Chef Otto's Blog

For Those Who Rock, I Salute You

I love music, and the military. I grew up in a home listening to the Andrew Sisters, Glen Miller, & Tommy Dorsey. Music has always been intertwined with the military. Even just a simple cadence when troops are marching is music. Who can forget Bill Murray in Stripes. This cat is a modern day Groucho Marx. With a company of pea shoot green boot campers he sets the tempo with Do Wah Diddy Diddy. The soldiers respond grooving along strapped with duffle bags, marching to the obscure tune by Manfred Mann. You recall them, they went on to cover Spirit

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Charitable Charlie

November 5, 2013 is one of those days etched in my memory. I was in Texas, at work, my phoned pinged. An incoming text arrived from my friend Tim Wasylko, a Canadian chef, eh. It was just three words. Charlie Trotter died. Stunned, I called Tim, “What do you mean Charlie Trotter died?” “How?” “What?” “When?” Tim had few answers, only telling me he just saw it on the internet. Tim knew I worked at Trotter’s and was relaying the information as soon as he read it. Then, like a leaky faucet, texts were dripping in. Each text, another tear.

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A Texas Size Paella

Whether you are from Texas, or not, have lived or visited the Lone Star State. One thing for sure, Everything is bigger in Texas. Texas is not a state, it’s a state of mind, credit to John Steinbeck. I lived there for nearly a decade and have formed incredible friendships with Texans. The hard core Texans, Like my friend Billy Bob, refer to it as the Republic of Texas. It’s a storied history of mavericks, rebels, bank robbers, billionaires, conspiracy theories, oil, longhorns, musicians, and of course Cowboys. Be they wearing a 10 gallon hat, or a helmet, their tales

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The Frost Is On The Pumpkin

Its mid-October, I love this time of year. Although I live in the Carolinas, temperatures soared into the mid-nineties up until last week. Unseasonably hot for this boy raised on the chilly shores of Lake Erie. Not complaining, there is a reason why this Buckeye moved south three decades ago. Snow, I love it, don’t miss it, and certainly would rather drive to it than try to drive out of it. I sure as heck don’t want to shovel it. Especially the wet snow, as heavy and dense as soaked sand. There is something magical about this change of season.

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