Oh no he DIDN'T just compare my cooking to...

Friday, 21 June, 2013

3:41 p.m. Local time

For a few years now, since I've gotten into the culinary biz full time professionally, I've loved to day dream about my own place, one that Guy Fieri takes the “Diners, Drive Ins and Dives” crew on an inspired assignment to, where they all rave about my cassoulet, or my Japanese style spicy maple glazed pork, or halibut Mombasa, etc., all en croute. Guests would gleefully anticipate my Irish potato soup on cold winter days, and my mini Sacher tortes, Japanese apple-pear tarte Tatins, and amped up Cannoli would become the hit of the after hours crowd. I have pinterest boards loaded with dishes I'd like to do ala Francais, as well as pictures of how I'd decorate a bistro of my own, right down to wall art and background music.

Since arriving at Sandy River Lodge, I've been doing my best to put out some memorable meals here, which is difficult at best in such rural conditions. One night I packed pork ribs in garlic, kosher salt, oregano, lemon zest, coarse black pepper, paprika and brown sugar, then smoked them over alder branches for hours. Another night I glazed salmon in Sriracha and onion soup mix blended with olive oil. Pork loin got braised in white wine, thyme, allspice, garlic cloves and red onions. Moose steaks were dredged in flour laced with garlic salt, paprika, sage and white pepper, egg, and finally panko, then deep fried.

So imagine my chagrin when I heard from the controlled chaos of the dining room of the early morning;

“Greg, your pancakes are just like the ones at McDonald's!”. Suddenly, the whole scene in front of me skidded to a halt, I was literally hearing that sound effect in my head. All the air was sucked outta' the room; in my minds eye, Guy Fieri and crew are now torching my kitchen and dining room like an angry mob from a Frankenstein movie, foreign nations are declaring war on our country for the travesty they feel I've made of one of their traditional dishes, and ghosts of long dead Le Cordon Bleu instructors are reaching out from their graves, shredding my chef's coat from my body.

“Dude, are you o.k.?, you still in there?, hello?...” I come back to reality as Jason and Trevor are staring intently at me, I've got my 10” chef's knife poised over my abdomen ready to commit ritual seppukku in the middle of the camp dining room.

“Sorry, what?...” I mumble.

“Dude, like, everybody loves your pancakes!, I could personally eat these everyday!”

Yeah, nope, I can't think of anybody who'd like to start their day being told their pancakes “are just like McDonald's!”, not even the people who “cook” at McDonald's. O.k., so I'm using Krusteaz pancake mix; this is a remote wilderness camp, cut me a break! But c'mon, it's me!, you so know I'ma' doctor that stuff up! Some vanilla, or maybe almond, extract and ground cinnamon, YEAH!, that's what I'm talking about. So they're not German pancakes, you know those platter sized pastries that form their own bowl that you then fill with fresh fruit and real whipped cream, but they're stylin' for being at camp. And I know Jason (one of the fishing guides), he's a good guy, he was totally smiling when he said it, so I know he meant it as a compliment. But when you're working to perfect your international cuisine skills, specifically French, being compared to Mickey D's is pretty much professional death. I mean, like, I think I woulda' even accepted him comparing my cooking to, like, Ihop! But no, Crackdonald's it was. I'm sure the look on my face would have been more appropriate had Jason stabbed a hunormous bite of pancakes and then jabbed it into my eye, or set the syrup ablaze on his plate and then smashed me in the crotch with it.

If my demise doesn't involve one of the lovely and now active volcanoes oh so close by, or a particularly ornery local brown bear, within the next few days, I have half a mind to dress entirely in black and start asking all my diners if they'd “like fries with that” while I'm serving...