got your Artists: This group includes specialists like patissiers the neurologists of cooking , sous-chefs, butchers, garde-manger psychos, the occasional saucier whose sauces are so ethereal and perfect that delusions of grandeur are tolerated.
Then there are the Exiles: Finally, there are the Mercenaries: Cooks who, though they have little love or natural proclivity for cuisine, do it at a high level because they are paid well to do it-and because they are professionals. Cooking is a craft, I like to think, and a good cook is a craftsman-nofan artist.
There's nothing wrong with that: Practicing your craft in expert fashion is noble, honorable and satisfying.
And I'll generally take a stand-up mercenary who takes pride in his professionalism over an artist any day. When I hear 'artist', I think of someone who doesn't think it necessary to show up at work on time. More often than not their efforts, convinced as they are of their own genius, are geared more to giving themselves a hard-on than satisfying the great majority of dinner customers.
Personally, I'd prefer to eat food that tastes good and is an honest reflection of its ingredients, than a 3-foot-tall caprice constructed from lemon grass, lawn trimmings, coconuts and red curry. You could lose an eye trying to eat that. When a job applicant starts telling me how Pacific Rim-job cuisine turns him on and inspires him, I see trouble coming.
Send me another Mexican dishwasher anytime. I can teach him to cook. I can't teach character. Show up at work on time six months in a row and we'll talk about red curry paste and lemon grass. Until then, I have four words for you: Yet the place had customers.
I wonder, had the sign said 'Cheap Sushi' or 'Old Sushi', if they'd still have eaten there. Good food and good eating are about risk. Every once in a while an oyster, for instance, will make you sick to your stomach. Does this mean you should stop eating oysters? The more exotic the food, the more adventurous the serious eater, the higher the likelihood of later discomfort. I'm not going to deny myself the pleasures of morcilla sausage, or sashimi, or even ropa vieja at the local Cuban joint just because sometimes I feel bad a few hours after I've eaten them.
But there are some general principles I adhere to, things I've seen over the years that remain in mind and have altered my eating habits. I may be perfectly willing to try the grilled lobster at an open-air barbecue shack in the Caribbean, where the refrigeration is dubious and I can see with my own eyes the flies buzzing around the grill I mean, how often am I in the Caribbean?
I want to make the most of it! I know how old most seafood is on Monday-about four to five days old! You walk into a nice two-star place in Tribeca on a sleepy Monday evening and you see they're running a delicious sounding special of Yellowfin Tuna, Braised Fennel, Confit Tomatoes and a Saffron Sauce.
Why not go for it? Here are the two words that should leap out at you when you navigate the menu: Here's how it works: He's ordering a pretty good amount of it, too, as he's not getting another delivery until Monday morning. All right, some seafood purveyors make Saturday deliveries, but the market is closed Friday night. It's the same fish from Thursday! Jhe chef is hoping to sell the bulk of that fish-your tuna-on Friday and Saturday nights, when he assumes it will be busy.
He's assuming also that if he has a little left on Sunday, he can unload the rest of it then, as seafood salad for brunch, or as a special. It's merchandizing night, when whatever is left over from the weekend is used up, and hopefully sold for money. Why doesn't he throw the leftover tuna out? The guy can get deliveries on Monday, right? The seafood vendor is emptying out his refrigerator, too! But the Fulton Street fish market is open on Monday morning, you say!!
He can get fresh! I've been to the Fulton Street market at three o'clock on Monday morning, friends, and believe me, it does nof inspire confidence. Chances are good that that tuna you're thinking of ordering on Monday night has been kicking around in the restaurant's reach-ins, already cut and held with the mise-en-place on line, commingling with the chicken and the salmon and the lamb chops for four days, the reach-in doors swinging open every few seconds as the line cooks plunge their fists in, blindly feeling around for what they need.
These are not optimum refrigeration conditions. This is why you don't see a lot of codfish or other perishable items as a Sunday or Monday night special-they're not sturdy enough. He anticipates the likelihood that he might still have some fish lying around on Monday morning-and he'd like to get money for it without poisoning his customers. Seafood is a tricky business. By the time it's cut, the actual cost of each piece of cleaned fillet costs the chef more than twice that amount, and he'd greatly prefer to sell it than toss it in the garbage.
If it still smells okay on Monday night-you're eating it. I don't eat mussels in restaurants unless I know the chef personally, or have seen, with my own eyes, how they store and hold their mussels for service. But in my experience, most cooks are less than scrupulous in their handling of them.
More often than not, mussels are allowed to wallow in their own foul-smelling piss in the bottom of a reach-in. I'm sure, have special containers, with convenient slotted bins, which allow the mussels to drain while being held-and maybe, just maybe, the cooks at these places pick carefully through every order, mussel by mussel, making sure that everyone is healthy and alive before throwing them into a pot.
I haven't worked in too many places like that. Mussels are too easy. Line cooks consider mussels a gift; they take two minutes to cook, a few seconds to dump in a bowl, and ba- da-bing, one more customer taken care of-now they can concentrate on slicing the damn duck breast. I have had, at a very good Paris brasserie, the misfortune to eat a single bad mussel, one treacherous little guy hidden among an otherwise impeccable group.
It slammed me shut like a book, sent me crawling to the bathroom shitting like a mink, clutching my stomach and projectile vomiting. I prayed that night. And, as you might assume. I'm the worst kind of atheist.
Fortunately, the French have liberal policies on doctor's house calls and affordable health care. But I do not care to repeat that experience. No thank you on the mussels. If I'm hungry for mussels. I'll pick the good-looking ones out of your order. How about seafood on Sunday? Brunch menus are an open invitation to the cost-conscious chef, a dumping ground for the odd bits left over from Friday and Saturday nights or for the scraps generated in the normal course of business.
You see a fish that would be much better served by quick grilling with a slice of lemon, suddenly all dressed up with vinaigrette? For 'en vinaigrette' on the menu, read 'preserved' or 'disguised'. While we're on brunch, how about hollandaise sauce? And hollandaise, that delicate emulsion of egg yolks and clarified butter, must be held at a temperature not too hot nor too cold, lest it break when spooned over your poached eggs.
Unfortunately, this lukewarm holding temperature is also the favorite environment for bacteria to copulate and reproduce in. Nobody I know has ever made hollandaise to order. Most likely, the stuff on your eggs was made hours ago and held on station. Equally disturbing is the likelihood that the butter used in the hollandaise is melted table butter, heated, clarified, and strained to get out all the breadcrumbs and cigarette butts.
Butter is expensive, you know. Hollandaise is a veritable petri-dish of biohazards. And how long has that Canadian bacon been festering in the walk-in anyway?
Remember, brunch is only served once a week-on the weekends. Buzzword here, 'Brunch Menu'. One other point about brunch. A wise chef will deploy his besf line cooks on Friday and Saturday nights; he'll be reluctant to schedule those same cooks early Sunday morning, especially since they probably went out after work Saturday and got hammered until the wee hours.
Worse, brunch is demoralizing to the serious line cook. Nothing makes an aspiring Escoffier feel more like an army commissary cook, or Mel from Mel's Diner, than having to slop out eggs over bacon and eggs Benedict for the Sunday brunch crowd. Brunch is punishment block for the 'B'-Team cooks, or where the farm team of recent dishwashers learn their chops.
Most chefs are off on Sundays, too, so supervision is at a minimum. Consider that before ordering the seafood frittata. I will eat bread in restaurants. The reuse of bread is an industry-wide practice. I saw a recent news expose, hidden camera and all, where the anchor was shocked.
I'm sure that some restaurants explicitly instruct their Bengali busboys to throw out all that unused bread-which amounts to about 50 percent-and maybe some places actually do it.
But when it's busy, and the busboy is crumbing tables, emptying ashtrays, refilling water glasses, making espresso and cappuccino, hustling dirty dishes to the dishwasher-and he sees a basket full of untouched bread-most times he's going to use it.
This is a fact of life. This doesn't bother me, and shouldn't surprise you. Okay, maybe once in a while some tubercular hillbilly has been coughing and spraying in the general direction of that bread basket, or some tourist who's just returned from a walking tour of the wetlands of West Africa sneezes-you might find that prospect upsetting.
But you might just as well avoid air travel, or subways, equally dodgy environments for airborne transmission of disease. I won't eaX in a restaurant with filthy bathrooms. This isn't a hard call. They let you see the bathrooms. If the restaurant can't be bothered to replace the puck in the urinal or keep the toilets and floors clean, then just imagine what their refrigeration and work spaces look like.
Bathrooms are relatively easy to clean. In fact, if you see the chef sitting unshaven at the bar, with a dirty apron on, one finger halfway up his nose, you can assume he's not handling your food any better behind closed doors.
Your waiter looks like he just woke up under a bridge? If management allows him to wander out on the floor looking like that, God knows what they're doing to your shrimp!
Sounds like leftovers to me. I like it fine. But my seafood purveyor, when he goes out to dinner, won't eat it. He's seen too many of those 3-foot-long parasitic worms that riddle the fish's flesh.
You see a few of these babies-and we all do-and you won't be tucking into swordfish anytime soon. More than likely frozen. This came as a surprise to me when I visited the market recently. Apparently the great majority of the stuff arrives frozen solid, still on the bone. In fact, as I said earlier, the whole Fulton Street market is not an inspiring sight. Fish is left to sit, un-iced, in leaking crates, in the middle of August, right out in the open.
What isn't bought early is sold for cheap later. The next folks to arrive will be the cat- food people. Think about that when you see the 'Discount Sushi' sign. Every piece of cut, fabricated food must, ideally, be sold for three or even four times its cost in order for the chef to make his 'food cost percent'. So what happens when the chef finds a tough, slightly skanky end-cut of sirloin, that's been pushed repeatedly to the back of the pile? He can throw it out, but that's a total loss, representing a three-fold loss of what it cost him per pound.
He can feed it to the family, which is the same as throwing it out. Or he can 'save for well-done'-serve it to some rube who prefers to eat his meat or fish incinerated into a flavorless, leathery hunk of carbon, who won't be able to tell if what he's eating is food or flotsam.
Ordinarily, a proud chef would hate this customer, hold him in contempt for destroying his fine food. But not in this case. The dumb bastard is paying for the priviiege of eating his garbage. Vegetarians, and their Hezbollah-like splinter-faction, the vegans, are a persistent irritant to any chef worth a damn.
To me, life without veal stock, pork fat, sausage, organ meat, demi-glace, or even stinky cheese is a life not worth living. Vegetarians are the enemy of everything good and decent in the human spirit, an affront to all I stand for, the pure enjoyment of food.
The body, these waterheads imagine, is a temple that should not be polluted by animal protein. It's healthier, they insist, though every vegetarian waiter I've worked with is brought down by any rumor ot a cold. Oh, I'll accommodate them. I'll rummage around for something to feed them, for a 'vegetarian plate', if called on to do so.
Fourteen dollars for a few slices of grilled eggplant and zucchini suits my food cost fine. But let me tell you a story. A few years back, at a swinging singles joint on Columbus Avenue, we had the misfortune to employ a sensitive young man as a waiter who, in addition to a wide and varied social life involving numerous unsafe sexual practices, was something of a jailhouse lawyer.
After he was fired for incompetence, he took it on himself to sue the restaurant, claiming that his gastrointestinal problem, caused apparently by amoebas, was a result of his work there.
Management took this litigation seriously enough to engage the services of an epidemiologist, who obtained stool samples from every employee. The results-which I was privy to-were enlightening to say the least. The waiter's strain of amoebas, it was concluded, was common to persons of his lifestyle, and to many others.
What was interesting were the results of our Mexican and South American prep cooks. These guys were teeming wWh numerous varieties of critters, none of which, in their cases, caused illness or discomfort. It was explained that the results in our restaurant were no different from results at any other restaurant and that, particularly amongst my recently arrived Latino brethren, this sort of thing is normal-that their systems are used to it, and it causes them no difficulties at all.
Amoebas, however, are transferred most easily through the handling of raw, uncooked vegetables, particularly during the washing of salad greens and leafy produce. So think about that next time you want to exchange deep tongue kisses with a vegetarian.
I'm not even going to talk about blood. Spock was pleased to find that Nyota was a dedicated student in this discipline as well. Kirk threw him a skeptical look as he moved his rook. Come on, you're a free man now. Any other single male aboard this ship who spent that much time with Uhura wouldn't be content to remain mere colleagues. Spock picked up his knight. Kirk raised one golden eyebrow. I've never seen her flirt with another crewmember on the bridge and Rand told me all about her little song and dance for you last year.
Spock did not give his conversation with Jim another thought until Nyota canceled their weekly cooking session a few days later. He was displeased by her excuse. He wondered what activities Nyota was currently engaged in with M'Benga. Would he seek to initiate physical contact? Would Nyota be receptive to M'Benga's overtures? That evening, Spock required a longer meditation period. Spock began to take notice of the other crewmen with whom Nyota spent a significant amount of time.
She spent shore leave in the company of Sulu and Chekov. She ate lunch with Riley. She had nightcaps with McCoy. Most upsetting was the increased frequency with which she went on romantic dates. While Spock reasoned that she only had dinner with Mr. Simmons thrice and M'Benga twice more, he found it preferable when she refrained from dating altogether. Spock stood silently on the periphery of the central recreation room. The room was decorated in white, red, green and blue in celebration of the Terran holiday season.
The speakers blared an eclectic mix of holiday tunes spanning traditions and the attendees danced about wearing gaudy sweaters adorned with bells, pom-poms and glitter. Spock disliked parties but Kirk required all senior officers to attend. Spock's normal routine was to arrive at the start of such mandatory social functions, remain until the Captain noticed his presence and then make a hasty retreat to his quarters.
However, it was now late into the evening and Spock found himself standing in the same spot he occupied when he first arrived.
His dark eyes were fixed on the sight of Nyota standing beneath a sprig of mistletoe. She was wearing a knee-length green satin dress that revealed her arms and cleavage.
Spock watched her stand or dance in the vicinity of the mistletoe for most of the evening, giving kisses to every crewmember that approached her. Spock's gaze narrowed as he watched Chekov dip a laughing Uhura for another kiss. Her behavior was wildly inappropriate. Spock continued to watch Uhura, his lips thinning as the captain approached. McCoy followed the direction of his eyes, looking between the two a few times before laughing and slapping his thigh.
Spock turned to look at the smirking doctor for the first time that evening. Faulty speculation, at that. I believe that Ms. Uhura was quite clear. She does not wish to kiss you again.
Should you persist in your demands, I shall have no choice but to file a formal reprimand against you for harassment. Uhura crossed her arms over her chest. I could handle Riley on my own. But, his behavior was inappropriate. Her eyes twinkled and her lips twitched. I am standing just below the mistletoe.
As are you, Mr. Spock meditated on their kiss that evening. It had been a brief press of his lips against her own, but he felt the tremor of desire that ran through her body at the contact. Spock thought it a very pleasant experience that he desired to repeat in the future.
There was no impediment preventing him from pursuing more. All that remained was ascertaining Nyota's desire for a deeper relationship. He would make the proper inquiries during their next social engagement. Sometimes Spock developed a recipe backwards. By carefully tasting and examining a dish, he could figure out the ingredients and hypothesize their proper amounts.
So it was with the peanut butter balls that McCoy supplied at the holiday party. Spock found them to be very pleasing. McCoy refused to divulge the recipe, claiming that it was an old family recipe. Nyota was able to coax a tray of the peanut butter balls out of the doctor and brought the samples to their next cooking session.
Uhura nodded her head. Now to figure out how to put them together. They worked side by side in companionable silence, melting peanut butter and chocolate and forming balls. Nyota stopped every now and then to coax a treat into Spock's mouth to test their progress. He readily accepted the desserts, growing more relaxed with each bite. After a fourth trial, Nyota pronounced the balls to be perfected.
She leaned against the counter with a cup of coffee in one hand and a peanut butter ball in the other. The next day they received a distress call from the Malurian system and encountered the space probe self-identified as Nomad. Spock could do nothing as Nomad attacked Nyota and erased her mind.
The probe was destroyed and Uhura slowly recovered her knowledge and most of her memories. However, she did not remember the hours spent seated before a lit firepot in his quarters or the fleeting touch of his mind as he led her deeper into herself. She did not remember chopping vegetables for plomeek soup or sparring with him in the gym. She could not recall the brief touch of his lips to hers or her answering tremor of desire. Spock no longer played his ka'athrya for his colleagues or cooked meals in the Officer's Kitchen.
He donated his latest crop of peanuts to the ship's reserves; the taste of peanuts no longer so pleasing a thing. Two years later, Spock stood in Sickbay looking down over the still form of Lt. During a recent away mission on Silvus, the landing party was attacked by an unidentified psychic parasite. Two security crewmembers were killed instantly and another died after withering away for weeks.
Nyota remained in a coma, her condition deteriorating daily as the parasite fed. I don't want to loose two of my best officers. I alone am able to assist Lt. If nothing is done to combat the creature and wake Uhura from her coma, she will die.
If Spock thinks he can handle the strain, I say we let him try. Spock had not volunteered simply because of his telepathic abilities. He volunteered because he knew this woman.
He had tasted Nyota Uhura and figured out her ingredients. He knew their proper ratios, the exact temperature to cook them, the precise amount of time. She was not just a pretty confection, sweet on the lips but forgettable; a brief burst of energy that left one lethargic.
Nyota was a slow burning woman, deceptively hardy and complex. She was tart and savory, sweet and sour. She was light and rich; the kind of woman who could satisfy his hunger and make his blood run hot. Spock placed his fingers on her psi points, her skin soft and cool beneath his fingers.
He sank into her mind until their thoughts were one. He quickly found the parasite, an impenetrable shadow looming in the recesses of her psyche. It had grown strong feeding on her bright spirit. He wrestled with the creature, their wills locked in combat, the minutes passing like hours. When he finally overcame the creature and restored the ravaged places, he was spent. Spock pulled back from her mind as he felt her psyche growing warm and bright. After spending several days recovering in Sickbay, Spock was released to his quarters.
Despite his assertions, McCoy ordered Spock to take three additional days to recover before returning to duty. Spock had just settled down onto the floor with his ka'athrya when his door chime sounded. He was surprised yet pleased when Uhura stepped into the room, dressed in civilian attire and holding a basket.
I thought I'd put them to use. She paused in her preparations. Spock looked away, his posture rigid. Uhura scooted closer to him and put her hand on his, her palm resting on the back of his hand. Spock turned towards her, his eyes dark, his face clothed in its normal mask of reserve. He slowly turned his palm upwards until the pads of their fingers touched.
Nyota took deep breaths as he conveyed the depth of his affection. Spock refrained from commenting on the illogic of her statement, content to savor the sensation of wholeness and warmth that filled him. He examined one perfect wedge of his peanut butter sandwich, running his finger along the crust-free edge. He took a bite and chewed slowly. His taste buds awakened as if he tasted peanut butter for the first time. After writing this, I realized that the plot device with Nomad was very similar to and no doubt inspired by Teresa AF's wonderful story A Brief Encounter , which I think has become my personal fanon for what a romantic relationship between Spock and Uhura during the first 3 years of their 5 year mission might have looked like.
Just In All Stories: Story Story Writer Forum Community. Nothing ruins the taste of peanut butter like unrequited love," Charlie Brown Spock discovers the wonders of peanut butter and love.
Written for St Respect on LiveJournal. Prequel to Golden Bells and Serpent Gods. I don't own from Star Trek or profit from this story. This product contains peanuts. Spock discovers the wonders of peanuts and love. Spock took a large swig of the cool creamy liquid. His grandmother just laughed before patting his cheek affectionately. I hope that mother sent along some of her famous peanut butter fudge.
It is my belief that the peanut should be presented to the Agricultural Council so that they might research the practicality of cultivating the crop on Vulcan…" Spock continued to explain the benefits of the peanut unaware that his parents had long ceased to listen.
Grandma Alease's Famous Peanut Butter Fudge "I do believe that you have developed a sweet tooth," his grandmother told him after Spock had eaten his fourth piece of peanut butter fudge. Uhura of her bag. Bibi Uhura's Peanut Soup Spock found the first few weeks of his latest mission to be rather uneventful. I suppose that music has a different effect on the human nervous system. Uhura, I am willing to teach you. All of my friends do. You may address me as Spock. However, I do have one request.
Spock looked down at her with soft eyes. Our relationship is platonic. May you both have a pleasant evening," Spock crisply replied. The Vulcan is green with jealousy! I know multiple people who just aren't affected by edibles and I live in colorado so I highly doubt they're consistently getting edibles that were made wrong from a store while everyone else just happens to get the good ones. Everything that goes through your stomach gets absorbed through the liver Gold is the only metal that is yellow or "golden".
Other metals may develop a yellowish color, but only after they have oxidized or reacted with other chemicals. Want to say thanks to your mysterious benefactor? Reply to this message. You will find out their username if they choose to reply back. So people who are making them could add some alkaline stuff to make their edibles more effective? So just to recap all I need to make edibles work faster and better is a simple antacid?
I wish I knew about this a lot sooner! Huh, I wonder if I have extra strong stomach acid. I'm completely immune to edibles. Thought it was the fact that I have a fast metabolism. That's good to know. Never even thought about stomach acid eating away the THC before it could get absorbed. So now I can stop eating my chocolates in an extremely slow fashion?
I seem to get way higher a little chunk every few mins instead of eating it quick but this could be a reason. I am so fucking doing this right now!
I feel like I never get high enough no matter how much I eat. I also have GERD but don't take my meds until it actually bothers me. You may have changed my life. If it works, you're my new bff. I have 4g of very light brown AVB. I use to get it dark brown. It it wasn't as potent. Now that I have some awesome abv how much do u think I should take? I have a high tolerance. Ibuprofen has been in the news lately as a mellowing agent, it is supposed to help with memory problems too.
I need to try this. I thought I was a freak. Before this thread, I had no idea there were so many people with an unfortunately level of tolerance against edibles. I will definitely try this. I do have too much acid in my stomach sometimes so maybe that is why I haven't gotten much out of the edibles I've tried. I definitely don't need this. I usually over do my serving, get way too fucking high increasingly over the course of an hour - hour and a half, nap for like 2 or 3 hours and them I'm 'd for the rest of the day.
I might give it a whirl if the opportunity presents itself, but I'm gunna have to make couchlock preparations for at least hours. Please note that there are no exceptions to this rule. I am a bot , and this action was performed automatically. Please contact the moderators of this subreddit if you have any questions or concerns.
Will try this next time! This makes sense im diff going to try this! I really hope this works I've tried edibles many times home made and the club ones. I've never once gotten the slightest bit high from them. I heard that there was a certain enzyme that your body has to produce but I'm going to give this a try today and buy a Korova. I'll let you know the results.
Also I put forth the motion we call antacids entacids instead. All who agree say I, those who disagree can go fuck themselves just kidding guys i love you all. Antacids are not very good for you and contain heavy metals. Look into using "Aluminium-Free Baking soda" in a glass of water.
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Want to add to the discussion? Now I know why. I feel your struggle. I know this works so I don't mind the trolls. I've never had any difficulty, and I actually have acid reflux.
I've never had an unhappy result with this method. Boil water, steep chai-spice tea bags for 5 to 10 minutes. Add anywhere from a teaspoon to a tablespoon of heavy cream If necessary, microwave the tea for 10 to 15 seconds to reheat it don't let it boil Add decarbed weed, and stir for 5 to 10 minutes I will usually stir for 5 to 10 minutes, microwave again for 10 or 15 seconds, stir again, repeat.
I used to eat Tums like candy as a kid. Pretty much after every meal. Like if you eat a couple every day or a couple dozen? Any truth behind this, or is it placebo? So it could help someone who has too much acid but too much will backfire on you. I'm basically a doctor. Holy shit that's ridiculous! That must have cost a fortune for that much edibles. Check out this paper: I wanna explanation too.
Someone needs to do a real study on why some people don't get high from edibles. I've never heard of this method. When you do try it and it works, I would love to know that it did indeed work for you also!
Please let me know how this works! The antacid and turmeric method- I will have to try. You're doing the EntGods work. Up votes for you good sir. I really don't know how the antacids should help, but it's worth the try. It gets metabolized in the liver.
See more ideas about Cannabis, Medicine and Herbal medicine. Reposting @ axtschmiede: Don't talk, just act. the world of cannabis cuisine, including recipes from the great chefs and ganjapreneurs who fuel our appetite for adventure. Captain Kirk is a three-time Cannabis Cup winner in the Edibles category, with. See more ideas about Tailgate desserts, Food and Recipes. There is no need to choose between cookies or apple pie anymore because you can enjoy. Awesome This hybrid dessert is the perfect blend of pecan pie and brownies! .. Chocolate Desserts, White Chocolate, Banana Brownies, No Bake Brownies.