“Yeah… yeah, ok,” Miles concurred.
That goes to show our perceptual bias
due to heavy marketing of that brand
at the time... “In the valley of the jolly…
‘Ho-ho-ho Green Giant” being the all too
familiar jingle for their tv commercial.
Anything on television had to be
better, right? Besides, at home, corn
was the only canned item I used, so
if there were fresh corn, I would have
overlooked it, but never again.
“The pots and skillets in the cabinet next
to the stove,” Miles explained pointing
to the door. “I’m gonna need the big
one though, for the bouillabaisse.”
Until that moment, I didn’t know that
Miles had planned to cook with me.
He reached into the upper left cabinet
for a fifth of Jack Daniels whiskey.
Since it was late in the afternoon,
I figured he was escalating up from a
beer buzz to a hard liquor blam.
He pulled out a large glass bowl,
opened the fifth, and poured in the
entire remaining contents. I thought:
OK, he’s going to make a whisky punch
with fruit and ice… Hmm, this is
bound to be interesting.
“Well, I like good food and so, when I
have an idea I try it out. Sometimes it
works and sometimes it doesn’t… just
like improvising on the bandstand. But
if it works… then—oh shit, it’s on!”
“Man I’m… I’m speechless,” I told him.
“And don’t worry I’m not gonna tell
anyone about this! I mean I never, ever
could have imagined anything like this.
How long does it need to marinate?”
“Wow, like cooking with jazz!”
“Oh an hour or so… oh yeah, let me
put some fennel seed in there to tweak
the flavor. Go ahead… fire up that
skillet Bobby.”
I didn’t understand why we needed
the skillet hot when the fish wouldn’t
be cooked for at least another hour.
Miles broke open a few bulbs of garlic,
swiftly halved the cloves with a butcher
knife, tossing them into the skillet
without removing the skins. This alone,
for me, kindled thoughts of a wild,
funky jazz-rock tune like some of the
music from Bitches Brew re-entitled,
“Fried Garlic Skins.” He then added
a half-bottle of the peanut oil. He
warmed all this up for about a minute,
then told me:
“You can turn it off now. See now, I’ll
add a little cayenne pepper in there.
Let the flavors seep into the oil. Hot oil
helps to break down the flavors of the
garlic and cayenne. When the fish is
done marinating it should be just right.”
“Damn Miles, you’re like a gourmet
food master chemist!”
“That’s right Bobby.”
Miles completely blew me away with
his gourmet-cooking prowess.
My grandma, “Muh,” had set high
standards as my prototype of the
consummate cook. But Miles raised
the bar with his astounding, unique
and unorthodox culinary techniques.
I now knew that Miles’ creative
freedom in the kitchen reflected his
ability to cook on his horn… and
vice versa. I boiled the brown rice and
chopped veggies for my dirty rice.
He asked if he could use some of the
vegetables for his bouillabaisse.
I donated some onions, garlic, red bell
pepper and celery for his simmering
gourmet pot, into which he poured
some white wine. He did an occasional
taste test and made adjustments
accordingly with various spices and
additional wine.
“You ever try bouillabaisse Bobby?” he
asked, not looking up from his pot?
“Unfortunately, I can only eat shell-fish
if served by paramedics.”
“Haha,” he laughed, “you’re funny. Well,
I guess there’ll be more for us. So you’re
allergic, huh?”
15
Next Miles rinsed and patted the fish
dry with napkins, and one by one
dipped the fillets in the liquor, turning
them to saturate both sides, and finally
letting them sit to marinate.
“This is my secret recipe Bobby,’ he said,
turning to look at me with a half-smile
on his face, “now, you can’t tell nobody
about this… it’s gotta be our secret.
But just wait until you taste it!”
BLACK RENAISSANCE NOIRE
“There was no corn on the cob there,
but at least it’s Green Giant corn.”
BRN-FALL-2013.indb 15
9/13/13 12:47 AM