Mission: Cook! (28 page)

Place the filled soufflé dishes in the oven and close the door gently. Reduce the oven temperature to 400 degrees. Bake for 7 to 8 minutes and serve immediately with ice cream or crème fraîche.

Note: If you have a strong preference about the firmness of the inside of a soufflé, you can safely test it without making it fall.

Keep the oven light “on” in the last few minutes of baking time to monitor the situation through the oven window. Once you see that the top is nicely browned and cracked, you can use a long skewer inserted at an angle from the side to test the doneness of the inside. If you like the inside firmed-up inside rather than soft, bake until the skewer comes out clean. Keep in mind that even if a soufflé falls, it is still delicious.

Put
the dried mushrooms in a strainer and rinse very well under cold running water, shaking to make sure all the sand has been removed. Place them in a saucepan with 1 cup of the broth and bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Remove the pan from the heat and set aside for 30 to 40 minutes to soak.

Meanwhile, in a large, heavy saucepan, melt the butter over medium-high heat. Add the onions and cook for 5 to 7 minutes until they are well softened and just golden. Stir in the garlic and fresh mushrooms, and cook for 4 to 5 minutes until they begin to soften, then add the salt and pepper, thyme, and nutmeg, and sprinkle the flour over the mixture. Cook for 3 to 5 minutes, stirring frequently, until blended.

Add the Madeira or sherry, the remaining chicken broth, the dried mushrooms, and their soaking liquid and cook, covered, over medium heat for 30 to 40 minutes until the mushrooms are very tender.

Puree the soup in batches in a blender or food processor. Strain it back into the saucepan, pressing firmly to force the puree through the sieve. Stir in the crème fraîche or sour cream and sprinkle with the snipped chives just before serving.

W
HEN YOU ARE A YOUNG BRITISH SUBJECT AND TRAVELING AROUND WITH
members of the royal household to exotic ports, supervising their food, it is easy to get a swollen head and start thinking you are a pretty cool guy. I traveled to some amazing places throughout America and Europe, the Far East, and the South Pacific. I particularly remember staying at the Al-Bustan Palace Hotel, which is virtually carved into a cliffside in Oman, and being astonished at the opulence as I stared up at the glittering golden central foyer that cuts through the entire building. I blushingly admit that there, as well as in other posh locales, I often entered with one suitcase and left with two, the second filled with robes, slippers, towels, and other souvenirs of the good life.

On one occasion, I and a small advance team were installed in the Old
Winter Palace Hotel in Egypt, situated right next to the Temple of Luxor. I had hoped to have a chance to view the artifacts from King Tut's tomb, but found out that they were in fact on display at London at the time. Whenever we were in a truly foreign city, we were routinely instructed, “Don't eat the food and don't drink the water.” It was late in the day and we had been traveling a long way. I was in no mood to heed the usual warnings. I was ready for a couple of beers and something to eat. I called down to room service and managed to communicate my desire for drink and the makings of a sandwich, or so I thought. After a long wait, the food arrived.

I was disgusted. They had delivered what to me looked for all the world like a pile of stale flat bread, a stack of cold camel meat, and coffee with some sort of strange-smelling liquid that I guessed was goat's milk. In my arrogance, I salvaged the two beers from the tray, walked the rest over to the unshuttered windows, and tossed the lot down into the street below.

I am, after all, my mother's son, and I immediately regretted doing something so stupid. I leaned out the window and looked to make sure that nobody had been hit down below. I am ashamed to say that what I saw was a number of people down in the street, some children and some older, scrambling and fighting for the food I had discarded, picking it up off the street as part of their or their family's next meal. They were so poor, it must have seemed like manna from heaven. I have never forgotten that moment, and my determination to have respect for the people for whom I cook, whenever and wherever I have the privilege, took a leap forward that day. Pay attention—not all of the lessons take place in the kitchen.

My memories of that experience in Egypt sometimes remind me of the incredible bounty we take for granted at our fingertips. In many cultures, soups take one simple ingredient and skillfully elevate it to the point of sustenance for many people at once. This thought put me in the mind of the following recipe, which concentrates, almost to the exclusion of anything else, on the singular and essential earthy flavor of mushrooms, which I adore.

Jamaican escapades, George and George, and
the art of running Donald Trump's kitchens

I
AM OFTEN ASKED VARIATIONS ON THE QUESTION “WHAT MOST ATTRACTS
you to the cooking profession?” I have given lots of different answers, but over time, I have narrowed it down to three keys: “people, pleasure, and passion.”

Most of the time, I truly believe it is passion that drives the boat. When you're up before the crack of dawn, or awake late, late at night, long after everyone else has eaten and gone home to bed, and you are cleaning or scraping, or slicing or stirring, and your bones are on fire and the arches in your feet are disintegrating, and you can hardly bear to look at another scrap of food, it is only passion that keeps you going.

There are times when cooks have to do whatever it takes to get dinner on the table, and no one illustrates this point better than my old friend Guppy.

I had left the employ of the Royal Family and the British Navy, and had landed a plum spot at the Jamaica Grand Hotel in Ocho Rios as their executive chef. I was gradually finding my land legs and being christened to life on the beautiful island of Jamaica.

It had been decided by management that every Thursday we would make a superlative amount of noise, live music, and fun for our guests by throwing a big bash called “Jump Up!” For the first one, we were expecting a crowd of about two thousand and I was planning a huge amount of food, an endless buffet that would feature in the starring roles Jamaican classics that I was rapidly stockpiling recipes for, including bammies, codfish and ackee, and of course, Jamaican jerk pork and chicken, a local favorite that I had been happily devouring and enjoying in my travels around the island.

By Tuesday evening, it was full steam ahead, though I was still learning the ins and outs of properly organizing my Jamaican staff as I went along. Everything in Jamaica is “Irie, mon!” which is a cheerful way of saying, “Everything's cool; don't worry!” Your underwear can be on fire, and the response might easily be “Irie, mon! Don't worry. Just take 'em off; they'll settle down. Have a beer and rest awhile. Or you can wait 'til the rain comes to put them out; it always comes, sooner or later…”

Anyway, things were rolling along as smoothly as could be expected and I had a game plan for making the jerk marinade that I had shared with one of my cooks, an entirely pleasant guy named Guppy. (It's important to note that even though his name was spelled G-u-p-p-y, a fact that I confirmed with him, it was indeed pronounced with a soft
g,
as in “Juppy.”) He was an industrious little guy, an extremely hard worker, and was in charge of all of the marinades for the meats, chicken, and fish. I was in my office doing paperwork when I noticed that something had changed in the kitchen. There is a rhythm and a distinctive sound to a working kitchen, and when it changes, you had better know why.

I walked out and silently observed Guppy performing what looked to me for all the world like some strange island ritual. He had a large roll of plastic wrap and was dividing it into long strips. Many of his coworkers were watching him intently, and had become quiet, as if in a kind of nervous anticipation of this ceremony. Once the entire roll had been divided, he solemnly began to take one of the strips and wrap it around his head, like a bandana. I was curious, but also wanted to be respectful of whatever was going on. Some obscure
branch of voodoo, perhaps? Far be it from me to question somebody's superstition or religious practice, especially in a culture that was new to me. Work seemed to be progressing, just more quietly, so I went back into the office.

About eight minutes later, I heard the whine of a large mechanical chopping machine.

Two minutes after that, I was under attack.

I began coughing uncontrollably, my eyes were streaming with acid, my nose was running, and my throat was on fire. I felt panic heave me up out of my chair and hurl me out of the office.

I bolted out into the kitchen and was horrified by what I saw next. The place was completely deserted. I turned at a sound behind me, and through squinting, painful eyes, I saw an inhuman figure waggling toward me that for the world looked like a Plastic-Wrap Ninja come to finish me off. It was a mummified creature, bound head to toe in thick sheets of glistening plastic, shouting something that was completely muffled by the wrap across its mouth, just below its airholes. It grabbed me by the arm and gently led me, hacking and coughing, out the back door to fresh air.

In the excruciatingly bright sunshine, all of my workers, who had sensibly cleared out of the danger zone a few minutes before, placidly watched whilst I concentrated on breathing and recovering what was left of my composure. Guppy reached up and began to peel the plastic wrap off his head with hands that wore five pairs of food-service gloves under a pair of yellow marigold dishwashing gloves. He smiled at me apologetically.

He had been responsible for pulverizing four
20-pound cases
of hot Scotch bonnet peppers for the jerk, and with the thick, evil cloud of capsaicin vapor they produced, he had innocently teargassed me to within an inch of my life. Had I been able to put two and two together, I would have gladly begged to crawl into his plastic-wrap cocoon with him before the conflagration.

This recipe is dedicated to all of the great people I worked with in Jamaica, and especially to Guppy. “Irie, mon!”

Place
one of the limes in a small microwave-safe bowl and microwave it until the essential oils in the skin are released. This usually takes 30 seconds to 1 minute. Listen for the “whoosh,” after which you can remove the bowl and see the oils in the bottom of the bowl. Reserve these oils. Then repeat with each of the limes. I am having you microwave them one at a time because the ripeness and size of each lime may be different, requiring a different amount of time for the “whoosh” to occur for each lime. These limes will be hot coming from the microwave, so you can let them cool enough to handle before squeezing them.

Using a blender (or a food processor), blend the allspice, nutmeg, cinnamon,
thyme, onions, scallions, and peppers (whilst wearing gloves) together to make a pulp. Return to the limes and squeeze the juice into the blender through the feeder tube.
Make sure you use the lime oils that were released by microwaving, as well as the juice you've squeezed.
Then add the soy sauce through the feeder tube. Mix well.

Place the chicken pieces and lime skins in a container that you will be able to cover tightly. Pour the marinade over the chicken and let rest in the refrigerator overnight (or a minimum of 4 hours).
Keep the chicken tightly covered and away from other foods, as it will taint them.

The best way to cook jerk is over an open-flame barbecue. For authentic flavor, you need some pimento wood—or hickory would do as a substitute. To get the best flavor from this dish, the chicken must be cooked slowly, turned and basted regularly.

If you don't have a barbecue grill, then cook it in the oven, as you would roasted chicken, say, in a covered pan at 300 degrees for 2 hours plus another 30 minutes, uncovered, at 400 degrees. The important thing is that you check for doneness. When the chicken is done, the flesh will feel firm and the juices will run clear. You can also use a meat thermometer, which should register an internal temperature of at least 180 degrees.

You can use other kinds of peppers or add hot sauce.

I love to eat this with creamy coleslaw along with either a beer or a drink called Ting, which is a grapefruit soda famous in Jamaica—almost as famous as Red Stripe beer.

Enjoy!

G
OD KNOWS THE PAIN GUPPY HAD GONE THROUGH BEFORE HE SETTLED
on this unusual prophylactic approach to food prep, but the point is that he came up with a way to do what he had to do to get the job done. That was one of a few scares I had in Jamaica, though not all of them took place in the kitchen.

At the beginning of my time at the Jamaica Grand, just prior to my encounter with Guppy and the Great Scotch Bonnet Gas-Out, I found myself at loose ends. I had arrived on the island with a passel of great ideas, a metric ton of energy, and a boatload of confidence. I was a Master Chef. I had served (literally, breakfast, luncheon, and supper) my Queen and country with some distinction, and I was prepared to have some fun. I was ready, willing, and eager to report for work on my first day, but I hadn't actually received my work permit from the government.

My days were relegated to walking the beautiful property, basking in the sun, and pretty much kissing babies and running for office whilst I took copious notes on the people and the setup. About 5:30 in the afternoon, after a day of casing the joint, I decided to tour one of the kitchens that had recently been remodeled, after enjoying a quick snack of bammies, conch chowder, and Red Stripe at a neat little shack next door.

I entered the kitchen through a large swinging door and started back toward the chef's office, tucked way in the back. Halfway down on the right was the butcher's shop, presided over by an exceedingly large gentleman named Mr. Enormous (I have changed his name to protect the innocent, namely me). He simply beamed when he saw me and flashed a benevolent smile, cleaver in hand. Seemed an absolutely charming young man.

There was a metal door just beyond the butcher's shop for deliveries. A wellorganized squad of young men in street clothes, none of whom I recognized, looked as if they were competing on an episode of
Supermarket Sweepstakes.
They were grabbing armfuls of whole chickens, legs of lamb, beef roast, slabs of bacon, and anything else they could get their hands on.

“Hey, what are you doing?” I shouted. I rushed toward them, and they bolted out the back door, laden with the hotel's goods, past the laundry and to the water's edge, where a motorboat sat waiting, revving its engines for a fast getaway. With the crystal blue skies and the tropical vistas of Jamaica behind them as they made good their escape, I felt as if I were in a James Bond film, specifically
Dr. No.
I think I could have caught them with my jet pack (from
Thunderball),
but it wasn't readily available. They had beaten me!