Buns of Steal

I have a love-hate relationship with my clientele. For the sake of decorum, I probably should just leave it at that, without further commentary. But there is one customer, as they say in my southern soul-food kitchen, I have to “brag on.” It started with a complaint.

He loved his meal, well mostly: Entrecote-based burgers, mac n cheese, cajun shrimp, sous vide salmon. However, he wrote to me later, the burger buns were under-cooked. Fuck. Admittedly, I have a tendency to cook a bit on the underside of done for most things, never knowing what gyrations my customers are likely to make in their own kitchens later on with my food. But buns? I can make those with my eyes closed. Often do, if the truth be told, since they are usually the first thing I make when I roll out of bed at the ungodliest of hours. The starter, I thought to myself. My yeast starter probably needs to be pulled for relief pitching. I thanked my client for the feedback, apologized profusely of course, and assured him I would make it up. I then mentioned something about my starter probably being the cause of the problem.

Would you like to have some of my sourdough starter was the quick reply. This was a surprise. No one had ever ever ever offered to help me fix a problem before. And before I was able to let my southern man independence gene kick in, I found myself accepting the offer, cycling over to his flat, and picking up a small offering of rye-based sourdough starter. The smell was amazing, like a beer that had gone out for a night of revelry and never returned.

I”ve started using Mor’s sourdough in my kitchen. It is undoubtedly an improvement. Maybe less for the resulting buns, than for the change in ethos his unselfish bit of sharing brought about.