Good Thing They
Don't Call Themselves “Pasta Factory”
You ever wonder why some restaurants
choose to name themselves some sort of “factory?” In this day
and age of “handcrafted” and “artisan” goods, doesn't the
“factory” designation ring a little industrial and uninspired?
Dictionary.com defines a “factory” as: “a building or group of
buildings with facilities for the manufacture of goods; any place
producing a uniform product, without concern for individuality.”
Hmmm.
We recently decided to spend a
Cheesecake Factory gift card my wife had received for her birthday
from a coworker. We'd never been to a Cheesecake Factory before and,
after this past weekend's experience, we will likely not be going
again. At least not for anything other than the cheesecake.
The atmosphere and décor at the
restaurant we visited were stunning; very art-deco and upscale. And
we were impressed if somewhat nonplussed by the twenty page menu.
That said, let me offer a little insider tip: elaborate window
dressing like dramatic décor and gargantuan menus are rapidly
becoming passé in the
industry. They are holdovers from an era when “if you can't dazzle
'em with brilliance, baffle 'em with bullshit” held sway. Give me a
little hole-in-the-wall place with a single page menu of
extraordinary food and I'm a much happier camper.
Anyway, we were shown to our table
promptly by a smiling hostess and immediately attended by a very
friendly, personable, and knowledgeable server. So far, so good.
Undaunted by the daunting menu, my wife decided to go a little
outside her usual comfort zone and try the Chicken Pot Stickers,
classic pan-fried Asian dumplings served with a soy-ginger sesame
sauce. I opted to stay close to my Italian roots and go with the Four
Cheese Pasta, a dish consisting of penne pasta in a marinara sauce
with mozzarella, ricotta, Romano and Parmesan cheeses, topped with
chopped fresh basil. Of course, the server asked me if I wanted
chicken with my pasta because Americans simply can't wrap their heads
around the idea that pasta is a dish in and of itself and that
Italians do not mix chicken – or any other meat – in with their
pasta. So I politely declined the offer.
Our beverages arrived quickly and we
were presented with a basket of delicious assorted breads while we
were waiting.
My wife's pot stickers surprised,
pleased, and satisfied her very much. Despite the typically
Brobdingnagian American restaurant portions, she cleaned her plate
quite effectively and was ready to move on to the signature
cheesecake offerings.
It was not, however, love at first bite
for me. In the first place, the dish came with a rather unappealing
glop of wet ricotta and chopped basil on top. The consistency of the
ricotta was such that I at first mistook it for sour cream. After I
mixed it into the sauce, turning the red marinara rather pink in the
process, I was ready to dig in. Well, my mama always taught me that
if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all, so let me
say that the bread was delicious.
Look, I'm not a big one for complaining
to the kitchen. Generally, if I don't like something, I don't finish
it and I don't go back. But this was different. This was so
egregiously awful I had to say something. The last time I remember
being so offended by a dish was about fifteen years ago when some
chain steak joint served me a fettuccine Alfredo rendered absolutely
inedible by the heavy-handed adulteration of nutmeg and God knows
what else in the sauce. At the Cheesecake Factory, the sauce was
inoffensive enough, but the pasta was simply the worst I'd ever been
subjected to from either a professional or a home kitchen. Although
properly cooked for texture, it was indescribably bland. There was
more salt in the tears I shed over this affront to Italian cookery
than there was in the water in which the pasta was prepared.
In case you have never read anything
that I or any other Italian cook has ever written about cooking
pasta, you have to, have to, HAVE TO add
generous amounts of salt to the water in which you cook the pasta.
Some cooks say to “aggressively salt” the water. Others will tell
you the water must “taste like the sea.” In any case, salt is
essential to flavor in pasta. And that flavor must be imparted during
the early cooking process when the pasta is opening up to release its
starches and absorb flavors. Once the pasta is cooked, no amount of
salting will give it flavor. Salting badly cooked pasta after the
fact will only result in salty-tasting but otherwise bland pasta. And
that was most definitely the case here. I literally took the top off
the salt shaker in an attempt to infuse some semblance of flavor into
the pasta set before me, but it was impossible. I had my wife try a
bite. She could taste the sauce and the salt I'd dumped onto the
noodle, but she agreed that the underlying pasta was hopelessly
underseasoned.
I spoke to the
server who sent over her supervisor who sent over the kitchen
manager. I wasn't trying to be an obnoxious jerk; I genuinely wanted
to know if this grievous, flagrant abuse of perfectly good pasta was
the result of some corporate policy limiting the use of salt for
“health reasons” or if it was just a preposterous lack of
experience in the kitchen. Hey! It happens. I had to retrain one of
my restaurant cooks once because he was using half-teaspoons of salt
where half-cups were called for.
I think word about
me must have made it up the line because the first question the
kitchen manager inexplicably asked when he arrived at the table was
about my occupation. I told him. And he admitted they were, indeed,
required to “control” the use of salt in their kitchen. (Sigh)
Why is it nobody understands that pasta only absorbs a minuscule
amount of actual salt from the water? That the rest of the salt goes
harmlessly down the drain? That nobody's going to get hardened
arteries or have a stroke as a result of eating properly seasoned
pasta? I don't know. (Sigh)
My wife properly
explains that restaurants are really over a barrel on this issue.
There are some salt-nazis out there who will raise holy hell if they
taste the slightest hint of salt in a dish. “What are you trying to
do, kill me?,” they screech. And then you have folks like me on the
other side of the equation who will crucify a cook for attempting to
bore my palate to sleep with bland, tasteless food. Working upward
from the lowest common denominator, some restaurants choose to
properly season food and suffer the slings and arrows of the
outrageously palate-numbed masses while others – apparently
including Cheesecake Factory – opt for pandering to them.
At any rate, the
kitchen manager went on to explain that they followed fairly standard
restaurant procedure in that they par-cooked big batches of pasta
first thing in the morning, stored it in the reach-in until needed,
and then finished it portion by portion in hot water and sauce before
serving. No problem. That's the way I've done it, too. BUT, the pasta
gets its flavor in the first few minutes of cooking. If the water in
which the noodles were par-cooked wasn't salty enough, all bets are
off when you reheat them. He told me he was going to go back and
taste the water they were using to reheat the pasta. Too late, dude!
The damage was done by the prep cooks this morning. You get a little
wiggle room with something relatively fine like capellini or even
regular spaghetti. But with big honkin' pasta shapes like penne, you
just get flavorless, bland, inedible chunks of chewy cardboard. And
that's what I was served – in a four-cheese marinara sauce with a
wet glop of ricotta.
But on the bright
side, the chocolate mousse cheesecake was decadently delicious. And,
as I said, the bread was good, so the meal wasn't a total loss.
I know I'm an
opinionated, hyper-critical old fuddy-duddy when it comes to Italian
food. And I know Cheesecake Factory is a very popular place. The one
we went to was packed to the doors, so obviously somebody likes it.
My wife liked it. She's now a confirmed consumer of pot stickers. And
who's to say the next Cheesecake Factory down the road might not
have a kitchen a little less stringent in its “control” of salt?
The fact remains that for my money – even though it technically
wasn't my money – it all amounted to a rather disappointing dining
experience. Except for the cheesecake: I'll definitely go back for
the cheesecake.
Which is why, I
guess, it's a good thing they don't call themselves “Pasta
Factory.”
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