I’M A BRESSE MAN

I’M A BRESSE MAN

The food world is full of connoisseurs – steak fans, oyster mavens, cheese authorities, whisky and wine snobs, even soup Nazis. But have you ever once met a chicken aficionado?

For a long time, I felt there really wasn’t a whole lot of difference between one roasted chicken and another. They all seemed pretty good to me – kind of like pizza (“The worst pizza I’ve ever had was pretty darn good.”).

Occasionally I tried roasting a better bird – organic, pasture-raised, “walking about” birds, etc. They were twice the price and marginally better than the garden variety supermarket industrial chicken.
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CHINA BLUES

CHINA BLUES

I’ve always loved Chinese restaurants – from our neighborhood take-out operations to the high-end, red-lacquered palaces in New York and San Francisco. I remember my first trips to Hong Kong and Shanghai, and how thrilling they were.

But more often than not, Chinese food is a disappointment. Maybe because so many Chinese restaurants dumb it down for the non-Chinese. It may also owe to the public’s belief that no matter how good the ingredients are, and how much skill goes into their preparation, prices should match those of the little takeout place down the street. Faced with a clientele that simply won’t pay for quality, the restaurants serve up an inferior product by necessity.
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A JONES FOR BONES

As the owner of a steakhouse that aspires to be the best of the best, I have a responsibility to check out the competition. It’s hard work sometimes (Heavy is the hand that hoists the steak knife.), but I do it without complaint.

A quarter-century after opening Manny’s, I’ve eaten at probably every significant steakhouse around the globe. Some are traditional icons (think Peter Luger). Some are more adventurous, like Prime in Las Vegas or Kevin Rathburn in Atlanta. Some are more Italian, like Gene and Georgetti’s in Chicago, and of course there are the Argentinian restaurants like Cabana Las Lilas in Buenos Aires, which I blogged about earlier.

I love ‘em all.
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Dan Tana’s

Dan Tana’s

Have you ever felt that you didn’t “live up to” a restaurant?

I know I’ve felt that way. Maybe because I don’t speak French or don’t own a Brioni suit. I don’t tie my sweater around my neck by the sleeves like a member of the Armani crowd, with my sunglasses perched atop the hair I used to have. Or maybe my Midwest area code gave me away when I made my reservation.
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