Twain's Feast - Andrew Beahrs [101]
In a nod to the recession, Tory fills the two minutes before starting by talking to Sig about how economical sheepshead can be; you should be able to cook what he’s about to for less than the price of a burger. If you can find it wholesale, the fish can be about $4.50 a pound. But his mind is already on the contest—he’s starting to flush. He confesses to getting butterflies. At last he picks up a knife.
The other chefs began working slowly, some in an almost showoffishly leisurely way—there’s been a pause after the starting three count that I don’t think the several announcers are happy about. But at “Three . . . two . . . one . . . Go!” Tory plunges in, snatching up an onion and, in the best possible sense, annihilating it. Just to Tory’s left, Jonathan strips ears of corn with long, sure strokes of his knife.
I’m a dedicated home cook, but I’ve never worked in a restaurant; my only exposure to watching a skilled chef work at high speed is from Iron Chef, or Top Chef, or some other show about chefs. But any sports fan knows that television can diminish and dull the skills on display. Watching Tory in the act makes me realize that the same is true for cooking. Even after absorbing hundreds of cooking shows, seeing him dissect a tomato—and cutting it concasse, a fine dice without skin or seeds—is frankly intimidating. I think of playing an instrument, speaking a language, of other things that need tens of thousands of hours of practice: life seems short.
Jonathan roasts tomatoes with a handheld torch. Tory seasons the fish, sprinkling a dozen spices liberally over the fillets. Then he drenches them with fresh bacon fat, which strikes me as awesome. He’s working hard, sweating even before he starts working the grill, going red as steam bathes his face and neck. The crowd is six deep, pressed right up to the rope line; I didn’t expect how much these particular Louisianans at least would want the win. When the crisp, brown fillets come off, Tory pours over more bacon fat; this, I feel, falls somewhere between genius and cheating.
Tory grills the shrimpzilla as lump crab simmers in champagne butter. Then he assembles the plates. There’s a bed of mixed corn and sliced Creole tomatoes, then a mighty grilled shrimp, then a sheepshead fillet, and then another shrimp. Tory surrounds the tilting tower with lump crabmeat; he finishes the plate with greens, basil oil, and more cream. The combination is somehow both businesslike and literally fantastic, like a carnival mask hoisted on a pitchfork.
At the judges’ table, Jonathan holds up a partially filleted sheepshead as Tory offers a mini-lecture, pointing out that sheepshead is economical, underused, and sustainable (the latter point one he cares about a good deal; he refuses to serve bluefin tuna and other threatened stocks at Commander’s). The big challenge when cooking it, he points out, is dealing with the low yield. It’s rare that more than 40 percent of the weight is usable meat (which may be, I suspect, why it’s often steamed and flaked off—it’s much easier to get the meat off that way than by filleting the bony fish raw).
While the judges confer, Tory hands out tastes in small paper cups. He called it “poor man’s crab,” and, in fact, I can’t distinguish between crab and sheepshead; I couldn’t even swear in court that there’s sheepshead in there. It’s all like lump crabmeat, fresh and sweet and bathed in a creamy pepper sauce, and it’s exactly as good as it sounds—good enough