One Surprisingly Fine Swine

I'll be honest. When you walk into a place with a name like the Pig 'N Whistle, you have certain expectations. Don't get me wrong, one should really never judge a book by its cover, but being cautious isn't a bad philosophy either.

I'd never been to the Pig 'N Whistle before; certainly I'd noticed it many times on my way into the Egyptian theater. With the bright neon lettering gleaming overhead and the dark, mildly daunting entrance (there's a heavy black curtain draped over the open doorway you have to duck past,) the casual passers-by would probably assume this almost grungy-looking building to be a bar with substandard food and dirty chairs, filled to the brim with bachelors and football fiends watching the evening game on the television over the bar.

What a surprise, then, when I walked inside and found myself in a tastefully decorated dining room with warm lighting, a shining mahogany bar, and a style of interior design that screamed '1930s Hollywood.' My companions were as pleasantly shocked.

My mother, an ardent fan of the art Deco design style, was drawn immediately to the engraved ceiling, composed of intricate loops and whorls. It was beautiful to behold, a style so indicative of Hollywood's early architecture that I was almost grateful to see it. Once upon a time the buildings of Hollywood were beautiful in and of themselves. This is echoed a bit more audibly here and there in the older buildings, and notably in the ceiling of the El Capitan theater.

We were escorted to a raised platform along one side of the wall. This was split down the middle, the wall lined by large, elegantly curved booths, and the opposite edge with simple dark wooden tables and plain but serviceable chairs.

The booths were mildly cramped (from where I sat, which was at the apex of the curve,) but comfortable, and we were promptly given menus to peruse by the cordial waitstaff.

[And while it may seem picky of me to mention it, I was constantly distracted by the platform thudding beneath us every time someone walked by. It had the feeling of a stage set - sturdy, but caution is prudent.]

While the venue would sound like your classic English pub, there were only three items of 'pub food' included on the menu - chicken pot pie, fish 'n chips, and shepherd's pie. The rest was what one might call standard American fare - salads, sandwiches, pastas, pizzas, and just to give it that Californian flair: nachos and tacos.

We ordered our drinks and sat watching the Golden Globes on the many televisions placed around the restaurant. It wasn't long before a pair of tall glasses - one empty, chilled, (for my father's Corona) and one bearing my sweet Shirley Temple - and an old fashioned glass rimmed with salt sat on the table. One sip of her margarita and my mother nearly dropped the glass. "Margaritaville," she muttered. Catching my eye, she added, "Well, they're generous with their alcohol, at least."

It soon turned out that the Pig 'N Whistle is generous with quite a bit more than their alcohol. Unfortunately, they're not always as generous with flavor. While the customary basket of bread was filled with warm, slightly sweet bread good enough to enjoy with unsalted butter, not everything was as en pointe.

My margarita pizza was of the dime-a-dozen type; I've had it a million times in a million restaurants. They opted to go without sauce, instead placing sliced tomato on the crust and sprinkling mozzarella cheese over it. The cheese bore a heavy dosing of minced basil, and the crust was evenly burnt all around the rim of the pizza. The cheese had little to no flavor, instead tasting (and feeling) entirely of grease.

The crust beneath tomato and cheese was so thin as to be

nonexistent, and when a slice was picked up, the toppings w ould simply slide right off onto the plate. The only thing I can honestly say I enjoyed was the puffed crust of the edges. While thin and burnt, the dough must have been similar to the one they used for their bread, as it was slightly sweet and nutty, with an excellent chewy texture and a pleasant crisp from the burn that was not overwhelmingly charred. It was, alas, one of those pizzas you cut the crust off of - because the crust is the only thing worth eating.

My mother's chicken marsala was a daunting piece of meat, but was left floundering in a pool of sauce that encompassed the entire plate. It was served with mushrooms, spinach, and garlic mashed potatoes. The potatoes had chunks in them, but this only served to enhance the texture contrast, and the flavor was pleasant. The spinach was also touched with garlic; the mushrooms were tender.

The marsala sauce was more of a mushroom sauce, she said, and it was too salty. I didn't need her to tell me there was too much - I could see for myself the flattened breast of the chicken was maybe an eighth of an inch deep in sauce.

Finally, I asked my father what he thought of his fish n' chips. They had certainly caught my eye when they were brought to the table, as the chips (a mixture of potato chips, shoestring, and crinkly fries) were served in a small brown paper bag, which I found charming. Personally, I thought that the bag dwarfed the three or four small fish sticks next to it, making it the focus of the plate and distracting from the main item. Next to the bag, the small cup of butter peas and tartar sauce were hidden, too.


My father was more intrigued by the bottle the waiter handed him as he set down the plate - labeled Heinz Malt Vinegar, he was uncertain as to what effect it would have on his meal, but decided to try it anyway.

The halibut was good, he s aid - not overly fishy, and the beer batter crust was thin, but crunchy. It didn't overpower the halibut and clung like a second skin. The sticks cut cleanly, without any audible cracks, and the coating did not seem soggy. The malt vinegar, he reported, gave the fish a tangy edge, which was balanced nicely by the tartar sauce. He didn't think the peas were fresh - he suspected they were canned - but he enjoyed them nonetheless. The motto of the evening seemed to be 'When going to a pub, order pub food.'

A little disappointed that the splendor of my surroundings didn't quite match the quality of the food, I'd totally forgotten about the idea of dessert. But that didn't mean I wasn't game for it. (To my surprise, my mother appeared equally ready.) A quick scan of the desserts menu revealed standard items - cheesecake, apple pie, chocolate cake, ice cream. I opted for the molten cake, my mother for the ice cream, my father for coffee ('Bring an extra spoon,' my mother advised the waitress,) and we settled back to wait. I was pleased, because the waitress had informed me the molten cake would take ten minutes - which meant it would be freshly made, and not something they yanked out of a freezer and stuck in the microwave.

When the desserts settled onto our table I was, quite honestly, shocked. The food had been presented to us til then in a classic, agreeable way. It seemed the chefs were taking quite a bit more care with their desserts.

Where was I to begin with this monster of a plate? The first few minutes I took to examine it, impressed by the fact that they'd managed to get the strawberries to stand up like that - and then drizzle chocolate sauce over them. As I moved the obstructing mint leaves - pretty, but what does one do with them? Does anyone ever really eat the mint leaves on a dessert plate? - out of the way, I noted with irritation that the vanilla ice cream could hardly be called a scoop, while the whipped cream (which had not been mentioned on the menu, and neither had the strawberries, for that matter,) was a massive portion.

Beneath the mint leaves lurked the tiny raspberry holding them up so perfectly, and I broke into the cake underneath it. It oozed agreeably, and was not scorching hot when I took my first bite, which was nice. The ice cream was a bit icy, but had a fairly decent flavor. The strawberries were good, for January. There were blueberries hidden beneath both whipped cream and ice cream, which I hadn't noticed and which also had not been mentioned on the menu. As I continued to try the cake, I realized that while it was cooling rapidly (as molten cakes are wont to do), it was not setting. I'd been distracted by the first bite, and hadn't noticed that in their desire to make the cake's center remain liquid as long as possible, the chefs had severely undercooked it. Only a thin bit of actual cake rested between plate and undercooked batter.


The sundae? While I didn't try it, I'm sure it tasted like ice cream. Looking at it, I can say that there was too much whipped cream, and the ever-superfluous mint leaves reared their elegant little heads again. I don't know what size scoop they were using back there in the kitchen, but it was too small.


Overall, the Pig 'N Whistle holds a lot of surprises. Personally I have to say it's a good place for a Superbowl party, but don't hold your breath for that anniversary dinner. You might have to wait until pigs fly.

Pig 'N Whistle Restaurant
6714 Hollywood Blvd.
Hollywood, CA 90028
(323) 463-0000

Valet parking is available on McCadden (side street off Hollywood Blvd). Self-parking is also easily accessible, on either McCadden or Las Palmas.

The Epiphany Question

 

The assignment keeps staring back at me, so deceptively simple.  

"Write a culinary memoir." 

Okay. 

Easy-peasy.

No sweat.

About what?

 

I don't have any culinary memories. I had no ‘baking epiphany,’ unlike most of my classmates. Therein lays the essence of the problem. 

I grew up in a 'reform' Jewish, liberal family to show-biz parents and a brother who apparently resented my existence the instant I was born. Which is to say I had a fairly normal life, albeit a more “dramatic” one. 

As I grew, things became apparent. I was a hyper child, with wide interests and a surplus of energy – which we discovered was because of ADHD. I wasn’t the best listener, but give me something physical to work with and I excelled. My brother and I squabbled like the siblings we were, but age would, in time, bring us close. My parents took us out to eat rather frequently. When we cooked at home, it was usually frozen food that had to be put into boiling water or the microwave, at least as far as I remember. 

I was and am a picky eater. Despite my mother's grumbled reminders that when I was just a little bubbeleh I agreeably ate normal things, like turkey sandwiches with lettuce, my diet began to consist of carbs and carbs alone. A staple meal of childhood - that still brings back memories of friends and play dates - was Kraft macaroni and cheese, accompanied by one or two Hebrew National kosher beef hot dogs. (Not that the fact they were kosher mattered to me, but it was what I grew up on.)

These days, my brother and I like to tease my father about his attitude on feeding us. We'd go to him while our mother was out and plaintively insist we were hungry, only to be told that we'd just eaten three hours ago, we couldn't possibly be hungry again, and we could wait. It is perhaps this that spurred me to learn how to operate those integral kitchen items - the stove and the microwave. The first memory I have of being 'independent' is of the day I attempted to open my first soda can, which resulted in a cut thumb. Undeterred, a few weeks later I put water in a pot, boiled it, and added dried pasta. Lo, the horns sounded; the wall of dependence fell - and I could cook for myself! 

Exhilarating, but after the first months it got old. I could cook. So what? All this resulted in was not having to eat at the same time as my family. Our ‘family dinners’ had been occurring less frequently, anyway. In my case, it practically took a crowbar to pry a book out of the hand unoccupied by a fork.  

I can't remember the first time I picked up a cookbook and thought 'I want to bake something.' I honestly have no idea how this ‘baking thing’ started. All I have is dim memories of not messing up a recipe, ever.

 Step 1: Mix stuff together. Step 2: Bake. Voila, a cake! 

It wasn't like I baked every day, some obsession creeping steadily into my life - hardly. I never baked for bake sales - I never had a lemonade stand either - and the only time I attempted to bake without a recipe was because the schoolmate I was visiting didn't have one. We forgot several key ingredients - like eggs, vanilla, and such - and the cake came out terribly. The experience dissuaded me from trying again.  

In my defense, I didn't have much to go off of. I was a theatre brat through and through, and during my formative years I was also horse-crazy. I was certain that was where my career lay. Perhaps I'd be a jockey, or a breeder, or something. In elementary school, we were assigned to write our own eulogies. If I remember aright, I became something akin to 'the famous horse-jockey who brought jazz back to the youth of the world.’

Age and time strip away illusions. A particularly nasty fall broke my humeral neck (I didn't find it particularly funny), which left me in a shoulder brace for three months, terrified to get back on a horse, and completely aimless. What the heck would I do with myself now? Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, I was distracted by my oncoming bat mitzvah and the agony of my days at the Archer School for Girls. 

I occasionally baked cakes for my classmates, only to be criticized for my choices in icing color. If I left a chocolate cake un-iced, I was told in no uncertain terms that it looked like a dog defecated on a plate. I just couldn't win against these girls. 

The next few years became a maelstrom of medication, panic attacks, home-schooling, and massive changes. Nothing I was particularly happy about.

When I managed to get out of junior high, it was time to discuss the topic of what school to go to next. Obviously I couldn't return to Archer, as the combination of vicious bullying and a bad case of the stomach flu gone uncared for during a field trip left the fabric of my mind ripped to shreds. I could barely go anywhere without my parents accompanying me, and even then it was a struggle. 

So naturally it made sense that the next school I went to was my first public school, downtown, and on a college campus. (Insert dry tone and eye roll here.)

Nonetheless, I somehow managed to obtain the right to attend LACHSA, or the Los Angeles County High School for the Arts, as a young and fresh member of the vocal department, specifically for opera. At this time I was still suffering from newly developed depression/anxiety and the ever-present ADHD. The effects of medication varied from leaving me convinced that the thought-induced nausea and headache were real to keeping me concentrating, but feeling like the dullest person in the world. 

However, I was happy, because people there were open-minded, quite unlike the ‘Sunset Sluts.’ Physical appearance, sexuality, race, and even what department you were in didn't affect these people's opinions. It was a bit like culture shock.   

Unfortunately, it was becoming quickly apparent that I needed a style of teaching not offered there, culminating in my panic attack at the start of second semester, where the disorganized school made a mash-up of rescheduling - resulting in something I imagine feels much like working through the beurocracy. I wasn’t equipped to handle it. I was yanked out of there, home-schooled, and spent the next year trying to find somewhere for me to go. 

I ended up at The Help Group – a nice enough school, but with the unfortunate side effect that about half of the students were retarded. I don’t say this to imply that the students were simply intolerable or stupid – many were actually, certifiably mentally retarded. Classes were occasionally interrupted by screams from the hallways, and social interaction was always… interesting, to say the least. I was tired of changing schools, and so I determinedly stuck with people I felt were below me in terms of intelligence, trying to remain aloof. I spoke to therapists and went to doctor’s appointments, read books, and watched a lot of T.V. now that I was old enough to understand the shining example of wit that is a well-written sitcom.

What remains notable is that I began to watch the Food Network more and more often. I had heard of CSCA through a program about a chocolate festival, and was growing increasingly curious about exactly how much beauty and elegance – things that were mature, adult, and things that my life was sorely lacking – could be wrought in the hands of an experienced chef. Throughout high school, culinary school nagged at the back of my mind - until it became clear that, sorry, I was not going to MIT because I did not seem to have the aptitude for math and science it required. Engineering was out of my league for the moment. I might as well try culinary school. 

By a massive effort of will I lasted through high school. To my shock, I got accepted and found a way to attend the school of my newfound dreams without financially crippling my family. I suppose you could say I was – and am – in heaven. The funny thing is, I still don’t know why I’m doing it.

So please, don’t ask me the epiphany question.

Creme Anglaise - YOU SHOULD KNOW THIS.

Creme Anglaise - What is it? 

Creme anglaise - translated as 'english cream' - is a simple stove-top custard composed of milk, eggs, sugar, and vanilla. It is considered by many to be an integral formula to the pastry chef's arsenal; it is basic, but its uses are varied.

Creme anglaise is created by infusing vanilla into milk. This milk is then scalded. The eggs and sugar are whipped together, and the milk is tempered into the eggs - beaten in quickly to ensure the eggs do not cook. The mixture is returned to the pot and stirred over heat until it reaches a consistency called nappe, which means, quite simply, that it will coat the back of a spoon. It can also be cooked to a specific temperature - 165 degrees fahrenheit at the least, 180 at the most (165 degrees is the 'instant-kill' temperature for salmonella, while 180 degrees is the temperature at which egg will coagulate.) To test this, the most common process is to dip a wooden spoon into the custard, then run a finger over the back of it and hold it up vertically. If nothing drips onto the cleared line of the spoon, it is cooked enough. Once it is deemed ready, it is taken off the heat and strained over an ice bath to stop it cooking immediately. 

While it is a simple process, creme anglaise takes patience and a bit of experience. It can be made over boiling water for those who fear the likelihood of the eggs curdling on direct heat, but direct heat is a much quicker process. 

Creme anglaise has a variety of uses, its most common being that of a sauce. Unaugmented, it is thought of as a classic 'vanilla' sauce.

Flavors can be added to a creme anglaise, such as chocolate, citrus, or spices. An anglaise is always cooled completely before being stored in the refrigerator; temperatures for saucing applications can vary. 

A creme anglaise is also the basis of most ice creams. Once made, it can be run through an ice cream churn in order to provide what is aptly named 'frozen custard.' There is little to no difference between frozen custard and ice cream. Flavored creme anglaise can be used just as easily to create things like chocolate or mint ice creams; in short, knowing how to make a good creme anglaise means you know how to make a good ice cream base. 

Set custards known as bavarians or bavarois are also based on creme anglaise. A standard creme anglaise recipe is followed - then, while the mixture is still hot, bloomed gelatin is whisked in. Once the desired mold is readied, the mixture is stirred over an ice bath until cool, but not until the gelatin begins to set. It is poured into the mold and chilled until set. Occasionally, whipped cream is folded into the gelatin-augmented anglaise for a lighter consistency.

The possibilities for this humble sauce are endless, and knowing how to whip one up in a pinch is quite useful. There is a certain pleasure in watching the ever-so-slightly-thicker-than-milk sauce rest neatly on a plate, shining under the lights of the room and providing its humble support to the main item. Creme anglaise truly is the stock of the patisserie world.

A familiar object....

I've eaten plenty of ice cream - but the only brand name I can ever remember having served the dipped cone was Foster's Freeze.  More often than not, we bought our dipped cones at El Pollo Loco. There was always a corner of the ordering counter reserved specially for Foster's Freeze soft serve. On the menu, the Foster's Freeze logo sat above the paltry "dessert" selection the restaurant had to offer. 

Regularly, my father would park in the mini-mall's lot and take his time getting out while I would race into the El Pollo Loco and look up at the menu as though I actually needed to make a choice. There was nothing I ate at El Pollo Loco (save perhaps their plain flour tortillas) besides the chocolate dipped cone. We would just order the ice cream - and even at that young age, I often felt it was like a slap in the face to go into an establishment and technically not order a single product of theirs. They still gained a profit, but it was a matter of pride.

There is a delicious simplicity to the chocolate-dipped ice cream cone that is difficult to replicate. Three simple components marry in glorious harmony to create a dessert that undoubtedly netted Foster's thousands in profit. 

When I was young, I would gravitate to the sugar cone like the proverbial moth to the flame. It had the word 'sugar' in it, it was bigger than the wafer cone, and it was what my brother always ordered, so I guess I had to get it too. It was delicious when the ice cream melted just so, making it chewy rather than crunchy. Soft serve was always presented in a wafer cone, however, and the dipped cone was well served by it.

I maintain that the chocolate dipped cone is not so much a foodstuff as it is an experience, one that cannot be rushed. (Although, rushing ice cream in general is a bad idea.) To begin consumption, one must carefully study the cone before beginning – much like readying for an attack. However, the Foster’s cone is almost akin to a battle – the reaction time has to be quick. There is no time to sit and observe, to see how the tide of battle turns – if you don’t start eating, you end up with a mess.

Consequently, my first move for a dipped cone was almost always to lick off those few drips of vanilla that managed to escape from beneath the chocolate. This would mostly happen on the way back to the car.

Unless we were under time limits, it was rare my father would allow me to eat in the cars. Growing up, we had two or three different vehicles, and after a while, my mother spilled enough coffee into the Land Cruiser that my father threw up his hands in defeat. The Porsche, however – that was a different story.

So of course it should happen that my most monumental ice cream mess would take place inside this precious vehicle. I do not remember what on earth possessed him to allow me to eat – ice cream of all things, which I had never been good at eating neatly – inside the Porsche, but I do remember walking back to the car with a sense of mingled awe and trepidation. He warned me promptly – and very sternly – not to spill inside his car. Not a drop, did I understand? I understood, and I’d finally started to master eating ice cream without spilling everywhere. I would eat that ice cream, I vowed mentally, as he began to back out of his parking space, so neatly – so neatly – that he would never doubt letting me eat in a car again.

Then he went over the bump at the edge of the lot. The ice cream cone in my hand jostled. The entire scoop lifted, fell, vanished between the door and the seat, only to reappear as a tell-tale smear of white and brown. I stared in absolute horror, certain I was looking at the final nail in my coffin. I could not speak; minutes passed where I sat staring. Eventually, I managed to tug on my father’s sleeve and point wordlessly. I was certain he was going to have an apoplectic fit and began stammering out reasons it had happened, apologizing furiously.

There must have been some sort of Foster’s miracle, because to my shock he didn’t get mad. He simply sighed and pulled out the napkins.

Now, whenever we eat Foster’s Freeze (which is rarely, to my sorrow), I cannot help but remember this story. My father obviously attempts to forget it. Unfortunately for him, I always remind him. 

The Number One:

"To write only of the pleasures of eating would be pornography -- a legitimate use of a writer's skills but, from the standpoint of both reader and writer, limited." 

-- Mark Kurlansky, from the introduction to Choice Cuts

Seeing as I consider it blasphemy to call myself a food writer at the moment, that quote seems particularly apt. 

I'm nowhere near that level of literacy or depth. 

But, like a good cheese... I'll get better with time.