Winter’s going to derail your regimen, if it hasn’t already. This high-intensity circuit will keep you from losing a step (and your mind) before the roads clear.
By Todd Soura
If you’re not questioning why you live here, among the mountains of slush, the black ice, the frigid nights and the fleeting sunlight, you’re not human. And then, as if your seasonal affective disorder needed any more fuel, your workout regimen’s derailed by: a) snow b) ice c) cold d) all of the above. It was inevitable. The sooner you accept that and hatch a backup plan for the next time, the easier this next month or so is going to pass.
This high-intensity circuit is unfazed by winter’s cruelty. The next time you’re pinned at home, find a space that you can move around in comfortably. That’s all you need. The rest is on you.
You’ll be done in less than 30 minutes, but you’ll be spent afterwards. High-intensity intervals torch calories and keep on burning them for up to 24 hours after you finish. Over time, when combined with lower intensity weight training, they’ll stoke your resting metabolic rate so that you’ll be burning fat and toning muscle even while you’re binge-watching “Girls.” For our purposes here, they’re your cabin fever remedy.
Don’t rest between exercises or rounds unless you have to. Start with three rounds. Once you build up your stamina, go for five.
1) Jumping Rope: 30 to 45 seconds. If you don’t have a jump rope, or you don’t have enough room to swing one, pretending is enough. An added benefit: Jumping rope helps your lymph glands expel toxins, which is good for the immune system.
2) Burpees: 10 to 20 reps. (If burpees are too challenging, do 30 squats instead.) Start in a standing position, then lower into a squat. Put your hands on the floor, shoulder-with apart, and kick your feet back so that you’re in a push-up position. Do a push-up, then return to the squat position. Jump straight up. It should be one fluid motion.
3) Plank: 60 seconds. Get into a straight-arm plank position, then lower yourself onto your forearms. This interval’s going to serve as active rest.
4) Mountain Climbers: 30 to 45 seconds. Start in a push-up position. Keeping your upper-body totally still, bring your right knee to your right elbow. Return to the push-up position, then repeat on the left side. Rotate quickly.
5) Alternating Lunges: 15 to 30 reps. From a standing position, step forward with your right leg, then lower your left knee to just above the ground. Both legs should form a 90-degree angle. Return to the starting position, then step forward with the left leg and repeat. That’s one rep.
6) Bicycle Crunches: 30 to 45 seconds. With your back flush against the ground, tuck your hands behind your head. Lift your legs off the floor and bend your knees at a 90-degree angle. Move your legs as though pedaling a bike—bring the right knee toward your chest and straighten your left leg, then vice versa. Simultaneously, crunch your upper body forward and bring your left elbow to your right knee, then your right elbow to your left knee. Rotate quickly.
Bob Barrar is the champion of beer nerds everywhere. Given the chance to finally go out on his own, he promptly returned to his humble roots and staked his claim as a brewer for the hard-working people of Delaware County.
By Mike Madaio
I’m in Aston, sitting in the tasting room at 2SP Brewing Company, the latest craft brewer to join what has become a prolific scene across the Philadelphia region. From the outside, the building looks like a warehouse, like a lot of the other buildings around this blue-collar part of Delaware County. The tasting room, though, is smartly decorated and plenty comfortable.
It’s immediately clear that they’re catering foremost to local tastes. A rack stands by the door loaded with T-shirts stamped with MADE IN DELCO across the chest. Perhaps a bit heavy-handed, but civic pride runs deep here. And their flagship beer is the amber-colored, smooth-drinking Delco Lager, which evokes another lager that’s popular around these parts.
“Bob is total DelCo through and through,” says Michael Contreras, 2SP’s sales and marketing director. “We looked into other locations, but Bob insisted that we land in DelCo. And Bob’s the key. I wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t onboard.”
Barrar, far right, with his 2SP crew.
Bob is Bob Barrar, 2SP’s co-founder and head brewer. He spent the last 12 years manning the tanks at Iron Hill Brewery’s Media location, racking up serious acclaim the way the rest of us accrue empties—20 Great American Beer Festival awards, 10 World Beer Cups. A Delaware County native, Barrar looks the part: bald head punctuated by a wizard-length, salt-and-pepper beard (brewer) and stain-mottled Eagles hoodie (DelCo local).
“Bob has all these accolades, but he’s been contained in Media for so long,” Contreras says. “So when I go into places like Memphis Taproom, Standard Tap, bars that cater to the beer nerds, and tell them who our brewer is, they immediately say they’ll take whatever we can give them.”
The Delco Lager, it turns out, is Barrar flexing his muscle, the way a chef impresses the sages by turning out a dish with three or four ingredients that produces impossible depth and nuance.
“You can’t hide anything. It’s all right there in front of you,” Barrar says. “And not many breweries are willing to do that style, especially for their flagship.”
Flagship makes it sound way too formal in the context of the chummy atmosphere of 2SP. Really, it’s more of a gateway beer. Every beer drinker’s familiar with lagers, the same way every coffee drinker knows what a medium roast tastes like. And then you drink a cup of Rival Bros. Revolver and wonder what the hell you’ve been drinking all this time. Barrar expects the same epiphany with his lager. And then, “once we bring you in,” he says, “we can educate you, show you all sorts of other styles and flavors.”
Among the beer nerds, Barrar is best known for his Russian imperial stout. But now that he’s got his own brand to consider, he’d rather be thought of as more approachable than that. The stout, after all, is not for the lighthearted. “I’m a traditionalist,” he says. “I like brewing to a specific style and trying to stick close to that.” His proficiency at doing so is obvious in an English IPA called Cold Cock. The hops are laidback, the texture, creamy. It’s almost as crushable as the lager.
Andrew Rubenstein, who goes by Ruby, tends to be more unconventional, which Barrar appreciates. Ruby is the head cellarman. Basically, he’s responsible for the fermentation and the aging. “We’ve done a bunch of different saisons, and we’re building up our barrel-aging program,” Barrar says.
I try their most recent iteration, Stigz Imperial Porter, named after 2SP co-founder Michael Stiglitz (of Two Stones Pub fame). It’s both traditionally brewed and bourbon-barrel-aged, the latter served on nitro. It’s warm and boozy and silky smooth from the nitro pour.
Baby Bob Stout is the one I like the most of any I’ll taste today. Barrar pared down his Russian imperial stout to create the easier-drinking—but still delicious—American-style stout. I brought a growler filled with it home with me, and even after the fizz mostly subsided, the hits of coffee, raisin and caramel were still as vivid as they were back at the tasting room.
Kegs are only available wholesale, but plans to go retail with 750ml bottles and cans are in motion. For now, head to the Aston tasting room to work your way through the entire 2SP portfolio. You’ll sit shoulder to shoulder with beer nerds and lager-drinking blue-collars, both sets perfectly at home.
2SP Tasting Room, 120 Concord Road, Units 101-103, Aston.
Whether you want to develop your knife skills or eat (and drink) really, really well, these three destinations will allow you to do it free of distraction.
We all travel for food anymore, whether it’s driving past the local grocery stores to hit an out-of-the-way Whole Foods or night market-hopping in Thailand for a week. It all counts. In fact, the term “culinary tourism” was dropped in 2012 in favor of “food tourism” because it was deemed too elitist. Regardless of what it’s called, business is booming. And it’s believed to be only in its infancy, in large part because of the money that’s being generated—tourists are spending, on average, 25 percent of their travel budgets on food and drink, according to the World Food Travel Association—and now invested to entice us to blow even more. Not to mention, food is the linchpin of local culture. Always has been. Only our interest in it is new. So, in the spirit of savoring every experience, near and far, gourmet and grassroots, we’re offering up three weekend getaways, all within driving distance, that cater to the serious eater (and cook, if you’re game) in each of us. Yeah, they tip more toward indulgence, but we figured you’ve got a handle on filling up your weekends at home with farmers markets and trending brunch spots.
—Scott Edwards
The Farm Cooking School | Stockton, New Jersey
Driving time from Philadelphia: About an hour
Ian Knauer, rounding up dinner. Top: Knauer and Shelly Wiseman.
This is farm-to-table cooking as preached by the guy who wrote the book on it. Literally. Ian Knauer, the school’s founder, is the author of the revered cookbook, The Farm—Rustic Recipes for a Year of Incredible Cooking. It was while writing that book that he discovered the small, artisanal towns along the Delaware River in central Bucks and Hunterdon counties. Shortly after it was published, he rented a small stone house on a grass-fed cattle farm and spent the winter renovating it. Come the spring, he invited Shelley Wiseman, a colleague from his days at Gourmet magazine, to join him, and together they opened the school. Serious as their credentials are, the classes and dinners they stage year-round cater as much to excited eaters as ambitious home chefs. Last fall, they hosted their first weekend-long program. (There are three Airbnb apartments on the farm, including a one-bedroom over the school’s kitchen.) Knauer and Wiseman led a “Best Dishes to Bring to a Party” class. That night, they brought their guests (and their dishes) to a potluck dinner at a nearby farm. This summer, they’re planning to repeat such a weekend about every six weeks. thefarmcookingschool.com
Ocean House | Watch Hill, Rhode Island
Driving time from Philadelphia: About 4 hours
Tastings, tutorials and custom-crafted dinners are all covered at the inn’s new culinary center.
The already-culinary-minded resort—there’s a food forager on staff—opened a 3,000-square foot Center for Wine and Culinary Arts last fall. The wide-plank walls and flooring and exposed posts and beams are from an early 19th-century Connecticut tobacco barn, but a demo kitchen tricked out entirely with Gaggenau appliances is straight out of the future. The aforementioned forager, Paul McComiskey, along with the chefs from the Ocean House and its sister resort, the Weekapaug Inn, lead a daily roster of complimentary tutorials that delve into local sourcing—Ocean House is perched along Rhode Island’s craggy coastline, so that includes seafood, too—and cooking technique. There’s a fee-based monthly series of interactive classes for those who like to dirty their hands as much as fill their stomachs. The center’s also home to Ocean House’s 8,000-bottle wine collection, spread between two cellars. Jonathan Feiler, the resort’s director of wine education, partners with McComiskey to design bespoke wine dinners. That’s about as of-the-moment as a menu gets. oceanhouseri.com
Inn at Windmill Lane | Amagansett, New York
Driving time from Philadelphia: About 3½ hours
The real indulging at Windmill Lane comes in private.
Plans are in the works to stage a second round of Wine Harvest Weekends this fall, where the inn collaborates with neighboring vineyards Channing Daughters and Wölffer Estate to offer in-depth tours, tastings and a dinner. But the VIP access runs year-round. The inn’s concierge will book the personalized tours, arrange a car service to get you to and from and even send you on your way with a basket lunch. After drinking wine all afternoon—tasting wine, we mean—it’s going to be too tempting to resist settling into your exceptionally cozy confines for the night, especially once you’ve got a fire roaring. The inn’s thought that part through, too. The in-room iPad is loaded Incentient, a digital concierge service that enables you to order takeout from an impressive selection of local restaurants—Meeting House, Fresno, East Hampton Grill, among others. Your dinner will be delivered to the inn’s kitchen, where it’ll be plated on china and then brought to your suite. You land the best seats in the house, and you didn’t even have to slip the hostess a twenty. Or put your pants back on. innatwindmilllane.com
Photos courtesy (from the top): The Farm Cooking School / Guy Ambrosino (2), Ocean House, Inn at Windmill Lane.
Warm as the winter’s been, there’s still no avoiding this no man’s land: too far off from last summer’s heat and this spring’s blooms to find solace in either. So it’s up to us to create our own comfort, to which there’s no more direct road than a hearty, warming meal. Think steaming broths, melting cheese and moist pie crusts. They’re the kind of simple indulgences that make us want for nothing more than seconds before tucking in for a few hours to binge-watch “Master of None.” —Scott Edwards
Recipes and photography by Yelena Strokin
[divider]Cauliflower Cake with Flaxseed[/divider]
(pictured above) Serves four.
1 small cauliflower head 1 tbsp. melted butter 2 tbsps. flaxseed, 1 tbsp. reserved 3 tbsps. extra-virgin olive oil 1 yellow onion, diced 5 eggs ¾ cup all-purpose flour 1 tsp. baking powder ½ tsp. turmeric 1 tsp. smoked paprika 5 tbsps. chopped fresh cilantro 1 cup shredded Swiss and cheddar Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.
Line a springform cake pan with parchment paper, brush the sides with melted butter and spread one tablespoon of the flaxseed around the inside.
Cut the cauliflower into small florets. Fill a large saucepan with salted water, place it over a high heat and add the cauliflower. Bring to a boil, then reduce to a simmer. Cook the cauliflower until it becomes tender, about 10 minutes. Drain and set aside.
Heat the olive oil in a small pan, then add the onion and cook it over a medium heat until it browns, about 10 minutes, stirring occasionally. Remove the pan from the burner and let the onion cool.
In a large bowl, mix the eggs, the turmeric and the paprika. Then incorporate the flour, baking powder, cooked onion, cilantro and cheese. Whisk until the consistency becomes smooth, then fold in the cooked cauliflower. Stir gently. Season with salt and pepper to taste.
Pour the mixture into the cake pan, spread evenly and sprinkle the remaining flaxseed over top. Put the pan in the center of the oven and bake until the cake turns golden brown, 35 to 40 minutes. Then, remove it from the oven and let it sit for 10 to 15 minutes before serving.
[divider]Rustic Cod Soup[/divider]
Serves two.
1½ pounds fresh Atlantic cod 1 tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil 2 garlic cloves, finely chopped 1 medium red or white onion, sliced 2 medium carrots, peeled and julienned 1 yellow pepper, julienned 6 tbsps. chopped parsley, 3 tbsps. reserved 1 cup clam juice 1 tbsp. lemon juice ½ tsp. smoked paprika Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste ¼ cup chopped scallions
In a large, deep saucepan, heat the olive oil over a medium heat and pan-fry the garlic and onion for a minute. Add the carrot and pepper and cook for another five minutes. Remove the saucepan from the burner.
Cut the cod into large chunks and add it to the saucepan along with three tablespoons of the parsley. Pour in the clam juice, then the lemon juice. Incorporate the paprika and season with salt and pepper to taste. Return the saucepan to the burner and simmer until the cod becomes tender, about 15 minutes.
Serve in warm bowls. Garnish with the scallions and remaining parsley.
[divider]Chicken and Red Currant Pie[/divider]
Serves four.
If you can’t find red currants, you can swap them with cranberries.
FILLING 1 lb. ground chicken 1 lb. ground veal or pork sausage 1 tbsp. ground coriander 1 tbsp. mixed dried herbs 2 oranges, the rind finely grated 2 tsps. ground ginger 2 tsps. salt Freshly ground pepper to taste 1 lb. chicken breast fillets 1 cup fresh red currants
PASTRY 4 cups all-purpose flour 2/3 cup butter or lard 1 tsp. salt 2/3 cup equal parts milk and water mixture 1 egg, beaten
FILLING
In a large bowl, mix together the ground chicken and veal (or sausage), the coriander, herbs, orange rind, ginger and salt. Season with pepper to taste.
PASTRY AND ASSEMBLY
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Add the salt to a large bowl, then sift in the flour. In a small pan, heat the butter (or lard) and the milk-water mixture until it starts to boil. Remove the pan from the burner at that point and allow its contents to cool slightly. Then, stir it into the flour, forming the dough.
Move the dough to a clean work surface and knead it until the consistency becomes smooth. Cut off a third to use as the lid, wrap it in plastic and store it in a warm place. On a floured work surface, roll out the remaining dough and line, bottom and sides, a greased, eight-inch springform cake pan with it. If the dough cools too much, it’s likely to tear, so move quickly.
Cut the chicken breasts into thin slices. Place them between two sheets of plastic wrap and flatten them to an eighth of an inch with a rolling pin.
Spoon half the ground-meat mixture into the cake pan, spreading it evenly and to the edges. Layer half the chicken breast slices over top, then the red currants. Layer on the remaining chicken breasts and cover them with the rest of the ground meat.
Roll out the dough that was set aside for the lid on a floured surface. Drape it across the pan, trim off any excess and seal the edges with the beaten egg. Cut a hole in the center of the lid to allow steam to escape while the pie bakes. If you want to get creative, cut some shapes out of the excess dough and apply them to the lid. Then brush the entire lid with the remaining egg. Bake for two hours. If the lid starts to turn a dark brown, cover it with aluminum foil.
8 tbsps. (1 stick) unsalted butter, room temperature 1 cup packed light brown sugar 2 large eggs 1 tsp. vanilla extract 1¾ cups all-purpose flour 2 tbsps. cocoa powder 1 tsp. baking soda Pinch of salt 1 cup semisweet or bittersweet chocolate chips ¾ cup white chocolate chips 1 cup and 2 tbsps. coarsely chopped unsalted pistachios, 2 tbsps. reserved ¾ cup dried apricots, chopped
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper or a silicone liner.
In a bowl, combine the butter and brown sugar and mix them, either with a stand mixer or a handheld, at a medium speed until the consistency is smooth. Stop to scrape down the sides of the bowl as needed. Incorporate the eggs one at a time at a low speed, then the vanilla extract.
In a separate bowl, whisk together the flour, cocoa powder, baking soda and salt. Add it to the other bowl, mixing at a low speed. Stir in the chocolate chips and then a cup of the pistachios and the apricot.
Place heaping tablespoons of the cookie dough about an inch-and-a-half apart on the baking sheet. Sprinkle the remaining pistachios over top. Bake until the cookies set but are still soft to the touch, about 10 minutes. Repeat the process until all of the dough is used.
Yelena Strokin is a Newtown-based food stylist and photographer and the founder of the blog melangery.com.
Two of the most innovative chefs around have set their sights on doughnuts. And they’re baking them right under our noses. By Scott Edwards • Photography by Josh DeHonney
In their seminal 2013 cookbook, Maximum Flavor—Recipes that Will Change the Way You Cook (which drew praise from the likes of David Chang, Michael Voltaggio and Sean Brock), Aki Kamozawa and Alex Talbot achieved new benchmarks for most of our staples: fries, burgers, wings, steak, doughnuts. But leaving well enough, or even pure perfection, alone isn’t who they are. After years of deflating paradigms, the couple’s only just begun to truly understand itself. They’re obsessive. “And there’s something really exciting about following an obsession,” Talbot says.
So when Kamozawa and Talbot wandered into the Stockton Market, in the riverside New Jersey town, last August and decided, on the spot, to rent a stall and start selling their own frozen custard and doughnuts, they were always going to start from scratch. Because that’s what they do. They made two doughnuts, an entirely new one and then the Maximum Flavor one, challenging themselves. The Maximum Flavor doughnut was way better. A third followed, made with the parts of both recipes that worked the best. So began the aptly named Curiosity Doughnuts.
Talbot, who picks up speed as the conversation progresses, is a firm believer that the humble doughnut is capable of revelation. Since they opened in October, he and Kamozawa have developed several iterations (naturally), but the simple yeasted doughnut is the origin of this particular obsession. The outside, or crust, if you will, is just crisp enough for a soul-quenching crunch. The inside’s unusually soft and moist, almost custard-like when it’s warm. (And it really should be eaten warm.) It’s sweet, but not cake sweet. Revelatory, yes. But perfect? “Well, today it was perfect,” Talbot says, conceding more than celebrating. “But doughnuts are interesting. Things change. You’ve got great doughnut days and good doughnut days. I think, right now, these are darn good doughnuts, but we’re tinkerers at heart.”
Surreal as the James Beard dinner was at turns, there were, thankfully, lots of normal touchstones, too, to ground our chef on the biggest night of his career.
I met my crew at the inn at seven the morning of the dinner. We packed everything the night before, so it was just a matter of loading the cars and then double-, triple- and quadruple-checking it all. Three hours later, we were pulling up to the James Beard House.
By 11, we’d unloaded the cars, checked into the hotel and were tying on our aprons back in the kitchen. I made a list of everything that still needed to be prepped and then a timeline for the next 10 hours. I wanted all of the prepping done by two and everything organized by course in the refrigerators. The most labor-intensive task ahead of us was making the chocolate and yuzu cremeux. Jeff’s young, but he could make cremeux in his sleep. I didn’t need to worry about him, but that didn’t mean that I wasn’t worried about the cremeux. Sure enough, a box of baking soda was accidentally tipped over on one of the trays. Plenty to spare was suddenly just enough. But that was our only real hiccup. We even had some time to break for lunch and wander the neighborhood some.
Around 4:30 p.m., the maître d’ came looking for me to perform a couple rites of passage: sign a copy of the menu and the chef’s jacket that’s exhibited on the second floor. The jacket’s refreshed every few weeks, and at the end of the year, they’re auctioned off. The weight of the moment sunk in a little deeper as I signed next to Jonathan Benno’s signature. Think of the jackets like the footballs signed by the winning Super Bowl teams. Among the tens of signatures, there are a few stars that will become legends, some rising studs on the cusp of breaking through and a bunch of others for whom this was the pinnacle of their otherwise anonymous careers. Every one of them, though, could count themselves among the precious minority privileged to call himself a Super Bowl champion.
Back in the kitchen, I walked my crew through the hors d’ oeuvres, and the night seemed to slip into fifth gear. The next time I glanced up at the clock, it was six. Time to deliver the lineup to the service staff. I ran through the courses and thanked everyone for helping to pull off what was becoming a night that would never fade from my mind.
The nerves and this out-of-body sense I’d been experiencing to some degree all day evaporated the moment we started assembling the hors d’ oeuvres. I have a tendency to set very serious in the heat of the moment. My focus sharpens and, at the same time, I can anticipate the next few steps. That broke temporarily when my family walked into the kitchen. The rest of the guests filled in behind them. There was a guy among them who took up a post by the far wall and studied us closely. His face was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. And then I did: Mark Teixeira. Holy shit. It was the first baseman for the New York Yankees.
Just before eight, we started plating the first course. This is where all the preparation is felt most acutely. The course needs to be plated 80 times in 10 minutes. Repeat five times. Everybody had one responsibility for each dish, save for my sous chef, who I asked to get a head start on the next course.
The dinner was done in two hours, more of a sprint, really, than a marathon. I toasted my crew back in the kitchen as the guests lingered out in the dining room. Much as this was a milestone night for me, it wasn’t anything that a chef, no matter how talented he or she is, could ever pull off on his own. I made it to this moment because of the people standing around me with their glasses raised. And with that, we were off into the night, celebrating into the wee hours, a desperately needed release after a week-plus of mounting tension.
I’ll be serving the tasting menu from my James Beard dinner at the Stockton Inn throughout March.
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A Frantic Homestretch
As if cooking dinner at the James Beard House wasn’t pressure enough, Jonas intervenes.
By Alan Heckman
With three weeks left before the dinner, I’d confirmed delivery of all of the ingredients. The wine order was still a work in progress because some were more difficult to get ahold of than I expected. There was plenty of time, but it still ate at me. At the restaurant, I could always call an audible, but this dinner’s different. Nothing can be left to chance. By the end of the week, I managed to finally secure one of the wines I planned to serve. A bright spot to end the week on, at least. The second wine’s confirmed the next week. Four to go.
Two weeks out, I was pretty sure I was on the cusp of a heart attack. Three of the wines weren’t available. I’ll look for another year of the same vintage, I thought. Each state has its own wine purveyors, and they’re allocated certain amounts by the wineries and importers. So, basically, I needed to pray that the wine I wanted wasn’t already spoken for. It was. Panic. A week out and I had to come up with three new wines. But this time, instead of telling the purveyors what I wanted, I worked off their lists of what was available. It’s not ideal, but it was a relatively easy fix. By the end of the day, all six wines were ordered and scheduled to be delivered to the Beard House 24 hours ahead of the dinner.
From there, I turned my anxiety to the weather. I needed to see clear skies across my 10-day forecast. Even a random flurry between now and the dinner would wreak havoc on my delivery schedule.
And then Jonas descended. Monday, 8 a.m., three days until the dinner, the first call comes. “Chef, our trucks can’t get out. We should be able to get to you tomorrow.” That was my veal cheeks and venison. Veal cheeks take a solid five hours of prep, so I was nervous, but still in the game. Somehow, the produce arrived on time. So did the seafood—but with the wrong shrimp. I put the order in a month ago. The purveyor apologized, said he could get a new batch to me by Thursday. Ugh. “Send me the same size shrimp, but for half the price for the hassle,” I said. It was worth a shot.
The veal cheeks and venison came at 2 p.m. Tuesday. Two days to go. But it’s only half of what I ordered. Back on the phone. “No later than 8 a.m. tomorrow,” I said. We still managed to get a lot of the prepping done Tuesday. And at 10 the next morning, the rest of the cheeks and venison surfaced. The cheeks are frozen, though. Naturally.
It was 45 in the kitchen. And the water was running about 38 degrees. Trying to thaw the cheeks was like watching ice cream melt in a freezer. I started to pray. Again. We finished the prepping, at least. Finally, around 6, about 24 hours until the dinner, I began to braise the cheeks. They’d take close to four hours. In the meantime, we loaded up the coolers.
I climbed into bed around 11:30 that night, knowing that sleep wasn’t going to come. My mind was retracing the last couple days and bracing for tomorrow. And then the alarm was sounding.
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
It’s Real Now
By Alan Heckman
It feels like it was just yesterday that I was invited to cook at the James Beard House. In case you’re wondering who James Beard is, a quick primer: He’s considered the father of the American dining renaissance. Most of us grew up watching Julia Child, but Beard’s was actually the first cooking show on TV. The foundation that bears his name today is based in New York City, in Beard’s former home, and, as part of its mission to support forward cooking, it invites star chefs, rising and established, from all over the country to cook dinner for some of the leading tastemakers in the industry. My turn comes in a little over two weeks, and, as you can imagine, it’s an incredible honor. Not only is it a big notch on the ol’ CV, it’s also a way to support my community. (The dinners help generate funding for the foundation’s scholarship and educational programming.)
The magnitude of all this didn’t really hit me until I broke the news to my wife and watched the excitement spread across her face. Just that fast, the floodgates broke open in me. What will I cook? What if nobody likes it? (My family will be there, so at least they’ll tell me they did. I hope.) The kitchen is notoriously small. How am I going to pull this off? I didn’t sleep an hour that night, as my thoughts careened between pure elation and anxiety.
When I woke, I started prioritizing. First thing I needed to do was lock down the menu. I knew, at least, that I wanted to showcase everything that’s had a significant impact on how I think about and work with food. That helped a lot. From there, I submitted my menu to the foundation (you can view it here), and it replied with all the necessary prep details, which brought a slight sense of relief.
Still, one big question loomed: How small, exactly, is this kitchen? I’d been warned a bunch of times over to brace myself for the worst. And for this to be a success, I really need to cook this dinner in my head as often as I can, which means being able to visualize where each component of every dish is going to be prepared. So, I decided to scope it out for myself.
From the outside, it’s a modest-looking four-story rowhome (if such a thing exists in New York). The event coordinator greeted me and led me around. As we came around the corner to the kitchen, I felt like a game show contestant who was about to find out what was behind the door I picked. There it was at last—several blinks and pans of the room—the very kitchen that James Beard cooked in for more than a quarter century. I laughed to myself at the sight of the low ceiling and Styrofoam-padded hood vent, imagining all the great chefs who’ve scraped and knocked their heads against them. It’s not the smallest kitchen I will have ever cooked in, but it’ll be tight.
Methodically, I inspected everything from the plates to the equipment. This experience up until that point felt surreal. But that started to change with every new thing I touched.
[divider]Your Backstage Pass[/divider]
Watch Alan and his team cook the biggest dinner of his career on January 28. The James Beard Foundation will be live-streaming from the kitchen here. Three different angles will be available. Given the tight confines, every last crumb should be covered.
Photo credit: Courtesy the Stockton Inn
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
Alan Heckman Has Arrived
As he prepares to cook the biggest meal of his career, let us introduce you to the Stockton Inn chef.
In Alan Heckman’s kitchen, there’s always a large pot or two filled with a scratch-made sauce that requires a few days of simmering and constant monitoring. His old-school methodology and the subtle depth that comes out of it have become the foundation in the resurrection of the Stockton Inn in the Central Jersey riverside town.
Heckman cuts an imposing figure, but his baby face immediately undermines any potential threat. Physically, he’s 30 going on 18. Even though he’s not that long out of culinary school, his mentality is pure Thomas Keller. He’s a stickler for a spotless restaurant, he cooks on the line every night and he talks about having needed to pay his dues before he finally became an executive chef—at 24.
Straight out of school, Heckman stepped into one of the most revered kitchens in the country, Canlis, a Seattle restaurant established in 1950 and run today by the founder’s grandsons. He left there appreciating the gravity of maintaining tradition.
An extensive trip through Europe and Northern Africa brought him back to the literal beginning: food as sustenance. Heckman watched wide-eyed as a woman slapped dough against the sides of an in-ground tandoori oven outside of her modest home in Tunisia, the inside of her arms scarred from the daily ritual.
Back home in Connecticut, or as close to one as he’s ever had (he’s a Navy brat), Heckman made up for lost time, pulling double-duty as the morning prep cook at Craftsteak and sous chef at a small, modern-American restaurant. Overnight, he was introduced to the business of cooking—the ordering, the scheduling.
Around this time last year, the Stockton Inn was searching for its identity. Heckman, fresh off of four years heading up The Washington Crossing Inn, was beginning to come into his own. Together, they’ve managed to draw the attention of kingmakers. Back in the fall, Heckman was invited to serve as the featured chef for a night later this month at The James Beard House, in New York City. He started right in on sketching his menu. It’ll trace his own maturation—the tradition, the humility, the poise.
Over the coming weeks, Heckman will journal his preparations for the dinner and its aftermath here, from his thought process and the sourcing to his anxiety (or lack thereof) and the swell of reflections that’s bound to come standing on the cusp of a landmark moment. Then you can say you knew him before he blew up. —Scott Edwards
The fresh-paint smell’s barely gone from his latest restaurant, Double Knot, and already the sights are set on the next opening. Since The Saint James, there’s been no looking back.
By Mike Madaio
Clockwise, from top: The downstairs dining room at Double Knot; Schulson; and the toro at Double Knot.
Michael Schulson’s lack of prominence is a testament to the newfound strength of Philadelphia’s culinary culture. When you think of the restaurateurs who run the city these days, names like Starr, Garces, Solomonov and Sbraga come to mind. But Schulson’s umbrella covers six separate entities, including Double Knot, a coffeehouse-bar-Vietnamese café-izakaya mashup that opened in February in Center City. (And not including the epic fail that was The Saint James, in Ardmore.)
He was introduced to cooking by his bubby, but it was Susanna Foo who exposed Schulson to the nuances of Asian food. From her kitchen, he’d go on to cook for Stephen Starr at Buddakan, Pod and Buddakan New York Citybefore breaking out on his own with the now-iconic Izakaya at the Borgata, in Atlantic City.
Double Knot represents a return to Schulson’s roots. In recent years, his forays have followed the trends: The Saint James, which relied too much on Schulson’s own rising reputation; a beer garden in a city now drunk with them; and a food truck, which has become the star chef’s proof, across the country, that he’s fully capable of slumming it. Double Knot, however, defies that kind of easy classification. And it feels like a purer reflection of Schulson for it. Not that he’s finally settling into a niche. In fact, plans are already well underway to stray again.
We caught up with him as he pulls together his next project, Harp & Crown, a southern-minded gastropub that’s due to open soon a couple blocks from Double Knot.
How’s your perspective on opening a restaurant changed since Izakaya? Schulson My attention to detail is heightened. Over the years, I’ve realized the importance of all the factors, both big and small, that affect a guest—lighting, music, silverware, uniforms. To create an amazing experience, no detail can be ignored.
Does that mean you’ve boiled it down to a formula? The difference between success and failure is so small. And luck is also a part of that. The key to success is to stay true to your vision. And pick a great location.
Your portfolio’s really diversified in recent years. What’s the rationale? The expectation of guests has grown. They want more. Good food doesn’t cut it anymore. People want an experience when they’re dining out. Dinner used to be an add-on to something else, a show, a movie. Now, dinner reservations are the main attraction.
You’ve become known as an Asian chef, but you seem pretty determined to leave your stamp on comfort food, too. Though my background is in classic French cuisine, which is all about technique and execution, those two take me back to when I was a kid. Comfort food is what I cooked growing up. And my parents’ financial resources were limited, so we’d often go out for Chinese food on Friday nights. That was my first dose of Asian cuisine.
At the rate you’re growing, Harp & Crown likely won’t be your last undertaking. Am I right? Though we do have a few more concepts to execute here, we’re looking to expand outside of the Philadelphia market. Our end goal is to have 20 restaurants in our collective.
And how does the celebrichef status help your cause? It doesn’t. It’s just a title. Titles don’t define you as a person. Your character and how you treat others do.
The annual kickoff gala drew nearly 4,800 to the Pennsylvania Convention Center January 29 and raised a record $550,000 for the Division of Neurology at The Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia (CHOP). With this donation, the Automobile Dealers Association of Greater Philadelphia, the producer of the auto show, will have donated nearly $7 million to CHOP since 1986.
How to look like you’ve been eyeing up the perfect gift for weeks.
Guys, Valentine’s Day is just a few days away. If that’s news, you clearly haven’t thought through the devastation that’s going to follow when you show up empty-handed. Don’t panic. Help is on the way. We asked Laura Anne and Lisa Lamprou, the Bryn Mawr-based sisters behind our new favorite shopping site, LILA Fashion International, to pull a few of their best gift ideas. Feel free to pass them off as your own. We’ll never tell. (And ladies, you now have a fallback.) —Scott Edwards
Greece-based, London-schooled designer Elena Zournatzi depicts her country from amusing and arresting perspectives with these 100-percent silk scarves.
Spring’s already blooming in shades of warm burgundy (pictured), rose quartz and nude at Vice Versa, a Greek outfit that’s been making leather goods for decades. We love the full range of the Barrel Bag’s playful styles, but the classic-looking My Passport is our favorite.
Inspired by the goddess of love, made entirely from raw leather (which means it’s only going to improve with age) and stitched by hand.
The World at their Fingertips
Life as a teenager already feels like being a stranger in a strange land. Imagine compounding that by actually being one. Laura Anne and Lisa Lamprou spent a good chunk of their formative years living on what may as well have been other planets—14 years in Saudi Arabia, followed by Greece. Later on, there was a stint in England, less exotic, but still distinct in its own right. While you and I were wandering the mall, trying desperately to stay safely nestled within the pack, Laura Anne and Lisa were beginning to define themselves through the kind of artisanal fashions we’ve all come to adore but could never imagine pulling off then.
The full potential of their unique access occurred to them about a year-and-a-half ago: They’d uncover small-batch designers from all over the world, but especially the countries where they’d lived, and introduce them to a savvy, mainstream audience. (Read: the Internet.) LILA’s now home to 10 collections (and counting) that hail from Greece, Cyprus, Scotland, Australia and South Africa, all of them new to the States. It’s the globalization of indie fashion. Only, unlike the contents of your bento box lunch, this stuff has lost none of its authenticity in the translation. —SE
Fire burned the Sergeantsville Inn down to its 300-year-old shell one night last winter. A community rebuilt it in nine months. And overnight, normalcy settled back in, inside the restaurant and out. By Scott Edwards · Photography by Josh DeHonney
Much of the wood throughout was salvaged from the building and donated by neighbors. Top: The inn, 11 months after the fire. Below , Lisa and Joe Clyde, home at last.
As a cold dawn filled the sky on March 9, 2015, the last wisps of smoke from a fast-moving fire were doused. Sometime after the Sergeantsville Inn closed for the night, an electrical fire broke out in the waiters’ station adjacent to the bar. The response would run to four alarms, drawing 18 companies from New Jersey and Pennsylvania. Come the morning, all that remained standing of the 18th-century building were the fieldstone walls and a room at the western end that once served as the ice house for the Central New Jersey village, which sits perched atop a hill, about a 10-minute drive north of New Hope. The fire spared the room entirely.
The inn, which was bought in 1999 by Joe Clyde, who’s also the executive chef, had an especially loyal following. (Including me and my wife. We moved to Sergeantsville a little more than two years before the fire, and we were gravitating there more and more.) Within days of the fire, a “Save the Inn” Facebook page went up, and it would evoke nearly 4,800 likes. Joe says he and his wife, Lisa, who manages the front of the restaurant, knew “probably the next day, after the shock wore off” that they’d rebuild. The actual reconstruction, led by Barna Building Contractors, based the next town over, in Stockton, was as swift and sure. Over the next nine months, the building was hollowed out and then pieced back together.
Amid the December holidays, the Sergeantsville Inn reopened gradually, looking different, of course, but surprisingly the same in more ways. Mik Barna, the builder, salvaged every part of the building that he could. The attic floorboards that weren’t burned were pulled up, replaced with plywood and repurposed throughout the restaurant. And when Barna fell short, the neighbors covered the gaps, donating wood from their old barns. Another offered up a fallen black walnut tree, from which the new bar was crafted. When I meet with the Clydes at the restaurant in the last days of December, it’s covered in a temporary, white Formica countertop that’s filled with short, supportive messages scrolled in a rainbow of Sharpie ink.
Joe seized the chance to upgrade the kitchen. He describes the former space as “a cave with ovens.” He stands less than six feet tall, but he always wore a baseball hat to keep from scraping his head on the ceiling. An excavator dug two feet down to add some height. The walk-in refrigerators were also moved outside.
They’re hidden, for the most part, by a modest deck that’ll hold a few tables come the spring. Central air and heat were added. Little could be done about the unfavorable footprint, but Joe, at least, bought himself and his crew some breathing room and climate control. Not that anyone seemed all that fazed by the way things were. Most of the staff—cooks, waiters, bartenders—have been by his side for at least a decade. And every one of them returned. Nearby restaurants offered to employ them until the inn reopened.
Upstairs, the tavern, once a rather cozy room in its own right, now opens to the roofline. A second-floor apartment that Joe used occasionally was converted to another, three-wall seating area—about 70 seats were added altogether—that extends halfway over the tavern, creating a loft-like space. When I ask Lisa and Joe if anything meaningful couldn’t be saved or replaced, they pause. Grateful as they are to have their restaurant (and everyone in it) back, they’re humble, soft-spoken people. Routine is what they know best, and the last several months were profoundly disorienting. Joe looks across the table, says, “My father’s wedding ring.” It was lost shortly before his father died. Joe found it, kept it in the second-floor apartment. During the demolition, they gave the crew an idea of where it could be, not really expecting it to be there. It was gone, they knew. But then the builder’s son, Mik Barna Jr., turned up with it. So, no, nothing meaningful was lost.
