I started this blog as a kind of a document of what chef's eat; as a refutation of the rumor that we don't cook at home, or if we do, we do so in the microwave. Admittedly, I don't record every meal I have. I often eat out. Sometimes the food I cook doesn't photograph well. Occasionally I am too hungry to wait for a picture. I don't feel the need to show you every ham sandwich or BLT I eat (many). I can't imagine you care about my countless late-night bowls of cereal.
Still, looking back over the majority of my posts, I feel that I might be misleading you somewhat. Intentionally or not, I often share my more fancy dinners with you, and the overall effect is slightly more highbrow than the reality.
In the interest of balanced reporting, I'll list of some of the crap that I (and the chef's I know) have eaten in the past few months: po' boy fish sandwiches, goat curries courtesy of my Indian and Bangladeshi dishhands, dozens of pizzas from the pub down the road, kilos of bacon, a chicken burger so rich it nearly killed the lot of us, grilled cheese sandwiches, at least a half million cherry danishes from the local bakery, hot wings, scrambled eggs with far too much butter, peanut butter and raspberry jam sandwiches, pasta with butter and cheese, and I could go on.
Here's one more to add to the list: 
Grilled Chorizo and Spicy Onion on a Sourdough Roll
There's nothing remarkable about this lunch other than the fact that it tastes remarkably good.
1 chorizo, split in two
1 sourdough roll, cut open
dijon mustard
ketchup
mayonayse
spicy onions (below)
Grill the sausage on the bbq, heating the bun slightly at the same time. Brush the inside of the bun with mustard, toss in the chorizo, and top with the rest. I did tell you this was low-brow, right?
Spicy Onion
1 small spanish onion, thinly sliced
1 small jalapeño, thinly sliced
2 tbsp red wine vinegar
In a small pan on medium heat, using a little olive oil, gently cook the onion and chili with a pinch of salt until they are soft and just begin to color. Add the vinegar and cook until the liquid is gone. Remove from pan.
Lunch and Other Crap
Staff Meal
I have two favorite times of day. The first, surprisingly, is the period between 8:00 and 10:00 a.m. Anyone who knows me will, I am afraid, find this hard to believe, as I am not generally identified as being a morning person. This perception is fueled by such quirks as my insistence that 8:30 a.m phone calls are “in the middle of the night,” my kitchen-wide, one-hour moratorium on asking me any questions (I call it “morning quiet time”), and my complete lack of motor skills prior to consuming several macchiatos. In spite of my general inability to cope with mornings, I love my walk or bike ride to work. I'm not going to give you any crap about the fresh air or sunshine (though chef's see little of either); I love all the quiet restaurant business one can witness if you know where to look. Chefs and waiters tend to congregate in cafés at this hour, lingering over lattés and half eaten eggs; you will recognize them by their burn scars and bleary eyes, and their conversations will involve prep lists and profanity and the number of covers served the night before. Delivery men in trucks and refrigerated vans double-park and wheel boxes and bags and drums and tins and bunches and bundles of meat and linen and bread and rice and herbs and milk and oil and onions. Everywhere in alleys and side doors, food awaits the arrival of chefs and dish hands to sort and prepare. I often wonder what feast might be possible if one only had the will to carry the unguarded food away.
Likewise, my other favorite time of day is centered on secret kitchen business. 5 p.m. - near or at or after sunset, depending on the time of year – restaurant crews all over the city stop. This break is often the only afforded to staff who are expected to work 12 – 14 hours a day. The occasion warranting such a luxury is staff meal. I love staff meal. As a chef I love the challenge of it, cooking for as many as 40 people, often with only kitchen offcuts and rejects, it is frequently more than difficult to prepare something tasty. In most of the restaurants in which I have worked, everyone sits together, at a table, and eats. Families should eat together. While restaurant staff make, at best, something of a dysfunctional family, staff meal is a ritual dear to us all. I enjoy, if nothing else, the semblance of normality it lends. Look for them, you regular people who leave work at 5, you civilians rushing home to meals of your own, you earlybird diner waiting for doors to open; they'll be sitting, in uniform, at a table near the back of the restaurant, the same table where customers will soon be fed, and there is something magical about the whole experience, watching servers and cooks partake in even a little of the customers' experience. After dinner, time permitting, staff often slip out the back door for a smoke or a glimpse of the sky or a mobile phone chat to a loved one. It is this one quiet moment you are most likely to witness. I look for it on my days off. Note the meditative manner of someone with a satiated appetite and hours of work behind them. Note also the stoic look of one who knows what lies ahead: yelling and heat, running and sweat, panic and exhaustion.
I love the bookend nature of these two times. They provide a sort of story outline for a day in the lives of others. I know well the details of that story, having enacted it more times than I care to count, but I think it is just as interesting if you don't know exactly what goes on in between. These moments, snapshots, are beautiful, and that's enough.
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When working at a busy fish restaurant in Sydney, I was often in charge of cooking staff meal and, as all of our fish was bought in whole directly from the fish market auction floor, I had a great deal of fish trimmings to use up. This was one of my favorite ways to use tuna offcuts. 
Tuna Nicoise
There are two differences between the salad here and the one I served to staff. One, I usually poached the tuna trim in olive oil, so that it is more like tinned tuna (which is traditionally served in a tuna nicoise salad, and can be substituted here), and two, I bulked the salad out with some mixed leaves and croûtons, which isn't necessary unless you plan to feed a few dozen people.
200 g sashimi-grade tuna, not sliced
300 g green beans, blanched for 1 min in boiling water and cooled
300 g kipfler or other waxy potato, boiled until just cooked and cooled
100 g ligurian or other small whole olives
8 anchovies,
12 cherry tomatoes, cut in half
2 eggs, hard boiled, cooled, peeled and quartered
small handfull whole leaf parsley
Heat a small skillet on high heat. Generously season the tuna on all sides and, using a little olive oil, seal it in the pan on all sides, about 30 seconds on a side. Remove from pan and cool. Using a very sharp knife, slice the tuna into 10 or 12 thin slices. Combine all the salad ingredients, season, and dress (below).
Dressing
1 tbsp anchovy oil (from the jar of anchovies)
150 ml olive oil
50 ml red wine vinegar
1 tsp dijon mustard
salt and pepper
Whisk all ingredients together.
Free Fruit
I like free fruit maps. Compiled by locals and enthusiasts, these maps point to the location of public fruit trees, veggies, and herbs. All free for the taking. I've seen printed ones for neighborhoods in L.A., and I've been building a mental one in my head for Sydney. So far I know where one might find mulberries, olive trees, a number of pink peppercorn trees, lemons, loquats, avocado, lavender, rosemary, lillipillies, acorns, bananas, figs, feijoa, mangoes, and apples.
Then there is the not-quite free fruit. For instance, I know of a back garden in Paddington where delicious dark grapes grow, one only needs to jump (or climb a bit) to reach bunches that dangle over the edge. Elsewhere, not far from my house, there is a fence which is woven with the vines of monstrous passion fruit, but the fruits all seem to grow on the inside of the fence. And, in front of a tiny, one-story terrace near my work, there are two small, potted kumquat trees.
Every morning this winter past I walked by and watched the bitter little citrus fruit grow, blush, ripen, and then, sadly, begin to fall and rot. Finally, on a whim one morning, I stopped, opened my bag, and stripped the two trees of all the ripe fruit I could reach while leaning over the ornamental wrought iron spikes which top the fence.
By the time I'd arrived at work and dumped my haul of two- or three-dozen kumquats onto the kitchen bench, I'd formulated a plan. I carefully washed them, sliced them, covered them with water, and boiled them gently. I let them sit over night, and then boiled them again with sugar until they formed the most beautiful, golden marmalade. I filled two jars, one for myself, and attached a ribbon and a note to the other:Dear Kumquat Tree Owners:
After work that evening, I dropped the jar off at their front step. The next morning, it was gone. I checked every day for two weeks, and they didn't even leave me a thank-you note. Some people have no manners at all.
Hi. I have stolen your kumquats. They are a delicious little fruit and I was afraid you were going to let them go to waste. Please enjoy the marmalade I have made from them. I know I will.
Sincerely,
J
Kumquat and Lime Marmalade
kumquats, preferably stolen
1 lime per kilo kumquats
sugar
The addition of lime is nice here; it lends a sharpness to counterbalance the sugar and th bitter kumquats.
Wash the citrus. Slice the fruit into rings of varying sizes, this will result in an interestingly textured marmalade. Reserve any seeds and tie them in a muslin bag, giving the bag a good whack or two with a rolling pin to crack the seeds. A good deal of pectin is in the seeds and this will help your marmalade set. Put the fruit and the bag of seeds into the pot and add water until it is level with the top of the fruit. Boil for about 20 minuets, until the flesh of the fruit is soft, but not falling apart. Remove from heat and allow to sit for 12-24 hours.
Weigh the fruit and water mix. For every 1 kilo of mix, add ¾ a kilo of sugar. Stir these together and return to the boil. Boil gently until the marmalade sets when tested on a cold plate. This could take anywhere from 20 minuets to an hour, depending on the volume of fruit you started with. Remove the bag of seeds, pour into sterilized jars, and seal.
Just a helpful note, jams usually begin to set at about 104º C (219ºF). When sugar reaches 118ºC(245ºF) it begins to caramelize. You don't want the sugars to caramelize at all. If you reach 118ºC and the marmalade still isn't setting, take it off the heat and consider adding some pectin (you can buy it at the grocery store, in the baking section; it's usually called “Jam Setter” or somesuch).
You Tart
Often, I cook a dish only once. I have an idea, see a recipe, or find a group of ingredients in the refrigerator, and I make a meal I may never cook again. This isn't to say that I'm not happy with the outcome; some dishes will be repeated with variations, ideas borrowed for other meals. Rather, it is a nice break from cooking at work where I often prepare thirty identical portions of the same dish in one night. I've had a great number of fine meals which will never be repeated.
This post is not about one of those meals. It is, alternately, about one of the dishes I return to over and again, sometimes varying it, usually not. I love it for it's simplicity, that it is a classic, and because it is delicious.
This post also marks a first for OneHungryChef: it's a dessert.
I can't count the number of times I have made Tarte Tatin. At it's simplest, this upside-down, caramel and apple tart contains only four ingredients: apples, butter, sugar, and short crust pastry. It was accidentally created by Stéphanie Tatin at her Hotel Tatin in France in the late 19th century. Depending on the version of the story you believe, it was either an attempt to rescue already overcooked apples by covering them with pastry, or a tart serendipitously placed in the oven upside-down. The delicious mistake quickly became a fixture on her's and a number of other restaurants' menus.
Of course there are now countless variations. Mango Tatin, Banana Tatin, Pear, I've been instructed to make Tomato, Witlof, Eschallot Tatins. Mostly, however, when autumn rolls around and the first crates of new season Fujis show up at the corner fruit market, I stick to the original.
But not this time. 
Apple and Black Peppercorn-Poached Quince Tatin with Bay Leaf Ice Cream
Black Peppercorn-Poached Quince
4 quince, peeled, cored and sliced into 1-2 cm thick wedges, peels, seeds, and cores reserved
250g sugar
2 Tbsp black peppercorns
1 fresh bay leaf, bruised
Combine the peels, seeds, and cores of the quince with 500 ml water in a small pot and bring to a boil. Simmer for 30 min. Strain, reserving the liquid, squeezing the solids to remove as much moisture as possible. Discard the solids. In a medium pot, dissolve the sugar in the reserved liquid. Add the quince, peppercorns and bay leaf. Simmer 1-2 hours, until the quince is rosy-hued and soft, but not mushy.
You can use these immediately or store them in sealed sterilized jars for months.
Bay Leaf Ice Cream
Ok, I know this one sounds strange, but before the days of cheap and widely available vanilla people often used ingredients like bay to flavour custards and other desserts. The flavour goes so well with the quince, apples, and caramel, and I love that it is both unusual and delicious. If you can't get fresh bay leaves you can substitute dry ones, just add an additional leaf or two.
500ml cream
500ml milk
5 fresh bay leaves
200g sugar
8 egg yolks
Heat the milk, cream, bay, and 50g of the sugar in a small pot until the mixture nearly boils. Remove from heat and allow to cool to room temperature. This allows the milk mixture to infuse with bay flavour.
In a large bowl whisk the egg yolks with the sugar until they are pale and fluffy – a sabayon; this will take some effort. If you feel that your arms are about to drop off, you're about half way there. Persist, however. The better your sabayon, the more velvety your ice cream.
While you are whisking, reheat the cream, but do not let it boil. When your sabayon is ready, pour about one cup of the hot cream into the whisked egg yolks, stirring constantly. Add another cup, stirring, and then the rest of the liquid. This process ensures that the egg yolks don't cook instantly upon contact with the hot cream, thus becoming scrambled eggs.
Return the entire mixture to the pot on medium heat. Stirring constantly with a rubber spatula, scrapping the bottom to prevent any sticking, cook the mixture until it reaches 81ºC (178ºF) (get yourself a digital cooking thermometer, great for all kinds of kitchen fun!). Immediately remove from heat, strain through a fine sieve and into a bowl that is resting in an ice bath. Stir for a couple of minuets until the mixture has cooled a bit. Transfer to fridge. When the cream mixture has cooled completely, churn it in your ice cream churn.
If you don't have a churn, you can place the mixture in a bowl in the freezer, whisking it every 15 minuets until it is frozen.
Tatin
The traditional Tarte Tatin is topped with short crust, but I like to use puff pastry, it adds an extra fluffy, flaky dimension.
4 apples, a crisp, slightly sour type
200g sugar
75 g butter, cut into small cubes
black peppercorn-poached quince
Peel, core, and slice each apple into 12 equal wedges. In a small, heavy bottomed pot, combine 100g sugar with 50ml water. Bring to a boil without stirring. Allow to boil on medium heat until the sugar syrup begins to caramelize. When a dark caramel has formed, but before the sugar is burnt drop the apples in and remove from heat. Stir gently until the apples and sugar have cooled slightly. Test the apples with the tip of a knife to see if they are cooked. The knife should slide in and out with little resistance. If they are not quite done, return to the heat and allow to simmer for an addition minuet or two. Set aside.
In another small, heavy bottomed pot, combine the other 100g sugar with 50 ml water and boil. Cool until a light caramel has formed. Remove from heat and whisk in 2 small cubes of the butter. When they have melted and combined with the caramel add a couple more, then a couple more, until all the butter is incorporated. Pour this butter-caramel into a tart tin and allow to cool slightly.
Drain the liquid off of the apple slices and quince. Arrange in the tin on top of the caramel in a spiral, alternating quince and apple slices. Remember, this tart is flipped before it is served, so the bottom is the presentation side.
Top the apples and quince with a sheet of puff pastry cut to the size of the tin. Tuck the edge of the pastry around the apples down the sides of the tin. Poke holes in the pasty top to allow steam to escape. Bake in a 180ºC (350ºF) oven for 15-25 minuets, until the pastry is brown and crisp. Remember, the apples and quince are already cooked, and too much additional cooking may burn your caramel, resulting in a bitter Tatin.
Cool slightly. Turn onto a serving dish and slap on some ice cream. Oh yes.
(This recipe will make a full-sized tart, the one in the photo is a mini version.)
I know I said that this was a “simple” dessert, and it is. I just complicated it a bit. Here's the simple version. Peel, core, and quarter 4 apples. Arrange them at the bottom of a oven-safe heavy-bottomed pan. Dot the spaces between the apples with 75g butter and sprinkle with 100g sugar. On medium heat cook without stirring until a rich caramel forms from the butter, sugar, and apple juices. Remove from heat, cool slightly and top with pastry. Bake in a 180ºC (350ºF) oven for 15-25 minuets. Cool, flip, and serve. Wow, that is easy.
I Won't Eat That
There aren't many foods that I do not enjoy. To list them: I don't care for tinned tuna (cat food), have trouble with kidneys (taste like what they are: urine filters), and can take or leave beets (sweet dirt). Other than that, I will, and do, eat anything.
Except the one other thing I don't eat, for good reason. My father, younger brother Brian, and I were on a hiking trip in the Wind River Mountains in Wyoming. Two or three days in, at base camp the day before our attempt at climbing Gannett Peak, the tallest in the state, Brian indicated that he was incredibly hungry and, given that I had personally seen him consume food enough for three grown men, I set about preparing dinner for six.
While I cannot remember the exact details of the entire meal, I do remember the couscous. The little durum wheat granules are ideal for backpacking, they are light, keep indefinitely, expand greatly when cooked, require little cooking time (and therefore little fuel), and most importantly, are filling. We prepared mounds of the stuff. Eagerly the three of us tucked in when, after only a few bites, Brian slowed, and then stopped eating. Staring sullenly at his African anthill-size pile of couscous he muttered “I don't feel like eating this. I'll have a bowl of soup instead.”
O.K., couscous is cheap, and we had plenty of food. Still, Brian had asked for the monster serving and Dad and I were a little annoyed. Then it occurred to me: We have no way of getting rid of the excess food. The Wind Rivers are bear country, both black bears and grizzly, and they are attracted to food, so burying was not an option. The prospect of sealing the leftover couscous in a zip-lock bag and packing it out was possible, but unsavoury, as we had nearly a week to go, and none of us wanted to carry the extra weight, forfeit the pack space, or, most importantly, trek around with a quickly fermenting bag of sour grain.
So, we ate it. In a scene not unlike that of the fifty boiled eggs in “Cool Hand Luke” Dad and I forced, choked the couscous down. I don't know if the late Paul Newman ever ate an egg again, but I haven't touched couscous in a decade.
Here's my attempt.
Moorish Lamb
1.5 k lamb shoulder, bone in
1 spanish onion, fine dice
2 carrots, fine dice
1 celery, fine dice
1 c prunes
1 c spanish olives, pitted
3 cardamom pods, bruised
1 cinnamon stick
1 Tbsp coriander
1 tsp black peppercorns
zest 1 lemon
1 strip of zest of orange
1 cup white wine
¼ c red wine vinegar
Heat oven to 160º (320º). Season lamb liberally. In a large pan on medium high heat, using a little olive oil, brown shoulder on all sides and remove from pan. In the same pan sauté the onions, carrots, and celery until the are soft and have coloured a little. Remove from pan. Deglaze pan with white wine.
In a small, dry pan on medium heat, toast the spices until they are aromatic. Place the spices in a muslin bag.
Combine all the ingredients in a large pot add a cup or two of water until the lamb is half covered. Cover the pot and cook in oven 2-3 hours, turning once, until the meat is soft and falling from the bone.
Now, make some couscous (follow the instructions on the bloody packet). Serve the lamb and it's sauce on the couscous. Top with shredded coriander.
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