The waitress with the Ph.D

I'm grateful for the internet for so many reasons, but this morning one reason in particular stands out: connections between people. Even for oddballs such as myself, the internet lets us know that strange as we might be, we're not alone. As with all things, this has two sides. Knowing that one is not alone is a comforting notion to have, however for some it so happens that being one-of-a-kind is what brings home the cash and/or ego boost. That just brings us down to the cynical aspect of values, right? What's worth paying for and what is priceless?
I'm slowly getting round to what I want to write about today: risk-taking. I do get the question every so often why I need a Ph.D if I'm going to work as a wine waiter. My standard reply is that you don't have to have a Ph.D to work as a waitress, but it does help. To me, and to my happy surprise at least one other woman, it's not that that one excludes the other (try asking a chef why they need to be able to read. They might not need it to cook but it does, just like air in tyres, make the wheels go round smoothly). I love my day-job as a scientist. As a BSc MSc in Biomedicine, I know that unless I plunge in head first doing some kind of furthering of my lab skills I'm not actually qualified to do anything but talk about molecular theory. Luckily, talking skills and some molecular theory is just what I need (apart from a good nose) to be a reasonably good sommelier - a change from a lab coat to a suit and I'm just in time for the evening service. Of course I don't need eight years of university studies to be a waitress. Many do just fine without it. These past three years have been part of a calculated risk: get my degrees, and further my wine training. So far, it's paid off. Bloom may have been the largest gamble, but as we all know, I'm stuck. And who can blame me? I'm in deep with an exceptionally talent-packed team, and we have new adventures every day.

There's another kind of risk involved with Bloom. I am speaking, of course, of the menu-less concept. Work-wise it means expecting the unexpected, treading lightly, making the right bold move. Exhilarating. For you as a customer, it means placing your evening in our hands. It demands a certain free-spiritedness, a certain level of trust, perhaps a little daredevil-element. Does this sound scary, or maybe daunting? You really need not worry. Our chefs, apart from being trained in Michelin-star kitchens and receiving awards for their own work, are perfectly literate. Igi has worked with all the best people in the industry. Oh, and one of the waiters has a Ph.D. Maybe we're worth a gamble?

(picture from google.com)

The never-ending story of women vs men in the kitchen

I was happy, at first, to come across an article in businessinsider.com about Swedish chef Marcus Samuelsson. I had nothing but warm feelings of admiration for this guy, before he put his foot in it trying to define the differences between men and women in the kitchen. First, he states "I've built my company around where the online conversation is centered. Food Republic is a platform for men, and marcussamuelsson.com is more of a female conversation, with a blog format."
Ouch. I've snooped around Food Republic, where the bio states "Food Republic is founded on the idea that guys everywhere are putting food at the center of their lives like never before. This is the site for men who want to eat and drink well, and to live smart." Apparently, eating and drinking "well" includes low-cal lemon vodka spritzer and pita chips to kick off barbecue season. marcussamuelsson.com however, lists happy posts on "cooking with every colour" and TWO WAYS of making peach cobbler (stay at the stove where you belong, woman!).
As if this wasn't enough, he goes on record stating "Men talk about gadgets, and knives, and stoves and bourbon -- how to be a man and how that revolves around food. On marcussamuelsson.com, it's much more like, "after yoga you can eat this" -- it's more health-driven in a different way. We enter it differently.
Women can be more nurturing and health-driven, while men will say, "what was that wine I liked?" or "that's a really great stove." "

Marcus. I say this cordially: Shut up. The last thing we need is a bloke telling us what women are like. We already tried that out in the fashion industry, and see where that landed us. I know many more gadget-driven, knife-wielding, whisky-voiced, hardcore-chef women than I can care to recount. They live their life taking food apart and putting it back together. I also happen to know that if you said anything about the dumb-housewife yoga stereotype to their face you'd end up minus something quite dear to you. So please. Be a man and let women be the women they are - as food-centered and crazy as any man out there. Oh, and we're perfectly literate. I'd try the "cooking with colours" method on children who don't know enough to be insulted. Thank you.

(Image from google.com)

What would you put on the ultimate burger?

I know of no other dish that is so hated, berated and debated (and loved, adored and praised - but that doesn't rhyme) as the humble burger. The term "Hamburger" comes from Hamburg, which is (if you didn't know) Germany's second largest city. According to Wikipedia, lots of people from Hamburg emigrated to the US, bringing with them the "Hamburg steak". The first printed menu in America to list hamburger was a 1826 menu from Delmonico's in New York.
Since then, it has evolved not only into a fast-food staple but also a standing menu element for gourmets to deconstruct/reconstruct. Personally I'm more inclined to fish&chips, but that's subjective to say the least... Anyway, I've noticed a trend in burger reinventions recently. Most notable is this giant from New York's Wall Street Burger Shoppe.

(picture from fastcompany.com)

At $175 the Richard Nouveau as it's been christened contains 10 ounces of Kobe beef, foie gras, exotic mushrooms, cave-aged Gruyère, fresh truffles, a brioche bun as well as a total of 750 milligrams of gold. Apparently someone has developed a taste for these artery-busting bombs of gluttony, because they have a standing order of two a week. To each his own, as they say, but I can't help but wonder what one orders to drink with this. A diet Coke? Or Dom Perignon? You tell me. And while we're at it, what would your ultimate burger look like?

In the best of worlds

If you're in the restaurant business, you'll know all about that one review, that one blog post, that one travel-site rating of your establishment that rankles you for a long time. We've all had them (some of us have had more than others, but that's what you get in Sweden for being "outlandish"). We've all cursed food-writers, food-bloggers or the general food-philosophers that internet is now so full of for not knowing, for not getting their facts right, for not understanding. I've personally cursed the idiocy of certain publicists who let their "writers" get away with murder (but that's another story). Although freedom of speech is something we think of as a right it offers no guarantee when it comes to quality control. I was just thinking about my impending career-move to do more writing professionally, when I stumbled across this article in the Taipei Times. In Taipei, freedom of speech is, at least when it comes to food critique, more like freedom to recite facts but not have an opinion. A blogger was jailed for publishing a blog post detailing her disappointing visit to a local noodle restaurant. A judge ruled that her comments about the unsanitary cockroaches was valid as it was a detailing of facts, but that the write-down of the overly-salty noodles was clear defamation as she only sampled the one dish. Imagine that! It seems like she should have approached it scientifically: a random, double-blind, age-controlled study of the saltiness of noodles in my local noodle restaurant. I'm sure The Journal of Restaurant Science would be happy to let it through.

I jest, of course. The fabulous thing about freedom of speech and the internet is that one can have all the opinions in the world: real, unreal, silly, crazy, factual, logical, reverential, biased, unbiased, good, bad and the other. With all that to sort through, I tend to find that the best thing to do is not jail people with conflicting opinions, but rather go find out for myself and stick to my guns.

But the review were the writer in question had never been to Bloom, well, that still rankles.

The green lanterns pt 2

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The green lanterns...

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Foodball

We've once again been to Valbyparken in Denmark to participate in the charity event "Foodball", organized by Daniel Burns, former chef at Noma. It gathers restaurants from around Europe together for an amicable football tournament were all proceeds go to childrens charities.
Some long-time readers may remember last time we played. We try hard to forget, as we we're one of the few teams to lose with the opposing teams scoring in the double digits. Also, myself, Victoria and Lovisa were the only women present. This year offered a slight betterment in that department - there were two other women apart from Titti and myself. However, we were the only team with two women. Come on guys, next year bring the girls!
Girlpower was not the only improvement. We teamed up with our good friends from Rebell, and we actually managed to win a game (against one of Cofoco's teams)! Not necessarily thanks to Titti and I (who were outclassed by a savvy five year-old), but I think I'd be right in saying we brought a lot of the fun to the game (picture us missing easy passes and squealing when a hard shot comes vaguely our way).

Now we're off to take a much-needed shower and then we're all off to have a drink somewhere. Probably at a sports bar, and we'll probably try to trick someone into thinking that we won. We're like that. And we like it.

Happy Midsummer!

From all of us to all of you.

Polish or polish?

(images from Google.com)

I love reading Stephen Fry, but his books tend to have the mysterious side-effect of turning my vocabulary positively Etonian. With me, that's not necessarily a good thing. For those of you who have not heard me speak, I suggest you turn to youtube for any episode of "Absolutely Fabulous" and listen closely to Edie. I don't know how many times a month I get "ee, I think I've heard you on the telly!" from anyone who has spent good night-time face-time with the BBC. It's not me on the telly, of course. That's a very famous actress called Joanna Lumley, and yes, we've pretty much got exactly the same voice and accent. So when reading Stephen Fry, accessorising my already posh accent with a posh vocabulary is, as you'd say in Sweden, a bit kaka-på-kaka. Igi doesn't mind, he just tells anyone who asks that we're trying to rebuild the empire (shh).
Anyway, I was throwing my recently-acquired verbosity around when my highly esteemed colleague Miguel wanted to know if I'd by mistake eaten a can of polish. In Bloom, where we're all a bit mix-and-mash heritage-wise, he stands out like a purple sun in an orange sky by being the unlikely mix of half-Spanish half-Polish. So I told him I hadn't, but that eating a Polish person for dinner isn't far off. I've been thinking about this, and now I don't know who's right. There is nothing wrong with a bit of polish, but I'm sure Polish will be compulsory in the labour market within the near future. What say you, dear readers?

Cue for applause

We would like to congratulate our very dear friend Chico Lindvall who has been awarded 50 000 SEK by Konstnärsnämnden, the government agency that supports professional artists work, development and international contacts as well as keeping abreast of artists' economic and social conditions. Since I'm not quite an artist, I've taken the liberty of stealing (although I'm sure Chico won't mind) from facebook the "short" list of world-renound musicians Chico has performed, toured and recorded with: Dizzy Gillespie, David Liebman, Michael Brecker, David Sanborn, Joe Henderson, Art Farmer, Tom Harrell, Ivan Lins, Toots Thielemans, Maria Schneider, Bob Mintzer, Phil Woods, Van Morrison, Georgie Fame, Gary Bartz, Adam Nussbaum, Jim McNeely, Bob Brookmayer, Eliane Elias, Jerry Bergonzy, Alex Riel, Tolvan, Jens Winther, Tomas Franck, Tommy Körberg, Nisse Landgren... (the list goes on).

If you want to hear Chico play you are welcome to our Sunday Jazz Nights. We serve four artistic tapas and a glass of enlightening bubbles to accompany the sweet tunes of Chico and his boys. We're usually fully booked, so make sure to get a table well in advance! This is the kind of summer evening you really don't want to miss.

Still picking on Systembolaget.

When you read Systembolagets home page it gives the distinct impression that they are only thing standing in the way of the people of Sweden descending into complete drunken decadent chaos. I really wonder why they are so full of themselves. For instance, my interest in wine and spirits has had (as of yet) nothing to do with Systembolaget. In fact, it has rather hindered my progress in the exploration of drinkable table wines, as most of what Systembolaget sells in that particular category is, as they say in France, merde. If I should, per chance, want a fine bottle of wine - I go find it either over the channel, through my friends who import wines for a living, or through the internet. It may seem a long way to go to avoid the monopoly, but I've simply had one too many insulting experiences with Systembolaget staff who seem to be in the profession for any other reason but to sell wine.

I like to taste wine. Just like I like tasting cheese before I buy it. But we all know that's a no-go when buying wine in Sweden. I wonder what kind of damage they think a sip of wine to gargle and spit (or god forbid, swallow) would do to the common knowledge on how to drink. I've always wondered why communion in church is allowed (the beverage quality is similar to the Systembolaget <100 price class). It must have something to do with the sacrilegious worship of a nice dinner on Friday night with my husband. After all, who knows what dinner conversation might turn into when the wine hath loosened our tongues.

Anyway, if the purpose is to stop over-consumption of alcoholic beverages you'd think they might want to consider dropping three-quarters of their product range. I am speaking of course, of the cheap and nasty, chemical-laced, lurid, horrid stuff one has to over-consume to at least get a buzz as a payoff. Like this:

(Picture from wownews.se)

Systembolaget initially tried to stop sales of this junk, not because it's of the devil and only people who don't know or care what they're drinking (why else would you drink a box of pre-mixed mojito but for its effects on your central nervous system?) will buy this but because it came in a 1,5L box. Well, as the European commission would probably have ruled if they were given a chance, Systembolaget sells shit wine with a similar alcohol content in the same size boxes - quelle est le différence? You tell me. All I know is I like my mojitos mixed with real mint and a good rum (no vodka in sight). With a drop of lemon. Merci beaucoup.

They must have had some REALLY bad meals

(picture from twistedsifter.com)

Recently Esquire Magazine's blog called "Eat like a man" called to my attention the subject of the terrible food served to rock stars. Who would have thought that money couldn't buy everything, least of all good food for bands on tour? The Smoking Gun has published an excerpt from something I guess is best referred to as the "manual" handed to prospective tour caterers to the Foo Fighters. I thoroughly enjoyed the read, and I hope you do too. Here's the link.

Don't put it on your label

(picture from wownews.se)

Systembolaget has stopped sales of a wine called "wacky chicks" because of the printed lipstick kisses on its label. Apparently "The combination of pouting lips and the name gives the impression, in our opinion, that alcohol consumption raises physical or mental capabilities, contributes to social or sexual success or solves problems such as loneliness or boredom”. Really!!? Let's have a look at that, shall we. If I'm not much mistaken, Systembolaget sells a "wine" called "Emotions". This is what the bottle looks like.


(picture from systembolaget.se)

Now, if that picture ain't sellin' "enhancement of physical or mental capabilities", I don't know what is! In fact, just looking at that bottle makes me want to booze my entire drizzly, wet, depressing Swedish "summer" vacation away. And then the name, "Emotions", that just screams of all the stuff I might be lacking in said depressing vacation (say all the millions of souls who crave immortality but don't know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon).
Let's have a look at another one. "Relax". (It's a German riesling. Relax what?)


(picture from systembolaget.se)

I guess if it's called "Relax" it's not "an enhancement of physical or mental capabilities", but rather a loss of mental and physical capabilities. In fact, just looking at this bottle I feel like buying a whole case for winding down after work. Maybe I should get a case for everyone in the restaurant? After all, restaurant staff are known for their high-octane tempers and stressful lives. Yes, they all need some "Relax" every day, because what's on the label must be true.

I'm all in with BKWine on this one. We have a ridiculous law only allowing the over-20s to buy a bottle of wine, by which time one should have learnt to distinguish between advertisements and reality. If by this time one hasn't learnt these things, maybe there are other things one should be worrying about than buying "wacky chicks". After all, I don't know of anyone who bought Coke Zero because they thought it came with the possibilities of becoming more attractive to women (or being given a personal SWAT-team and a chopper. But that's another story).

Jazz Nights on Sundays

You may or may not have noticed that Bloom is noisier (in a much more melodious kind of way) on Sunday evenings. That's because we've had the good taste to start up Sunday Jazz Nights on our wonderful waterside terrace with Chico Lindvall and his guys. Weather permitting they play outside while you enjoy a round of tapas, a glass of bubbles, a couple of glasses of wine and coffee with a selection of special Bloom goodies. You can even get your very own CD of the music Chico plays at Bloom. We open the doors (and terrace gate) at 18.00. Pre-booking is advised!

This evening of enjoyment is quite the bargain at 295 SEK per person, which includes 4 tapas (chef's choice) and a glass of bubbly. Watching Igi chase stray geese and the occasional duck is, of course, priceless.

The very deep discussions of a Friday night service

I'm going to stick to Anglais from now on, as not only is it the lingua franca of both my workplaces, it's also my mother tongue (as you might have guessed from 1) my very Joanna Lumley-accent and 2) my surname). Anyhow, one of the benefits of growing up in a practically British household in Sweden is that I'm familiar with all sorts of weird and wonderful treats. The one I'm going to tell you about today is surely wonderful for about five seconds (the first bite) and then it somehow loses its appetizing glow, probably in proportion to blood sugar levels rocketing through the roof and fat forming plaques in crucial arteries. I am speaking, of course, of the proverbial deep-fried Bounty.
Now Igi insists there's no such thing and that I've never had a Bounty in my life (which I have) and that I'm in fact referring to a deep-fried Mars bar. I'll admit that after consuming one or more of these diabetes-incurring horrors one might just have had enough sugar and other flavour-enhancing chemicals to induce some type of candy-related hallucination, but I'm quite sure that the stray wrappers left for next morning are a bit of a tell-tale. After all, Mars bars have no coconuts on or in them, as far as I know.
So we spent most of last night drawing fanciful ovoid shapes and debating whether or not the chocolate ripples on Bounty bars have a nib-shape or not. I'm sure at least one member of staff will have bought one or more for tonight so we can move on to more pressing subjects, such as the species relation between elephants and elephantfish.
Anyway, I was sure I'd seen a recipe somewhere. So when I wake up this morning I turn to my favorite site in the world (the one with almost all the answers) and lo and behold, the Queen of Deep-Fried Treats (Nigella) has one. "Deep Fried Bounty with Pinepple. It's even been translated into Swedish. So there we go. I encourage you to try it out. However, I would recommend you make them bite-size. And you should probably consult with your doctor before you eat one. As for the deep-fried Mars bar, I agree with Igi. It's of the devil. Only the Scots ("sweaty socks", as Igi likes to call them) eat that kind of crap.

We're both speaking English, right?

This is Linnéa speaking (writing?), and I’m back at Bloom. Many might say that I never really left, and they’d be quite right in saying so. However, when dues are paid for work done the monetary compensation has for some time been rolling in from Lund University’s dept of Ophthalmology (no, that’s not onomatopoeia) and the payoffs from a certain kitchen in a restaurant have taken a more... let’s say emotional form. Or, to put it as Igi would: luuuuuurve.
You’d be surprised to know how many practical advantages I get from combining my two disciplines. It leans mostly towards getting ahead as a scientist using knowledge I’ve gained in the restaurant, but every now and then someone in the restaurant will ask what the difference is between mold and bacteria - and hey presto - the Ph.D student will tell you. Down to the last morphological detail. Not that you wanted to know... right?
So, you might ask, what’s up with these academics and food? Actually, it’s not so much about foodstuffs themselves as it is having a relationship with certain foods. Some of them more or less healthy relationships, I might add. I’ve had the supreme luck of ending up with an amazing supervisor who knows everything about metabolism and is puritanical about how his food should be cooked (I’m serious, he’s the only person I know who really wants to read Modernist Cuisine...). I’ve spent the last two years in this particular lab and we’ve still not covered all the fine points of how to best cook a joint of lamb, or what wine is best to drink with it for that matter. It doesn’t help that we’re in the same corridor as this woman, who has revolutionized student lunches at the BMC.
Anyway, academics are a weird and wonderful breed of people (as we all know from “The Big Bang Theory”) and one of the easiest topics to strike up conversation is food and wine. Everyone has an intense relationship to their favourite food. Everyone has had a restaurant experience to die for. Everyone eats lunch. Everyone wants to keep conversation going in the lunchroom. So what do we talk about?
I was recently in Fort Lauderdale in Florida for a conference, and since I know Igi used to live there I asked for food advice. Apart from the obvious (eat seafood, eat fresh fruit and veg, drink good Napa wines) he also warned me that the Americans speak a different language when it comes to food. I was quite sure he was pulling my leg - we all speak English, right? - but he wasn’t. Take the concept of French Toast, “fattiga riddare” in Swedish. My very British father used to make me French Toast on special occasions when I was young. I remember it so well I can even smell it (this is what I mean about intense relationships to food) - white french bread, thinly sliced, lightly toasted, soaked in beaten eggs and fried golden in butter, served with a drizzling of maple syrup and strawberries. Delicious. In Fort Lauderdale French Toast means inch-and-a-half thick slices of sweet (!) white bread dipped quickly in batter (presumably something akin to pancake batter), quickly fried off until brown and then drenched in maple syrup, spread thick with nutella and served with whipped cream and jam. This isn’t the only thing lost in translation. When American menus say “fried”, they don’t mean in a frying pan. They mean slathered in batter and deep fried in oil. After two evening meals where I ordered some kind of “fried” seafood I reverted to “quickly pan fried in butter, please”. Now don’t get me wrong, we ate in good restaurants with excellent quality food. The fault lies with me not consulting the waitstaff on the cooking method. I put it down to clueless tourist-syndrome. Generally, Americans are very helpful and willing to make changes to the dish if you ask. However the point is that the relationship to the produce and it’s fate on your plate is quite different on this side of the pond. After just over a week with all the extra added sugar, fat and super-sized portions with the compulsory side of french fries with dipping sauce (no, it’s not something you order. It just appears with the rest of your food) I was so happy to partake at the Bloom pulpo-evening. I realized my special relationship with food lies in small portion sizes, where the pain comes from the conflicting feeling of savoring the last splendid mouthful and not from my belt digging into my abdomen. I found joy in the simple fact that when talking to Titti I didn’t need to be explicit about the exact level of springiness I mean when I say “al-dente”. Also, there was the overwhelming feeling of belonging when everyone agreed that maple syrup OR nutella is sufficient when serving French Toast...

I’m not saying European cooking is necessarily better than American. What I’m saying is that there are food culture differences between nations sharing a language and between colleagues sharing a lunchroom. The true crossing of borders happens when we learn each others foodspeak. I for one am all for the exchange. Who knew clam chowder would play such a pivotal role in my life...

(If you’re ever in Ft Lauderdale, make sure to visit “The Rustic Inn” and have their seafood tasting platter. Le Bon Dieu couldn’t make it better if he tried.)