By Andrew Carmellini
In American Flavor, Andrew Carmellini—two time James Beard Award winner, acclaimed writer of Urban Italian, and government chef-owner of the hit manhattan urban eating places Locanda Verde and The Dutch—offers an impressive selection of scrumptious, cutting edge, down-to-earth recipes and tales that get on the soul of ways we devour this day. encouraged through either conventional nearby cuisines and the multicultural neighborhoods, international eateries, and ethnic groceries that dot the yank panorama American Flavor combines a United countries of cultural affects into delicious dishes which are a cornucopia of delights for armchair foodies, enthusiasts of tremendous cooks Mario Batali, Joe Bastianich, and Nate Appleman, and chefs at each ability point who relish genuine American foodstuff twenty first century-style: subtle yet down-to-earth, rustic yet sophisticated, and continuously deeply flavored and delicious.
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I moved on to a local Italian restaurant, where my beer-drinking skills served as a solid basis for more advanced workplace indulgences. Also, I started doing some actual cooking, with ingredients that did not come pre-prepared, in bags. That’s when I realized that I could cook for four hundred people a night without breaking too much of a sweat—and that the cooking part was almost as much fun as the girls-and-beer part. MAKING TERRINE IN FRANCE IN TORINO, ITALY ON THE BEACH IN MIAMI, 1976 MY FIRST ROAD TRIP SIDE OF THE ROAD, INDIANA DEEP-SEA FISHING IN FLORIDA GARDENING WITH MOM DAD WITH HIS CATCH OF THE DAY, BACK IN THE DAY MOM’S OLD-SCHOOL BARBEQUE SAUCE THE CREW AT ARPEGO, 1995 IN THE BAR-ARMAGNAC REGION, FRANCE IN BORDEAUX IN THE BACKYARD WITH MOM IN GRANDMA’S GARDEN ON THE ROAD IN POTTER, NEBRASKA IN THE PYRENEES, 1996 LATER ON THAT YEAR, MY ENGLISH TEACHER—we’ll call her Mrs.
I didn’t make everything in the books (and I didn’t skin any rabbits), but I tried everything that I could possibly make in my mother’s kitchen with a reasonable chance of not burning the house down. Peach Melba, for example. And Pommes Anna. Not everything worked: oeufs à la neige—floating islands—was an embarrassment that was luckily not documented in photography, and pâté was a disaster my family may never recover from. But that was my fault, not Chef’s. As far as I was concerned, Jacques Pépin was a rock star.
We waited. But when our order came to the table, we knew we’d stumbled, finally, on the Promised Land of morning food. . We sat looking at each other across the table. There were no words. We had found the Great American Breakfast, and it was in Canada. In the years since, Gwen and I have kept looking, and every once in a while we’ve found some pretty great versions of that roadfood Holy Grail. There was Juan in a Million in Austin, where the Great American Breakfast included tortillas and hot sauce; there was Mrs.