This blog is about food. Not the food of privilege, or affluence. Not haute cuisine. There will be no tales of molecular gastronomy or sous vide cooking here. This blog is entirely concerned with the people's food, street food, and the truly remarkable culinary accomplishments of street vendors, food truck operators, and journeyman cooks who cater to the middle and working classes with often transcendent gastronomic results. This blog is in no way meant to diminish the culinary mastery of my haute cuisine brethren with whom I've had the constant honor of working the past ten years, truly great chefs with James Beard Awards and Michelin stars under their belts, whose work has been of such savor as to make my eyes roll back in my head and make me go weak in the knees with every glorious bite. But their world is a world of television celebrity and 24-course tasting menus. A culinary rock star world so rarified and strange that the interest of the more proletarian palates among us, such as mine, often wanes in favor of far dicier and dangerous food experiences, like rolling the gastroenterological dice at the Salvadoran pupusa truck parked outside the neighborhood Latino carniceria, or taking a chance with the boiled peanut man on the side of the Georgia dirt road. My culinary world, outside of work, is one of bar-b-que joints and greasy spoons. Diners whose fry-cooks still blithely ash into your corned-beef hash while sweating over the grill.
I've brought my appetite. It should be fun.
(And I'm not really a communist. I just like the posters, yo.)