Bridget Albert has gin in her blood. Albert, the chief mixologist for Southern Wine and Spirits and the co-author (with Mary Barranco) of the newly released “Market-Fresh Mixology,” from Surrey Books, is a fourth- generation bartender. Her lavender-eyed great aunt Tilly started the string by hopping behind the family tavern in Coal City, Illinois as a 12-year-old. Bridget’s then 10-year-old great grandmother soon joined Tilly and became a fixture in the street, hand-chiseling ice off the old delivery trucks with her fierce ice pick. Albert says, “My great grandfather used to get scared when he saw his wife running around with that pick.” The family lived above the tavern, and Albert’s great-grandmother would occasionally manage the tavern by peeking through the knots in the rickety floor down to survey the bar room below Advertisements
You wouldn’t throw a summer bbq and break out a can of Niblets for your guests during sweet corn season, would you? So why do you still drink that way? In this podcast I sit down with Bridget Albert, chief mixologist for Southern Wine and Spirits, and most recently author of the newly released cocktail book, Market Fresh Mixology, to answer that question. We also talk about the history of the Mojito, Albert’s bootlegging grandparents, and discuss the controversy over the terms mixologist and bar chef. Cheers!
Geno Bahena is like the boy who cried wolf, or, more particularly, the chef who cried “mole.” Every time Bahena, the executive chef of the new Logan Square regional Mexican spot Real Tenochtitlan, opens a new restaurant, he calls up the food-gossip mafia and regales them with tales of his famous mole sauce. Then he swears up and down that his latest venture is his greatest and that he’ll stick around forever. Then he disappears.
Nick Lacasse, executive chef of the Drawing Room, is a “Top Chef” slayer. Just four days after former Scylla chef-owner Stephanie Izard was crowned Top Chef on the Bravo television show, Lacasse bested her in a head-to-head throwdown at his restaurant. Lacasse, a veteran of Spring, Green Zebra and Custom House, uncorked his battle magic with courses like sauteed foie gras with walnut crostini, pickled fennel and kumquats gastrique and pumpkin seed-crusted lamb chops with smoked potato puree, roasted shallot and Bing cherry relish and spearmint oil. We check in with the champ after his success. Q. How did it feel to beat Stephanie Izard? Does this make you Top Chef Chicago? A. I’ve known Stephanie for five years and it was an honor to have her in my kitchen. It certainly doesn’t make me Top Chef Chicago. I had the home court advantage for the evening, so things might have been different if we were in Stephanie’s kitchen. Q. What was your secret? Was it the foie gras? A. The execution of the dinner was a major challenge for both of us; I think my catering experience came into play; that certainly helped in turning out so many plates.…
Every writer suffers from at least a touch of melancholy. As a food writer, though, my touches of depression are not from anything as pedestrian as the existential weight of the world.
Normally, when I write a restaurant review, I try to avoid indulging in blow-by-blow course descriptions, poor adjectives and Architectural Digest-style décor treatises, a feat I like to call the “Pat Bruno.” Instead, I try to look for the story behind the restaurant, personal memoir spurred by dining at the establishment or a cultural context in which to put the food. But I was so appalled by the experience and the food at YATS Cajun-Creole Cuisine, a new Chicago location of a popular quick-service Indianapolis-based restaurant, I’m having a hard time avoiding a hyperbolic damning diatribe. Eating there last week was the worst dining experience—and that includes trips to the now-shuttered Bennigans—of my career as a food writer.
I’ve always wanted a tattoo, but I’ve also been hung up on that whole “my body is god’s temple” thing.
Watching food TV for the last few years has made me a little insecure about my performance in the kitchen. Sitting on the couch, watching television chefs crafting impossibly well-lit soft-focused steamy come-hither plates, I was sure I’d become soft and that I could never measure up with my own culinary chops. It was true, I couldn’t. Like Photoshopped glamor magazine cover girls and lip-syncing ingenues, the solo santoku-wielding culinary warrior who spits out three-course, five-minute meals on your flat-panel television screen is partly a digital mythology. Ming Tsai, chef-owner of Blue Ginger in Wellesley, Mass., just was in town to shoot segments for the new fall season of his PBS cooking show “Simply Ming” (it debuts in October on WTTW-Channel 11) with local top toques Rick Bayless, Gale Gand and Shawn McClain. I attended the McClain taping to see the behind-the-scenes action. Food TV isn’t quite like sausage. It’s fascinating to see it made. What’s particularly interesting about Tsai’s show is that it’s made with quite a bit of integrity. A 10-year veteran of food television and a former personality of the burgeoning Food Network, Tsai made his move to PBS because it allowed him more control over the end…
Living in a city with 6,000+ restaurants, why would you ever drive 150 miles to eat in a city with a population of 1,500? For me, it’s a kind of a Hillary Clinton type thing. She was right, it does take a village to raise a child. Unfortunately for my wife and I, parents of a 16 month old boy who believes soil is a basic food group, we left the village back in our home state of Michigan when we moved to Chicago. So when we need a break from the exhaustive process of keeping our son’s mouth free of dirt and other things you find on the average floor, we gotta go to the village.
They say you always remember your first. And were we talking about a kiss, I remember sitting on a recessed bench filled with orange life jackets on the second level of the Boblo Island ferry leaning towards my sixth grade “girlfriend”, Monica. I remember the stench of rotting sea life from the Detroit River and the paprika scent of Better Made BBQ potato chips mingling with the floral waft of Giorgio perfume from her neck (though I suspect it was the Parfums de Coeur Designer Imposters knock-off, after all what 12-year-old can afford the real thing?) as we hesitantly merged our lips. Were we talking about sex, I remember that too, but kissing and telling is one thing, getting laid and doing so is quite another.