My Dinner with Martin

A few weeks ago I was the head kitchen flunky at the L.A. Times Book Festival Culinary Stage. One of the guest chefs I had the pleasure of assisting was Martin Yan. Not only is he a superb chef but the original cooking entertainer. His fans in the first row brought their own plates to grab a sample of his demo food. He's like a stand up comedium with a cleaver. He demonstrated his cutting techniques on stage, including cutting up the chicken in this photo in a mere 16 seconds. I carted it home and stuck it in my freezer. Today I made a classic French dish using this special chicken. I can pretend Martin cooked it for me.

COQ (COUPE PAR MARTIN YAN) DU VIN

1 chicken, cut up into 8 pieces -- a kosher stewing chicken is best
1 bottle of good quality red wine -- 2 Buck Chuck Gamay Beaujolais or Shiraz are fine - no Merlot!
a bouquet garni of bay leaf, sprig of fresh thyme, parsley stalks
coursely ground black pepper

Marinate the chicken in wine with the bouquet garni and pepper. Let sit overnight, at least 8-10 hours.

In a heavy Dutch oven, heat on medium flame:

2 tablespoons olive oil
3 tablespoons unsalted butter

Add:

1/3 lb smoked bacon, chopped and blanched for 1 min

Cook for a few minutes, stirring constantly. Add the chicken and brown on both sides a few pieces at a time.

In a ladle, add and carefully flame with a match:

2 tablespoons Cognac

Pour flaming cognac over chicken. Shake to loosen chicken from pan and add:

1 tablespoon flour

Stir well. Cook a few more minutes. Strain and add the wine marinade with the bouquet garni to the chicken with:

2 peeled and crushed garlic cloves

Cover chicken and wine and simmer for 45 minutes on low heat. In the last 10 minutes, brown in a separate pan:

1 tablespoon unsalted butter
2 medium white onions and 2 medium shallots
a sprinkle of salt and sugar

Turn regularly to brown evenly on medium heat. Add to pan:

1/4 lb small white mushrooms, washed, dried, cut in half
juice of 1/2 lemon

Cook for 5 minutes.

Add onions/shallots and mushrooms chicken and wine. Stir gently. Skim off visible fat. Season to taste.
Serve with a crusty baguette. Eat well. Laugh hearty.

On Worship

Okay, it's Sunday. For the record, I didn't go to church. I never go to church.

Actually, I take it back. Saturday afternoon I ended up attending part of a Catholic Mass celebrated by Fr. Greg Boyle in honor of his birthday. I'd dropped by the Delores Mission to pay my respects to someone I admire, the founder of HomeBoy Industries. Little did I know it would include a religious service I'd proudly boycotted since I left Catholic School. Had I known, would I have even shown up at all?

I'm of the generation of Catholic School kids who saw the tail end of the "old school" Church. We sang in Latin. We felt the whack the of the nun's ruler or wooden pointer on our knuckles and behinds. We won prizes for reciting whole chapters of the Baltimore Catechism. We named our pets after God's martyrs and saints. We hooted Sr. Mary Ignatius on Broadway. But most of us aren't practicing Catholics anymore. We haven't signed up with any other faiths and aren't searching either.

Are we just Godless heathens or spineless agnotics?

Me? I'm somewhere just outside the fold. I know when to stand, kneel and cross myself during a Catholic service. I can recite all the prayers along with the other worshippers. And I realize it's all rote. I could do it in my sleep. When worship becomes something you do on automatic pilot, you might as well not do it at all. An omnipotent God knows when you're just going through the motions.

Some years ago I tried explaining to my devoutly Catholic mom that I had found another way to "pray." I assured her that sending us to Catholic School was not a waste. It had imprinted on me the practice of doing good works, donating time and effort to good causes with no thought of personal reward. In fact, I know that self-serving intentions are tantamount to Original Sin. I no longer believe in Heaven, so salvation isn't the point of good deeds. You do it because it's the right thing to do. And how do I know that? Because I was raised Catholic.

The past few months, some charity has been sending me fundraising mailers with religious key chains. I'm surprised at how offended I feel. These trinkets aren't like a rosary you can pray with or be buried with. They're tacky, mercenary pieces of marketing aimed at people who respond by rote to icons. I'm not having it.

I've pinned them up on my bulletin board crowded with family photos, notes and reminders. They help me remember what's a chore a what's a prayer.

Every Amen has to be earned.

That's Democracy, Babe

A friend emailed in a panic, asking my advice on how to "get out of" jury duty. Somehow, he's managed to be excused from or postpone service for years. He reminded me that, as his boss, I used to write great letters and faxes that got him out of this chore.

Now I'm no longer his boss but I'm telling him to bite the bullet and do this noble deed. Afterall, jury duty rules have been revamped. You can't wheezle out of it anymore. For those who managed to stay untraceable by not registering to vote, they're hip to you now. They use DMV records for the jury summons.

At $15./day plus mileage reimbursement, L.A. Superior Court is a hardly a reward for good citizenship. But think of the other opportunities that await you: Another former employee met his future wife in the jury assembly room. A director friend ran into an old exec during jury selection which led to a directing assignment. On the last civil case I served on, I actually made a few friends. We recently got together for coffee. In our tight, insular career circles, we would never have crossed paths at all.

Jury duty is the most unrefined, unabashed manifestation of democracy today. All races and social classes are thrown together. Nobody gets special treatment. It's equally slow and tedious, no matter what your educational level. A trial is not the Hollywood show we're used to watching. But a jury deliberation can be more absorbing than a good night of American Idol. On my last case, I was surprised by the intellect and eloquence of fellow jurors I'd written off as dense or had caught dozing off during the trial. We argued and debated passionately, even though our case was a mind-numblingly dull civil suit. The guy who led us to a verdict was not the jury foreman, but a schmoe who sat quiet as a mouse until he rose and proposed a compromise with such clarity that we all bought in.

It was like a Hollywood moment. Only this one was real.

So, go and catch this show. The worst that can happen is that your boss will miss you. Or you'll nod off in court. It's okay. Someone will wake you. You never know who. Prepare to be surprised.

How Can This Be Good?

Tripe is one of the few foods of childhood I will not eat today. Ditto okra. I'm fine with beef tongue and calf liver now. But tripe doesn't cut it, and that's across all ethnic cuisines.

Why? It's bland, white, beautiful to look at. Looks like bee honeycomb. It has no strong smell or flavor. It's basically harmless. On par with tofu: a cheap protein cooked and eaten by many cultures world 'round. Peons and prosperous folks all partake of it. So, what's to dislike?

Food isn't just food. It's emotional. It's the baggage of childhood, familial relationships and teenage self-assertion. Tripe with tomatoes and garbanzo beans is my grandmother on a tirade about "During the war..." Tripe is about enforced gratitude. It's what follows after saying grace at the table. It's the swallow and gag of eating what you don't like. And it's the dread of another meal with another appearance of that thing that gets tougher and tougher every time you reheat it.

Tripe to me is about control.

Today I'm old enough to not have to eat it or buy it. I can laugh at it on a menu in Italy and Mexico. I can take an artful photo of it in a butcher's shop. I can appreciate the rest of the world that wants to eat it.

To all of you, be my guests.

I'll feast my eyes. And that's all.