Cooking at Work: Morning Frittata

For the last few weeks, I’ve been working behind the scenes on a TV show as a food stylist. As such, I scour New York city grocery stores for summer-looking basil in mid-March, call all around town to get camera-ready mako shark steaks at a reasonable price, re-create the occasional broken recipe on the fly, and do a lot of dishes with a smile. My team is first in, last out, and we work hard to make sure everything as smooth and uncurdled as a perfect zabaglione. If we do our jobs right we’re invisible.

One of the first things I was told when I started this gig was that in addition to my long (back to back 17-hour) styling days, I’d be coming in extra early to make eggs for the crew.

Um, what? Like an aristocrat asked to clean her own toilet, while it’s something she’s perfectly capable of, it’s something someone else is supposed to do. Asking a stylist to cook eggs for the crew in the morning? Can’t the Production Assistant get some donuts? Next you’ll be asking the prop stylist to iron the cameraman’s socks! How about free facials from the makeup artist? It’s just ain’t done.

This surfaces a distinction in the food styling. When I worked for everyone’s favorite domestic diva, there were two kitchens at the TV studio: prep (styling), and commissary (eating). Yes, the teams that worked in both studios were interchangeable, as we were all trained cooks, but one group played with beautiful food that usually ended up in the garbage, while the other fed the company every day on an incredibly tight budget.

On most food shoots, a tremendous amount of energy is spent on getting food just so, whether it’s a seductive T-bone with charcoal grill marks and a pink-red interior, or a seven layer cake with ROTC-style straight lines. Then the team orders out for a pricey lunch. The one immutable rule of food styling: Never eat what you shoot.

And it’s not because we’re using glue instead of iced cream on those shoots; the days are fake food photography are mostly behinds us. Martha, Donna and magazines like Saveur were pioneers in creating beautiful food imagery with real food that could conceptually be eaten off the set. In fact, there’s one Thanksgiving photoshoot I recall, shot on a sweltering August day, where The True Stew made a surprise visit to the set and expressed that we to eat turkey for lunch that day. As the logic went, “If this food isn’t good, then it shouldn’t be in my magazine.” The girl had a point, and was certainly one to stop for a dropped dime.

There are people who make food, and there are people who make food look pretty. The stylists bring home the bacon (an freelance editorial stylist working for Food & Wine or the Today Show can make $400 to $600 per day, while an advertising stylist working on a print ad campaign for Ruth’s Chris or Burger King can make $1000 or more per day), while your average line cook still makes $8 to $12 per hour, under the table if they’re lucky. It doesn’t matter whether the cook works at Jean-Georges, any number of Danny Meyer restaurants or McDonalds. That’s the going rate.

So I made a boundaries between the “eating” part of our basement kitchen and the “styling” zone. There were separate fridges (theirs had salted butter and a lot of diet soda, mine had the good stuff). On Day 1, I met the crew with a frown to let them know how serious and important stylists are, and served some cold scrambled eggs.

But after a few long days I started to like my new colleagues, and tried to put the old rules of food styling behind me. I was reminded that I enjoy food, I love cooking for people, I’m sitting in a well-equipped kitchen with tons of fantastic leftover ingredients; why be a slave to the traditions of food styling?

So I started thinking like a cook should, and got excited about what I could make tomorrow based on what I had today. I could do breakfast burritos based on yesterdays empanada filling, or bacon-scallion hash browns from lunch potatoes. Yesterady I actually asked for feta (in addition to the eggs), so that I could combine it with the Moroccan olives and spinach overflow to make one killer frittata. Now the crew is starting their day with a smile, eating a warm love-filled breakfast and we’re having fun in the kitchen, water-cooler style.

Apparently this food goodwill is contagious; our tough-as-nails production coordinator whipped up a batch of fresh fruit smoothies this morning. The adorable set PA has started making lovely vegetable and cheese platters for the afternoon lull.

And although I’m still the late out, I’m a bit less late, as I’ve got a crew-full of helpers who are willing to schlep cast-iron griddles up and down two flights of stairs, and even help me wash the occasional dish. Not a bad thank you for a job I’m happy to do.


Spinach and Feta Frittata
Feeds a hungry crew of 8 to 12

Drizzles of olive oil
6 to 8 ounces baby spinach (or frozen, defrosted)
A handful of fresh basil leaves (2/3 cup, packed)
1 small red onion, chopped
Large pinch dried oregano (1/2 teaspoon)
pinch red pepper flakes (pinch generosity pending heat preference)
16 eggs, lightly beaten
Salt and pepper
A handful of feta (2/3 cup, crumbled)
1/3 cup pitted kalamata olives
1/3 cup grape tomatoes, halved (garnish)

1. Heat oven to 350F.

2. Heat a large oven-safe 12-inch nonstick skillet over medium heat, and add enough olive oil to lightly coat the bottom of the skillet. When warm, add spinach and basil and a generous pinch of salt and toss with coated (don’t damage the nonstick) tongs until wilted, about 1 minute. Remove and reserve spinach mixture.

3. Add another drizzle of olive oil to the warm pan and add onions. Sweat until softened, about 3 to 5 minutes. Gently crush the oregano with your fingers (releasing fragrance – yum!), and add to the skillet with the pepper flakes and wilted spinach. Stir to incorporate, and add the eggs, feta and olives
Let this eggs cook gently, over moderate heat, pushing cooked eggs from the bottom of the pan with a spatula. When the eggs are about 2/3 to 3/4 set, place in the oven until puffed; 5 to 10 minutes.

4. Invert the skillet onto a serving platter (who are we kidding, a large cutting board!), cut into wedges and serve topped with tomatoes. [Note: For presentation, re-invert the frittata if you like, before cutting into wedges. Or don’t sweat it; I don’t.

Smack Me With a Cast Iron Skillet: Buttermilk Fried Chicken

Sorry I'm late in posting; I've been food styling for a TV show this week, and am coming off six back to back 16-hour days. Like, where are American labor laws? Where's the union? Where's my freaking bonus?

But lucky for you, I published an article on skillets this week for thestreet.com. Since my students are always asking me what's best in skilletware, I thought I'd write something they could use to make an intelligent buying decision (beware: the article is extremely motivating, as recent cast iron purchases by my mother, editor, and agent have just made clear). And Lodge, yes, I would be thrilled to accept a thank you set of your new enamel line.

And for you, my bloggers, who I love above all, since there's no recipe included, here's one just for you:

Kick Ass Cast Iron Buttermilk Fried Chicken
Allison Fishman, The Wooden Spoon
Serves 6 to 8

2 fryer chickens (2 ½ to 3 pounds), rinsed, patted dry and cut into 10 pieces (20 pieces total)
3 cups buttermilk
Salt and pepper
1 1/2 teaspoon cayenne
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons paprika
3 to 4 cups Crisco, for frying

1. Place the chicken pieces in a large sealable plastic bag. Whisk together the buttermilk, 2 teaspoons salt, cayenne and ½ teaspoon pepper. Pour the mixture over the chicken; push out any excess air and seal the bag. Refrigerate overnight.

2. Add enough shortening to your large cast iron skillet to measure ½ inch deep; heat to 350 degrees.

3. Measure the flour, paprika, 2 teaspoons salt, and ½ teaspoon pepper into wide bowl. Let the excess buttermilk drip from the chicken pieces, then roll in the flour mixture one at a time, shaking the excess flour from each piece.

4. Place the chicken pieces, skin side down, into the hot oil; cover and cook for 10 minutes. The oil temperature at this point should be between 250 and 300 degrees, and should be maintained at this level until the chicken is done (per Cook's Illustrated). Turn the chicken over with tongs and cook, uncovered, until the chicken is browned all over, 10 to 12 minutes longer. Remove the chicken from the skillet with tongs and reserve on a rack set over a sheet pan until ready to eat. Will keep warm in a 200 degree oven for up to 20 minutes.

Living a Spatchcocked Life

It was a Wednesday night, and I was uptown teaching a group of women about poultry. This advanced class was half-filled with former students, some from the semester before and some from semesters ago. I'm always thrilled to see old students return, hungry for another helping.

I was extolling the virtues of one of my favorite techniques, spatchcocking. Spatchcocking is exactly the same as butterflying, where you remove the backbone and flatten the bird to cook it evenly and quickly. But it's not nearly as fun to say, so I insist on calling in spatchcocking even though no one understands what I’m talking about. Use it in a sentence the next time you’re at a dinner party and see if the host doesn’t threaten to take away your wine. Spatchcock spatchcock spatchcock.

To prepare, we cut the backbone right out of the 12-pound bird, and laid that turkey flat on a sheet pan (with the aforementioned spine). We roasted that winged beast for 1hour and 20 minutes and guess what? It was perfect; the elusive moist turkey was completely cooked in less than 90 minutes (I love this technique – try using it to cook a 3 1/2 pound chicken in half an hour).

When the bird came out, one of the more vigilant students looked at the roasted backbone, crinkled her nose, and said, “What are you going to do with THAT?” I told her I was planning to eat it, and she shook her head.

I took out my cleaver, started hacking the thing into bite-sized pieces and said, “You know my rule, sugar. That means you get the first bite.” She turned to some of the newer students and warned them to keep their mouth shut when they didn’t want to try something.

We passed a platter of turkey poppers around the room, and soon I had a classroom filled with the slurping sounds of women sucking the marrow from a turkey’s backbone. They were trying something new, and they were into it. I just liked that they tried it – honestly, I’d be just as happy if they hated the thing. In my class, you get big points for trying.

Because for some reason, in our culture of plenty, we’ve decided that it’s perfectly acceptable to be closed to certain types of food. Not long ago I was cornered by a terrific home cook at a dinner party who confessed that though the smell of lamb is like perfume to her, she is surrounded by friends and relatives who refuse to even try it. This woman is not alone, and it's not just about meat; I’ve catered top drawer dinners where plates leave the kitchen with perfect roasted asparagus and return with denuded stalks. Was it insulting to ladies of a certain class to presume they might eat an entire vegetable?

I thought it was our responsibility, as humans, to enjoy the bounties of land, sea and air; to suck the marrow out of life! I mean, aren’t the children still starving in Africa? I thought we were supposed to be appreciative and thankful for what arrives on our plates.

Consider for a moment how you might react to the following:

“Oh no, Leo and I don’t like the ocean; we’re not water people. We love looking at the four walls of our home, where we can sit on the sectional and watch cable (we just upgraded). We were invited to the Vineyard once, but we declined. No, we try to stay away from the whole water thing; lakes, rivers, even small puddles just don’t agree with our constitutions. And let me tell you; the rain? No, we get terrible indigestion the next morning. Not that we’ve tried it, of course.”

“Music? Sure. I love Britney…and Christina. I used to be really into Menudo. Love the remake of “boots” by Jessica Simpson. I guess I don’t really know much that isn’t on the radio. Beatles were good in the beginning, but then they got, I don’t know, edgy. Early Motown was great, so peppy, but you compare that to rap, and ooooh…I don’t know, it just makes me nervous. Can’t listen to the stuff. Won’t even go into a clothing store where they play it. Classical? Jazz? No, never tried.”

And then there’s the most obvious of food metaphors, sex. Just ask a guy what he thinks when he takes a woman to dinner and she orders a salad: “No, I don’t need an entrée. I don’t eat that much.” Or to sushi: “Mmm..I’m not into raw fish. Never tried it, actually, but I guess I could order a California roll or some teriyaki.” Or at upscale café: “Lamb? It’s gamey. I don’t really like food with that much…flavor.” Observe as he softly sighs and checks his watch.

I remember going to a dinner with another couple, years ago, at this wonderful fish place in San Francisco. Oysters were on the menu, and so I suggested we order a dozen for the table. The other man at the table (clearly no one that I would date) said that he would prefer that we didn’t order them, as he didn’t like oysters.

Maybe it was the look on my face – like I’d been slapped, because in short order, out the story came…that in fact, he didn’t like anything about oysters; the way they looked, smelled; the texture that just freaks him out, and that briney sea flavor, yick!

By the end of his rant, he had loosened his tie, thrown off his collar stays, and thick streams of sweat were coming from his temples. If I could only lean across the table and lick his neck, I would have enjoyed that oystery brine I so desperately sought.

All I could do was look across the table at his girlfriend, soon to be wife, and mouth the words, “I’m sorry.” As he got increasingly heated on the topic of shellfish, it became clear that this woman would be in the cold regarding certain pleasures of the flesh.

Personally, I could never trust a guy who wasn’t into trying something new, especially in the raw fish domain. An appetite for food, for new experiences, is an appetite for life.


Spatchcocked Roast Turkey
by Allison Fishman, The Wooden Spoon
Serves: 10 - 14

1 12-pound turkey
5 garlic cloves, peeled and mashed (with the side of a knife or in a mini chop)
5 sprigs thyme, leaves reserved separated from sprigs
coarse salt and fresh ground pepper to taste
1/3 cup extra virgin olive oil

1. Heat oven to 450 degrees. Put turkey on a stable cutting board breast side down and cut out backbone and reserve. Turn turkey over, and press on the keel bone to flatten (you will feel it snap). Place, breast side up, on a large sheet pan; tuck the wings behind the head (think like a cop: “put your hands behind your head!”), and turn the legs out so that the drumsticks look like their knees are knocking.

2. In a small bowl, combine garlic and thyme, and liberal amounts of salt and pepper. Add 1/4 cup oil to make a paste. Separate the skin from the breast and legs of the bird, and massage the seasoning paste into the flesh of the bird.

3. Tuck thyme branches under the bird and in the nooks of the wings and legs. Drizzle skin with remaining olive oil and sprinkle liberally with salt and pepper. Season backbone, and place on the sheet pan with the turkey.

4. Roast for 20 minutes, undisturbed. Turkey should begin to brown. Reduce heat to 400 degrees (if turkey browns too quickly, cover bird with foil), and continue cooking.

5. Begin to check turkey’s temperature about 40 minutes later. (It is done when breast meat registers 160 on an instant-read thermometer.

6. Remove turkey from pan and let the bird rest for at least 15 minutes before carving.

TO MAKE A PAN GRAVY: Please see recipe for And Then We Made A Gravy.

Lay Your Wary Head Upon My Chicken Breast

My primary therapist in the wake of all things JChef was a friend I turn to in times of deepest crisis; the one who can spend 15 hours per week on a teary phone, then understand when I fail to call for the following 3 weeks when a new love arrives; the one who bakes me cookies and tells me I could never be fat (and even if I was, I’d be stunning); the one who assures me JChef will return when he comes to his senses; the one who loves me first, most and always, my very best friend, my Mom.

She recently took off for a “bring back Mardi Gras” road trip with my dad, assuring me that she’d call from her cell phone every day to make sure that I was okay. During our last chat she mentioned that she threw a little present in the mail for me, something that “people are talking about”. It was a nice touch, a little we-still-love-you-even-if-he-doesn’t gifty, and I was praying it wasn’t from QVC.

I received a box from Amazon a few days later and I breathed a sigh of relief. Cool, a new cookbook, some sort of CD, maybe a novel? I opened the box and pulled out the book. I saw the cover and screamed, dropped it and ran to the other side of my apartment. Slowly I crawled toward the offending best-seller, rubbing my eyes to be sure it was actually what I thought it was. There was no denying it: my mother had sent me a book from Dr. Phil.

I mean, for the love of Christ, are you mistaking me for someone who grew up in Topeka? Mom, remember those few years in California when I didn’t have a TV? Do I look like I would watch, nay READ Dr. Phil? What exactly about me screams MORON? I was offended, I was shocked, and the only consolation I could find was my Mensa card and my Ivy League degree. I was better than this. I scored 1320 on my SATs and I’m a Brooklyn liberal. So there. I called my cousin of Cranberry Nut Bread fame and confirmed that my mother was, in fact, insane.

But you know, my mom spent good money on the thing, and it’s not like millions of Americans can be totally wrong, so I slipped the god awful cover with big, bald, loud Phil screaming “LOVE SMART: Find the One You Want – Fix the One You Got” off the thing and stuffed it into my pocketbook on the way to the subway. Friends close, enemies closer.

I snickered my way through the introduction, choking as I read about how McGraw could get a bride's veil on my head in ten easy steps. Oh yeah, like I'm wedding hungry. Please. Then in chapter 2 I developed a character analysis of HIM (really, just going through the motions), and didn’t necessarily disagree when Dr. Phil said he only needed to be 80% there; we’re not looking for Mr. Perfect. I’ve always considered myself and 80/20 person, so okay, P-dog has a point.

Then I started developing MY character sketch (Chapter 3) and analyzing why I was still single (Chapter 4). The man wasn't all wrong. True, I started getting a little baby crazy (I’m 33, cut me some slack). I made some career changes that cut my income and refused to get a roommate. Or a new outfit. Or a meal that I paid for myself. I’ve been making myself more than a little desperate.

Before long, I was so engrossed I was missing my subway stop. Though my friends don’t know it, I’ve begun referencing the P-star when they ask me for love advice. Not directly, but there’s a new found peppiness and faith in the possibility of love that wasn’t there two weeks ago.

To my college roommate who loves the outdoors and is considering a move to San Francisco:
Roomie: what do you think it would be like to be single in SF at 34?
Me: It's a good place to just be you, and when you're being you, you meet others.

To my recently divorced friend who is shy on the dating scene:
Shy: I’ll never meet someone sitting in my apartment.
Me: No, but you will meet a guy at some point who loves sitting in his apartment, just like you!

To JChef, who spied the book on my table and gasped:
JChef: What are you doing with a Dr. Phil book? And don’t try to change me.
Me: Would never dream of changing you; you’re perfect as you are, for someone. Me, I’m just going to keep dating. But thanks for the flowsers. Care for an oyster?

This got me to thinking about the nature of the advisor, and the advisee, and the pure and simple fact that clichés are clichés for a reason, it’s better to love and lose than never to love at all, and good advice can come from any number of sources.

Which brings me to today’s recipe: Chicken Schnitzel (stay with me, segue forthcoming), aka The Best Chicken Cutlets You've Ever Had. I recently completed a 5-week cooking class, during which I tell my students to bring me all questions, no question is stupid, and that I will modify the class to their specific dietary needs.

So at the end of one class, Mademoiselle, an I-don't-want-to-touch-anything-resembling-an-animal type of student, asked me for some boneless, skinless chicken breast recipes. To which I responded: “I’d be happy to give you some great boneless, skinless, chicken breast recipes. In fact, I've got several that will insure a dry, flavorless dinner in less than 20 minutes. Oh where to begin! It’s almost as fun as fat-free cooking.”

She frowned and returned to washing parsley.

Next week I apologized to Mademoiselle, and to the whole class, in fact. While I’m a fan of bone-in dark meat birds, not everyone is. And it’s not their fault. But I’m a teacher, and though part of my role is stretching students, another part is in meeting them where they are and helping them gain the confidence to take the next step. Only by having familiar, comfortable success will they have the courage to reach.

And so, on the final day of class, I gave a chicken schnitzel demo. We pounded boneless, skinless chicken breasts, prepared a standard breading procedure, and pan-fried the perfectly coated cutlets-to-be. And when I tasted the sample I sent around the room, I gotta tell you, it was pretty freaking tasty. I think I might even send the recipe to Mom.


CHICKEN SCHNITZEL DR. PHIL
Allison Fishman, The Wooden Spoon

1 1/2 cups flour
3 eggs
1 1/2 cups panko bread crumbs
1/3 cup roughly chopped parsley
4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts (best quality, organic if possible)
Kosher salt, freshly ground black pepper
Grapeseed or other neutral (vegetable) oil for frying
1 lemon, quartered

1. Prepare standard breading procedure: in three separate shallow bowls or plates (pie plates are ideal), place 1) flour 2) eggs, lightly beaten, 3) panko and parsley, combined.

2. Place breasts, one at a time, between two sheets of wax paper (if you purchased the chicken from a butcher, just use the paper in which the breasts are wrapped). Using a meat mallet, gently pound the breasts, starting with the thickest part, until they are about 1/3-inch thick. After all breasts are pounded, season well with salt and pepper.

3. Heat a large skillet over medium heat; add 2 tablespoons oil. Preparing one breast at a time, and using one hands, dip the breasts into the flour, shaking off any excess, then drop into the beaten eggs. Switch to your other hand (to avoid breading mittens), and when the breast is coated with egg, drop it in the panko mixture, completely coating. Place in skillet and cook until golden brown, 4 to 5 minutes. Flip and cook cutlets an additional 4 minutes, or until cooked through. Serve warm, with lemon wedge.

NOTE: For thicker cutlets, you may need to complete cooking in a 350 degree oven for 5 to 10 minutes, after both sides have browned.