Before the famed cradle of Cajun cuisine is wiped off the map, or buried under a toxic, oily sludge, I thought I would take a little diversionary jaunt down the Rue Mémoire of culinary television. Consider this the first installment of an intermittent, ongoing (maybe) series about television chefs. Please accept it as a trite diversion during a perilous time; bread and circuses. Or in this case, beignets and parades, as I’m starting with the boys from the Big Easy.

Unfortunately, I can’t bring up Louisiana cooking and television without mentioning one chef in particular. It is impossible to ignore Emeril Lagasse’s meteoric rise from sloppy kitchen hack with an idiotic catchphrase, to popular, loveable, sloppy kitchen hack with his own brand and a bunch of restaurants in hotel casinos and cruise ships.

But, whether you hate him, or happen to be a thorough dolt and actually love him, over the past decade and a half, Emeril has surely done more for the far-reaching popularity and (over) exposure of Louisiana cuisine than anyone else on television. Emeril’s okay when he’s sticking to the basics, and the meals I’ve eaten in his restaurants have usually been decent, but I just never understood why anybody would want to put him on TV. He always seemed oafish, and uncomfortably self-aware. Television was Emeril’s bitch goddess. He first rose to fame through appearances on the Great Chef’s series, and then landed his own shows, “Essence of Emeril” and “Emeril Live”. In addition to syndicated TV, Emeril also made numerous appearances on Shop at Home and The Home Shopping Network, hawking T-Fal and juice machines.

Perhaps he felt creatively stifled by television, or more than likely, he just ran out of stolen recipes, but Emeril soon tried to pass himself off as something more than just a chef of regional cuisine. Determined to expand the Emeril brand, he decided to leave his personal mark of the beast on otherwise conventional dishes. All of a sudden, BAM! He’s Cajun-izing everything from eggrolls to thanksgiving turkeys. Carelessly dusting everything in sight with his “essence,” which, incidentally is probably just ordinary cayenne pepper, garlic powder, thyme, and a bunch of salt. Watching him lurch around his kitchen set, “kicking it up a notch” while baiting the audience for his signature “Bam!” got old pretty fast.

Then there’s the inevitable overexposure through merchandising and endorsements. I mean, at least Paul Newman was a good-looking man, but Emeril? Just how much of this guy’s bloated, doughy mug do we need to see? Look! There he is! Selling knives and barbecue rub! And there he is again, vacantly grinning at me, from jars of pasta sauce and toothpaste ads.

Yeah, somebody up there really loved Emeril, for a while. But television -and especially HD TV- is not kind to blotchy, gin-skinned, squinting, slobs, with thinning hair and eighty extra pounds hanging from their stooped loins. There soon came a time when even Emeril couldn’t kick it up one more notch. His laid-back, anything goes, attitude started to play more like an uncomfortably desperate, too-eager-to-please, slovenly form of egomania. Creole spaghetti casseroles and a failed sitcom soon followed. I mean that thing had Robert Urich in it, so you just knew it was doomed from the get-go.

But really, don’t worry too much about Emeril. He’ll be fine. He’s a one-word brand, and besides, there’s always the publishing piece of the Emeril pie. Over the years, Emeril has stuck his name on more than a dozen cookbooks, most of which have the words “Cajun” or “Creole” (and of course, “Emeril”) in their titles. His latest, Farm to Fork; Cooking Local, Cooking Fresh, (which, rather oddly, does not include any of the magic words above) appears to pander to the “buy local” farmer’s market crowd. Yes, because you see, Emeril is about oh-so-much more than just jambalaya pizza and turducken tailgate parties. He’s taking a real grass-roots stance here. I don’t know. Maybe he’s even earnest, though he always just looks sweaty and uncomfortable to me. In any case, once again, this chef-turned-farmer is too dim to realize he’s showing up late for the hayride.

To be quite honest, I must admit that I have not read the book. This is due, mostly, to the horror and embarrassment I imagine I would feel, lest someone observe me lingering a bit too long in front of an Emeril Lagasse book display. However, I don’t need to linger very long to suss out this one. Farm to Fork, is the Bam Man’s attempt to break free from the kitchen and sell us a little bit of Lifestyle, whatever that means. I don’t even need to open it. The photo on the book’s front cover shows Emeril, contemplative, but smiling, proudly leaning on a shovel, as if taking a break from tending his small but bountiful plot of organic crops. If you squint, he does sort of look like a fat, swarthy, Martha Stewart.

NEXT: Paul Prudhomme won’t stand up. Justin Wilson can’t sit down.

FIN has recently re-opened, after two weeks of kitchen renovations. Butts, the owner, ordered a new, state-of the art exhaust system, new ductwork, fans, blowers, and range hoods. The range hoods were custom-built and shipped, from some artisan factory in Germany.

With FIN shuttered. Butts –for insane reasons I would only later discover- proposed the idea that I stop standing around, punching myself in the head for a few weeks and instead, hit the town with him, ostensibly to promote FIN. Butts even sent me to a bespoke shirt maker on account of he says I dress like a cross between a longshoreman and Ernie Bushmiller’s idea of a beatnik. This, coming from a guy who favors Members Only windbreakers and pleated suit pants.

Like a complete idiot in a weak moment, I agreed to his plan. So, with half-a-dozen brand new $450 shirts in my closet, and one on my back, off we went. I spent the following two hellish weeks, being dragged through a seemingly endless series of happy hours and after-parties at various nightclubs, martini bars, dining rooms, bistros and hot dog stands all over Manhattan, and at least two of the outlying boroughs. Which ones, I do not recall. To be quite honest, I don’t remember very much, as most of the time I was either drunk, or surly, or a noxious combination of the two.

First of all, I should just come right out and say it: I am a lousy self-promoter. It is just not something I’m comfortable with. Secondly, ballyhooing about your fabulous seafood restaurant while millions of gallons of crude oil spews into the Gulf of Mexico, only stokes and intensifies peoples’ concerns, and tends to raise their level of fear and sadness. Yeah, not a great time to be hawking seafood.

Butts was relentless, though. He was pimping me to doormen and maitre’ d’s like I was Gordon fucking Ramsay or somebody. It was embarrassing, although Butts certainly seemed pleased with himself. This sort of elitist, celebrity, hard-sell crap makes my skin crawl. I prefer to let the quality of the food we serve at FIN speak for itself. Butts’ obviousness and entitlement was grating on my nerves. Attempting to thwart panic attacks, I began breathing into paper bags, like some embarrassed paint huffer who has run out of Krylon.

I soon discovered the true purpose behind these nightly excursions had more to do with Butts pretending to be some sort of playboy restaurateur, than with the focused promotion of FIN. My role in this charade was merely that of an all-access VIP pass, wrapped in a linen dress shirt with an obscenely high thread-count. This actually made me feel better, as it removed some of the pressure. After that, I just had to put up with Butts, but, thankfully, they make vodka to help with stuff like that.

So, after a two-week blur of tasting plates, free wine, loud music and empty conversation, I am back in the kitchen. Actually: back in the office. No longer drunk, but just as surly as all-get-out.

The kitchen renovations at FIN are pretty striking, but I can’t help but feel irked by this kind of rampant spending, while the tragedy in the Gulf threatens an already-reeling coastal economy. And here, I am referring specifically to the men and women who commercially fish the Gulf Coast, and rely on it for their survival. They are the ones who stand to be hit hardest by this catastrophe.

I spent a few years working kitchens in New Orleans in the 1980’s right before the Cajun Cooking rage blew up and turned into a national trend. Some of these shrimpers suffering now are the same ones I bought from, dockside, back in 1983. Their way of life, and their individual successes may be altered forever, due to the catastrophic carelessness and greed of others. What I am trying to say is this: the mess in the gulf will undoubtedly touch us all, very much like a drifting, underwater, flume of sludgy crude oil.

I also take this personally. I mean, I operate a fucking seafood restaurant, after all. You had better believe I’m worried about this. What am I supposed to do? Start serving up plates of Tar Ball Fritters? Fuck.

I just sent all my shirts to the cleaners. The shiny German range hoods are quite impressive. As range hoods go, they are honestly pretty spectacular. Butts says I should take some photos and post them, but for some reason I just don’t feel much like doing that right now.

I got out of the city last week. Played hooky from Fin for a few days and boarded a plane to visit my friend, Amp, who is an artist in Bisbee, Arizona. The trip was enjoyable, relaxing, and much too short. Here’s something funny that happened to me at the airport:

I get off the plane in Tucson and I’m waiting around for Amp to meet me at the baggage claim. A soldier carrying a clipboard approaches. A Sergeant, dressed in crisp, desert fatigues.

“Uh, excuse me,” The Sergeant asks, squinting, “but are you with the Lithuanian commandos?”

What? Did I hear him right? I silently regard him for a moment: He is in his 20’s, smiling, hopeful. Something about his energy almost makes me want to apologize.

“Um, Nope, sorry. I’m not.”

He looks disappointed.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says awkwardly, “You see, I’m here to pick up …um, …I mean, meet some soldiers from Lithuania.”

“Uh huh,” I smile, allowing him to finish.

“…They’re Special Forces guys, visiting the base. They’re not traveling in uniform. …I’m sorry to bother you.”

“Sure. Okay,” I nod, politely, “No problem.”

Then I spot Amp, walking through the automatic doors at the other end of the baggage claim terminal. The Sergeant and I politely bid one another good day and that’s that.

So no big deal, right? Just one of those seemingly random, brief, and unremarkable interactions that occasionally dot the banal drudge of modern air travel. Okay, I’ll admit it; the part where the Sergeant stammered uncomfortably about hanging around the airport “picking up soldiers” was kind of amusing. And I suppose the knowledge that Lithuanian commandos are silently moving among us, undetected (at least until someone asks them about it, anyway) could be a bit unsettling to some citizens. However, looking back, what really surprised me –and here, as elsewhere, please excuse my egoism- is simply this:

Holy shit. I must look an awful lot like an off-duty Lithuanian commando.

I mean, a Sergeant in the U.S. Army’s Military Intelligence division actually thought I might be a Lithuanian commando. So this got me to thinking. What if, instead of just shrugging “no,” I had nodded and muttered “da” or something? I wonder how long that prank could have played-out. Maybe right now I’d be in a passenger van with a few other “agreeably confirmed” Lithuanian Special Ops guys. All of us, on our way to intensive interrogation training, at Fort Huachuca. I mean, just how far could I have taken this thing?

Well, in all honesty, probably not very far at all.

But still, this short interaction did make me take stock of a few things. Mainly the Sergeant’s somewhat clumsy reliance on snap judgment. Almost a form of “profiling”, if you will. He’s looking for Lithuanian commandos, and out of all the people waiting at the baggage claim –dozens, at least- he decides that I look the most like a Lithuanian commando. Or at least I look like his idea of what a Lithuanian commando, visiting Arizona, might look like.

I was wearing pretty much the same thing I always wear: black scally cap, black capilene undershirt, black nylon jacket, and (not black) Levis.

Hmm. Okay, granted, that IS an awful lot of black. I’d never really given it much thought before. In NYC I blend right in, unnoticed. In Arizona, I guess I just look suspicious and well, European.

Now that I think about it, I’ll bet it was my steel-toe boots that tipped him off. They look sort of military. Yep. I’ll bet it was the boots. Hmm. Maybe I’ll even start shining them on a regular basis. You just never know where your boots might take you.

Okay, so every once in a while I have to steel my resolve, crawl out from under my desk, and get back to yelling at people in the kitchen. But I am telling you; it is a stainless-steel jungle in there, with everyone careering around like an army of robotic chimps. Between the vapid gossip, the hyper-personal melodrama, and the excessive vain preening, I’m surprised any work gets done. All things considered, the numbers at Fin have been good lately, so I really shouldn’t complain.

Telulah must have been looking for something and caught me in one of my Col. Kurtz moments. I think I might have freaked her out just a little bit. But she’s still pretty new and all. In time she’ll get used to it, just like the rest of them. I guess Telulah has been on edge lately, on account of some unknown creep is stalking her. Telulah should really carry a knitting needle in her purse.

Georgina has been dating a human pincushion. Apparently, this guy likes to bedeck his man junk with an assortment of studs, hooks, rings, baubles, bangles and other ornaments. Sounds dangerous. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he had a knitting needle or two in his “purse” if you know what I mean.

Speaking of Georgina’s sexcapades, they may be cutting into her work. I only now noticed she hasn’t updated the specials on the Fin website in weeks. Tsk tsk.

On the upside, Round Guy has now gone nearly an entire month without a serious accident. Of course, this good fortune is due in part to Henry’s insistence that Round Guy wear oyster shucking gloves on both hands any time he even so much as picks up a knife. We are all proud of Round Guy’s success, but you know me, I’m still sort of waiting for the other shoe (or in this case the other clog) to drop on this one. We shall see.

Manny has been showing some promise in the kitchen. He still chatters incessantly, doesn’t listen, and his trousers don’t fit, but his knife skills have vastly improved. Since Manny doesn’t own a proper set of knives, and as a form of encouragement, I presented him with the gift of an 8-inch Santoku chef’s knife to get him started. Manny accepted it eagerly and graciously, but immediately fished around in his front pocket and then handed me a shiny quarter. Aha! Payment for the sharp gift. This is a fairly well known old superstition. It is customary, when receiving a sharp gift (such as a knife or scissors) to “pay for” the gift, thus accepting responsibility for any injuries resulting from the use of the sharp object. I was a bit surprised that Manny even knew about this. Turns out, Manny knows his superstitions. Here are a few more superstitions pertaining to knives.

It is bad luck to cross two knives. It may cause accidents.

It is bad luck to give a knife as a wedding present, as it has the symbolic powers to cut the ties of matrimony.

Never use a knife to stir food while cooking. “When you stir with a knife, you cook up strife.”

Immediately following a death in the family, knives should be used with great care, so as not to accidentally stab the dead person’s soul.

It is a good idea to place a jar of water with a knife in it behind the doors to your house. It scares away the devil and other evil spirits, as they see their reflection in the water along with the knife. According to Round Guy, it has to be a jar of water. If you use gin you will just wind up with a throng of drunken house cats.

My real name isn’t important, but I will tell you this: One time, while hiking through Peru, I met an old, native mystic. We sat together for a few hours, chewing chacchar and playing dominoes. With his tongue, green and swollen from the coca cud, the old man informed me that my Quechua name is Hamawt’a Llulla, which as it turns out, means either “Wise Man Who Speaks for the People”, or “Angry Fool who Talks in Circles”, depending on which translation you choose to believe.

…So you can just call me Chef. Here are a few other people named Chef:

Chef Boyardee: Everyone’s favorite grandfatherly chef in a can. His confident, wise image rekindles in me fuzzy memories of childhood innocence. Whether eating lonely lunches in the kitchen of an alcoholic babysitter’s doublewide; or later, during the awkward, listless, latch key years, Chef Boyardee was a frequent dining partner. Ever critical, he watched over me, from his chefly can. Smirking at me, silently judging me with grandfatherly disappointment and disapproval. Chef Boyardee is still around, but his widely publicized, racist tirade against Uncle Ben’s Rice Bowls seriously damaged his public image. These days you can usually find him at the local VFW post, playing gin rummy and bitching about his gout. He can also be found in aisle 6, below the Spaghettios.

Burger Chef: …was a chef of burgers. He rustled-up fast-food fare well beneath the radar of the King, the Clown, and the Pippi Longstocking orphaned ginger-girl. Though Burger Chef resembled a cartoon version of a high school guidance counselor, his demeanor was anything but. He was in fact a cruel tyrant in the kitchen. Often drunkenly harassing his burger sous-chef, Jeff, in front of customers. As time wore on, Burger Chef became more frazzled, unfocused, and  prone to inconsistent marketing schemes (Star Wars posters and circular baseball cards = brilliant! Strawberry Shortcake collectors glasses and race cars made out of greasy french fry boxes = terrible). As the dead hookers and gambling debts piled up, the Feds moved in and Burger Chef was finally forced to close his doors in 1996.

Chef from South Park: Yeah. He had the hat and all, but something about this chef always rubbed me the wrong way. He was a hypocrite. His wise “moralizing” was often followed by cheap, wanton lust. Sending him chasing after anything with a cartoon vagina. It just didn’t add up. I was glad when they finally killed him off. Really, I mean what’s one less chef in the world? Also, I heard that the Scientologists brainwashed the guy who played Chef and then somehow arranged for aliens to turn him into a Thetan embryo, which was then implanted in Katie Holmes’ uterus. True story!

The Swedish Chef: Exactly which corner of Jim Henson’s bong-addled mind did this character spring from? He makes absolutely no sense. Actual Swedes can’t even figure out what he’s saying. If I were Swedish, I would be understandably pissed-off by this fussy, bumbling, bottom-shelf stereotype. The Swedish chef makes a mockery of both Swedes and chefs alike. Plus, as you probably know, I fucking hate puppets.

Chef Jack Tripper: I realize his name isn’t really Chef, but I’m including him anyway. Three’s Company had already jumped the shark by the time Jack (finally) graduated form cooking school and (finally) earned the magically transformative title: “Chef Jack.” What followed was a bumbling, rehashed, train wreck of wacky kitchen slapstick; thinly veiled ethnic stereotyping, and Chef Jack’s psychic battles with the evil, uptight, Mr. Angelinos of the world. After suffering relentless ridicule from co-worker Felipe “Salad Man” Gomez, Jack (finally) decided he’d had enough, threw in the apron, and married a flight attendant.

The Iron Chef: I’ve never seen the show, but as I understand it he is some sort of Japanese, Transformer-like, super robot. And in addition to battling giant monsters, he can do all kinds of creative stuff with salmon.

Chef from Apocalypse Now: Ah, “the one they call Chef” is one of my all-time favorite chefs, even if only for that scene in the jungle with the tiger. The idea that something terrifying is always out there, lurking, prowling, hunting, secretly stalking you from afar… I don’t know, somehow that really resonates with me. “Never get out of the boat. Absolutely goddamn right! Unless you were goin’ all the way…”

So the police just left here, and I did not go to jail this time. Just to bring you up to speed: it was a nauseatingly lousy day from the get-go. I spent most of the morning trying to teach Manny how to fillet tilapia. For a guy who routinely carries a butterfly blade in his back pocket, Manny sure is an artless clod with a knife. He just doesn’t listen or pay attention. But then, nobody else does either. Whatever. After painfully witnessing a few dozen of Manny’s hacked and jagged fillets, I had to resign myself to the fact that we would be better off just cutting it all up for chowder. Bummer. Poor Manny.

For the next two hours, I was on the telephone with produce distributors, pastry chefs (uh huh, what a surprise), an insurance agent, bankers and a motley assortment of other desperate liars, grifters and thieves. God, I hate telephones. I hate talking on the telephone. I hate it when they ring, or whatever you call those horrible sounds they make. I am not a Luddite, though. I happen to own an amazingly magical smart phone that can do all sorts of cool and exciting stuff. It takes pictures, shoots video, plays MP3s, gives me baseball scores and can do a seemingly infinite number of other useful things. I could probably even use it to blog about food on the Internet if I wanted to. Trouble is, this piece of technological wizardry also happens to be a fucking telephone, so I hardly ever turn it on. If I have to, I usually use the phone in the office or the line in the kitchen.

I was just about to hang up on the devil people from American Express when I heard loud banging sounds coming from behind the door to the back alley. These banging sounds are not to be confused with the other banging sounds that often emanate from inside the walk-in. Those “banging sounds” are much more human, lustier and more rhythmic. Instead, this banging sound was more of an intermittent, metallic clang, and it was coming from the alley.

I hung up the phone and quickly made for the door at the end of the hallway. I kicked the push bar, flinging the door open with a loud, abrupt bang of my own. I saw them right away – Three Sole staffers, across the alley, weakly illuminated by the dull orange glow of the late afternoon sun. It was a couple of skanky waitresses and a busboy, and my sudden appearance had obviously startled them. The waitresses stared up from their cigarettes, and the busboy simply froze. But when he froze, he was in the process of rearing back to send a tied-off trash bag full of fish guts and meat gristle sailing across the alley. I looked around me. Evidence of a few of his earlier tosses hung limp and leaking from the lid of our dumpster and the fire escape above it.

I am pretty sure that the next thing I did was to ask him just what the fuck he was doing, or something along those lines. Busboy just grinned dumbly, dropped the bag and then, with much pomp and ceremony, flipped me off. You can probably guess what went down next, but for the sake of narrative consistency, I will tell you anyway.

Of course, I flew down the steps in a complete rage, even forgetting about the piece of rebar I’d stashed behind the dumpster for this very purpose. In an instant, I was down the stairs, across the alley and right up in Busser’s chubby, greasy face. I asked him if his own dumpster was broken, or perhaps it just wasn’t good enough for the remnants of whatever poisonous shit they happen to be plating up at Sole. He offered nothing in the form of a comeback, so I assumed he wasn’t really angling for a battle of wits. No matter. There are other ways for gentlemen to settle their differences.

I smacked the side of his head hard enough for his smirk to fade and his eyes to cross. Then I suppose I started choking him. That part is still a bit fuzzy. While this was going on, the two waitresses took turns, alternately beating me about the back and trying to pull me off of their dipshit buddy. But I held on, and I watched as Johnny Bustub’s contorted face turned from pasty white to flush red, and eventually to a blotchy sort of sickly purple color. I remember one of the waitresses yelling at a 911-dispatch operator on her magic cell phone. Then Delroy and Manny suddenly appear and Delroy eventually convinces me to let go of the busboy.

So, the busboy didn’t die or anything. He was even breathing normally by the time the police rolled up. The cops took statements from everyone, and in the end Sole has to pay a paltry fine for illegal disposal of class C refuse, or something, and I wind up with a warning for aggravated threatening.

Manny tells me I’m lucky I didn’t go to jail, and that maybe I should let him work on the scumbags at Sole from now on. Manny has some good ideas. Not to mention the fact that he also happens to have a big fucking ace up his sleeve concerning this business with Sole. So Manny might just have a knack for filleting fish after all. We shall see.

As many people are aware, it is bad luck to stir coffee with a fork. However, this didn’t stop Manny, our fry cook, from doing it one afternoon last week. It surprised me, as normally Manny takes great pride in his paranoid observance of all things superstitious. When I pointed out the fork in the coffee, he just shrugged, tossed some salt over his left shoulder, spit on the floor three times, then walked away whistling. But I had a bad feeling about that fork in the coffee. This is one superstition I personally avoid by taking my coffee black (okay, except for the Irish whiskey, but you will never catch me stirring it!). Right after Manny walked away, I was filled with a sense of impending doom.

Maybe it was the fork-in-the-coffee omen, or maybe it was the fact that Butts, the owner, was in the house and asking around for me; but I decided the best course of action would be to hide in my office for the next few hours, just in case.

Despite all the angry, self-absorbed, issue-soaked ranting I do here, believe it or not, I actually value my privacy. Now, by privacy I do not mean the kind involving the usual Internet paranoia, like identity theft; what your Facebook profile really says about you; or even the dull pang of regret one feels after drunkenly posting snide comments in response to some poor slob’s YouTube video. No, I am talking about a far simpler idea of privacy. The kind of privacy that has a roof, four walls, and a door. Preferably a door that locks from the INSIDE. A place where I can escape the world, shut out the noise, and be alone with my thought.

I already spend far too much time out there among the rest of the unwashed proles and other – often wealthier – social climbers, social misfits and sociopaths. I move among them; I smile and nod, and I turn on the charm. I join in their idle chattering gossip, and I pretend to remember their names. At times, it feels effortless, sailing along, all agreeable and polite and pretending to be interested in what others have to say. I can go along like this for a while, but as with everything else that is supposed to be good for me, it has its limits. Inevitably, somewhere deep inside (probably near the back of my neck, or between my shoulder blades), a switch is flipped and suddenly the social merry-go-round I’m riding on grinds to a halt. This is usually followed by a short series of non-specific events which often result in my: a) throwing something, or b) throwing something and then passing out, face-down in a pan of asparagus risotto.

This is not to say that I don’t enjoy the company of others. I often do. But many times it is probably better for everyone if I just lock myself in my cave and do crossword puzzles.

116 Across: a four-letter word for “watered down.” W-E-A-K. Weak, like Manny’s coffee; or like my resolve. Why do people insist on pouring so much crap into their coffee, anyway? Creamers, sugars, Splenda (!?!), syrupy flavorings of all sorts. It is odd. At no other time in history have so many people had such easy access to such high quality coffee. Yet they gunk it up to make it taste less like coffee. People spend a great deal of time and money on coffee, coffee- making appliances, and coffee culture. You can walk into almost any supermarket in America and purchase a pound of high quality, whole bean French Roast, Italian Espresso, or New Zealand Peaberry. Local coffee roasters and national, gourmet chain stores abound. Most of these offer a product far superior to weak Maxwell House or Folger’s Crystals.  So -apart from the few splashes of Bushmills I mentioned earlier- why anyone would treat a perfectly good, fresh ground, richly brewed mug of Costa Rican Dota Tarrazu like it was bathtub gin is beyond me. Stirring it with a fork, indeed. I hope Manny walks under a ladder.

However, it could be that luck simply swings like a pendulum, since there has been some fine creative energy bouncing around the kitchen lately. The escalating rivalry with those deviants at Sole has brought out the best in Henry. He has really stepped-up his game and has been challenging them in the culinary arena, rather than with a meat tenderizer in the alley between the dumpsters. I’m sure he has a few other things planned as well. As they say, like gazpacho or cole slaw, revenge is a dish best served cold. Stay tuned…

We are in a serious blue funk. Tubby-Goo informed me that the word “funk” is Flemish in origin and means “panic,” and that “blue,” in this case, means “extreme.” Who am I to question the etymological wisdom of a dude called Tubby-Goo? He’s one of Delroy’s guys, and from what I can gather, he pends most of his time standing around typing stuff into cell phones. So maybe that’s where he looked up that funky Flemish business. In any case, he is right. The kitchen is in a deep blue funk. It could be the moon, like Georgina says, or perhaps it has something to do with groundhogs. But whatever the reason, people around here are coming apart at the seams.

I spent most of the morning planning and working out the logistics for next week’s specials. Only later did I find out that a certain someone – who shall remain nameless – botched our fish order. So now, instead of the 75 pounds of Saddletail Grouper I wanted, we are stuck with 255 pounds of Chilean Sea Bass. Not only is this ethically dubious (the Chilean Sea Bass, or Patagonian Toothfish is seriously overfished!), but it also means I have to go back and revise the specials again. By the way, everyone had better be ready to push Sea Bass extra hard.

Henry will be taking a few personal days this week.

Part of the problem could be that I have been holed up in the office with a phone in my ear, rather than in the kitchen keeping an eye on things. But it doesn’t matter. Today I was just in no mood. The most recent acts of competitive aggression from across the alley have turned our kitchen into a paranoid, blubbering, gossiping mess. I feel like the housemother in a girls’ school dormitory. It has become overwhelming: the outbursts, the crying, the griping, the sniping, the victimization, and the vengeful, angry energy. And anyway, this sort of behavior is MY TERRITORY! How dare these people?

I stopped in to see with my own two eyes just exactly how much sea bass we were dealing with. Henry said something I didn’t take kindly to, and I am sorry, but I snapped.

So sometimes I throw things. I throw temper tantrums and fits. I throw punches, vodka bottles, bricks and pots of overcooked linguini. Sometimes I throw fish. I did not mean to hit Telulah with it. Really, I didn’t. I just got mad and flung that bass. A rather tense moment followed, and truth be told, I felt like busting a puppet right then and there, but I didn’t. Instead, I gathered the tatters of my self control. I held my tongue, spiked my guns and headed back into the office to calm down. I turned out the lights and sat in the dark… for a long time.

Earlier in the morning, someone told me that Groundhog Day actually marks the mid-point between the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox. Its proper Celtic name is Imbolc. This is supposed to be a good time to renew some of the New Year’s resolutions you made in January, but perhaps have had trouble adhering to. Nature’s energy is now rising. Thinking about this helped me to relax. It is like getting a second chance.

I felt exhausted, drained. Not tense or anxious, just beaten and spent. I stretched out on the floor behind the desk, breathing in the darkness. As I tumbled into sleep, I tried to imagine a vast, wide-open space; a large body of water; a deep, blue sea. Then below the surface, sinking down, slowly. The density of the water, the utter quiet. The ocean floor appearing like the landscape of some lonely, dark moon. The kind of place where even a sea bass can swim freely without fear.

I know a guy who has one of Napoleon’s teeth. I have seen it – a molar, about the size of a kidney bean, chalky and gray. His wife purchased it at auction to the tune of about seven grand, and gave it to him for his fiftieth birthday. Six months ago, she ran off with an Austrian ski instructor. The guy is still pretty upset about it. He might be selling the tooth. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, but let me assure you; I certainly don’t need any more of Napoleon’s teeth.

Here’s a simple but sweeter take on roasted Brussels Sprouts; the maple syrup and figs temper the acidity many people find disagreeable in them. I recommend using fumé (smoked) pork belly, but slab bacon is an acceptable substitute, as long as it is cut thick – at least 3/16″.

You will need:

• 1/4 pound smoked fumé pork belly, cut into 1/4″ thick lardons (or 1/4 pound slab bacon, cut into 1/4 thick lardons)
• 2 doz. Brussels sprouts
• 1-1/2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
• 1 Tsp. light maple syrup
• sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
• 1 cup diced figs
• 1-1/2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar

Fry pork lardons in a cast iron skillet until they are crispy but still somewhat pliable. Remove from skillet and set aside. Remove the leftover pork fat from the skillet and discard. Wipe the skillet clean. Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

Wash, clean and trim the Brussels sprouts, removing any outer leaves. Slice in half, from stem to top, then carefully rub each half with olive oil and spread evenly on an ungreased baking sheet, flat side down. Sprinkle with salt and pepper and roast in the oven until they begin to brown (about 8-10 minutes).

Remove from oven and transfer to clean cast iron skillet with remaining olive oil. Cover and finish cooking Brussels sprouts over medium heat until browned and tender throughout, about 5-6 minutes.

Return fried lardons to the skillet and add diced figs. Toss with maple syrup and balsamic vinegar over low heat. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Yields about 4 servings.