There are men on probation -- people you would cross the street to avoid -- who can spot over poached lobster tail a mile away.
I know people whose experience include surviving the state penitentiary and who also know delicate uses of saffron that would amaze even the palate of Persian royalty.
There are two types of people who know and love great food: The ones who buy it often enough to know what it's supposed to be, and the ones who cook it.
On a particular menu several years ago, a stuffed filet mignon called for a six ounce cut. Our purchaser, at this fancy hotel, had ordered only eight ounce precut filets. The executive chef told us to just cut two ounces off, we'd find a use for the scrap.
By the end of the night, those 2 pounds of tenderloin scrap had seen biblical additions. The reach-in cooler borrowed a page from the Biblical tale of the loaves and the fishes.
Amazingly, a half pound of foie gras, a few Maine butter-poached lobster claws and some dank Gruyere cheese had appeared along with the beef. Thank you, Jesus! (Jesus was on salads -- we wouldn't have gotten the cheese with out him.)
What does a crew of ruffians do with $100 worth of the finest ingredients? Make an expensive fucking pizza. So the Benjamin Franklin Pie was born.
Creme fraiche laid the base, as we piled on the our nights wage worth of succulent toppings. Medallions of filet, lobster, and foie gras covered this abuse of an employee meal.
We took it from the oven, finished it with some herbs and dug in. My partner in crime and I agreed: It was a little rich.
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