Chef Bobby Buzz

Just a quick heads up... wearing a Red baseball style hat Doesn't necessarily mean you support Donald Trump? In my case, it's the Ferrari Formula 1 team and Ferrari In general , so please don't judge

Perfect bathroom🌿💙

I am so confused

“No one is more hated than he who speaks the truth.”
— Plato

Do I have any artsy friends who can replicate an old t shirt that was done for my band way back in the day. Of course there will be renumeration for your efforts

I had occaision to work with Iron Chef Sakai in Hawaii a few years ago...this is what happened at dinner one night..
So chef Sakai and I were chatting after our demo’s and he asked me if I was going to the Chef Sakai dinner being held at the hotel we were staying at…(my English teacher will be unamused for that last bit of bad grammar)…We had to communicate through a translator, I speak no Japanese and Chef Sakai doesn’t speak much more English.. I said I didn’t know about it and Chef asked me to be his guest.. So when I got back to the hotel I called the special events coordinator and was told the dinner had been sold out for 3 months…CRAP…left a message for Chef and said there was no more space in the room…. 10 minutes later I got a call from the translator and was told that there will be space for us at the event and to show up at 6:30. We got dressed in our finest duds and headed down to the dining room. The Maître d’ approached us and said that chef Sakai had requested that a special table be set for us…WOW How cool We walked through the room past tables of 8, 10 and 12 and more, to the only table for 2, set in the middle of the room. As the room began to fill up and the dinner was starting, Chef Sakai came to our table and asked if he could join us? Of course we said yes and Chef and his translator sat with us…The room was full of Sakai fans, many of them Japanese I’m sure, but there he was sitting with us…MAN HOW COOL IS THIS….The sommelier (wine steward) stopped by to pour our first wine and Chef Sakai spoke to him in French >>>>>HEY I speak French…well at least better than my non existing Japanese. We both laughed and he told the translator she was fired..JK I’m sure, my girl Irma speaks French too, so the only person who couldn’t understand what we are saying was the translator. All eyes were on us, or more likely Chef Sakai….who is that white guy, why is chef sitting with them??? OH he’s just a North Carolina dirt farmer…It turns out in Japan being a farmer is a noble profession, and well it should be. Farmers are also wealthy, not in money but as land owners and there isn’t a lot of land to own. The point is Chef treated Irma and myself like the star he is. Oh and the meal was great too.

Christmas is coming.. everybody eats.. try chef Bobbybuzz for yourself or for a Christmas gift for the ones you love

JUST PICKED UP 150 LBS OF ESPRESSO RUB...WE SOURCED A NEW ROAST...IT IS AWESOME.

Chicken: A Story of Love and Hate
The Love Part
The great gourmand, Talleyrand, once said that the chicken is a canvas upon which the chef paints his masterpiece.
A cook that I worked with named Gene told me, “A chicken ain’t nuttin’ but a bird”.
I suspect the real truth is somewhere in between those two. Chicken, as we know it, has become a tasteless, dry piece of cardboard served with an unnaturally yellow sauce or gravy. Why is this you ask? There are a number of reasons, the first being that the modern chicken is raised inside a building in little pens and all fed pretty much the same diet, no greenery, no bugs, none of the stuff they would eat if they had an option. Another reason is the way we prefer to buy it: The boneless skinless chicken breast is missing one more adjective, Tasteless; because the bones and skin add a terrific amount of flavor when cooked intact in and on the bird.
The final insult we inflict upon the noble chicken is cooking it to death. There are some health concerns to eating undercooked chicken, but using a quick-reading dial thermometer can help you cook chicken to the required temperature without completely desiccating the poor bird.
There are a couple of things you can do to help your chicken taste better, First buy a whole bird, and cut it up your self. The chef way to cut up a chicken is to grab it by the Pope’s nose and hold it upright. Using a sharp knife, cut down on each side of the backbone and remove it. (I save and freeze this part until I have enough to make some stock.) Then turn it flat with the inside of the chicken facing upward and whack it hard to split it down the middle on the same line as the backbone. Now you have 2 halves.
Separate the legs from the breasts and then cut the wings free, I like to leave a goodly amount of breast meat on the wings by cutting about an inch away from the joint where the wing attaches to the breast. This also allows the wing joint to cook quicker than if you left it intact, so there will be no need to cook it to death to get it cooked through.
Another trick I like to use is a quick brining of the bird. I mix 1/4 cup of salt into a quart of water and soak the bird for an hour or so. This allows the bird to cook faster, without drying. And if you BBQ on the grill, it also helps keep the flare ups to a minimum. The salt also seasons the bird all the way through.
When I use CHEF BOBBY BUZZ COQ RUB on chicken, I figure 1 tablespoon or so should add a nice natural smoky flavor to the bird. I like to toss the chicken in 3 tablespoons of olive oil and then add the Coq Rub. Let the rub hydrate on the meat for an hour or so, then place chicken in a roasting pan and pour any oil and spice juices left in the marinating bowl. I like my chicken skin to get nice and brown so I cook it at a little higher temp than other meats, about 375 degrees for about an hour or if you brined the bird maybe 50 min.
If for dietary reasons you can’t eat the skin, p*el it back, season the meat and pull the skin back over. When it comes time to eat, just pull the skin off and don’t eat it, but it will help flavor the food and also keep it moist. Bon Appetit.

thanks for all the likes...I will be posting more stories...please feel free to share my chicken story.....

When I was a boy, my family used to spend summers at my grandparents’ house in upstate New York. It was a huge old farm house built by the brother of one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence, one of the Livingston’s I presume, Robert or Peter. My Grandmother was a great cook and she taught me a lot when she let me hang out in her kitchen. She was into composting and organic gardening before it was cool. She always kept a couple of chickens in her garden to eat bugs off the plants, their scratching also helped control weeds and the droppings were a natural fertilizer.
Now, these weren’t really nice chickens; they were almost feral and would charge out of the garden to attack you if you walked too close to them. We feared them; they were evil. We found it to be great sport to run from them and see if they could catch us, and if we turned and chased them back they would run back into the garden.
My grandparents’ house, being old and in the country, had a septic tank and between the 5 kids in our family, my cousin Jimmy, our Aunt Ernesta and my parents, we could really overwhelm the plumbing. The solution to all this was for all the kids to use an old outhouse next to the barn out by the swimming pool. Oh, the outhouse…the sights the sounds, the smells; we hated it.
There were flies the size of your fist living in there and we were warned about the black widow spiders. Great. Sure, we were going to go and p*e in there. There was an option for us guys: the stone wall. Being an old farm, there was a stone wall running the length of their property made from fieldstones, dredged up from plowing over the years. If you have ever tried to dig a hole in Upstate New York, you know how rocky the soil can be, so it was a pretty good sized wall with pretty big stones. So instead of facing the horrors of the outhouse we would drop our swimming trunks to our knees and p*e on the stone wall.
Well, one day I felt the call of nature and tried to sneak into the house to use the indoor plumbing. Damn, caught in the act. So I tried the outhouse option, too many smelly bugs. Damn, I had to p*e. I quietly sneaked past the garden so as not to awaken the chickens and walked up to a spot on the stone wall that I had used before; I dropped my swimsuit down to my knees and let it fly. Man, I really had to go bad.
I was just about finished when I heard a noise behind me. It was one of the evil chickens. I couldn’t run because I had my pants down around my knees and the chicken started to peck at me. I was still mid p*e and as I tried to get away I fell down…still p*eing. I rolled over, still p*eing, tried to stand, still p*eing, and all the while the chicken was pecking at my naked parts.
I finally was able to stand and pull my pants up. I was wet and literally pi**ed. The chicken made another move for some more pecking action. Feeling the need to defend myself I grabbed the nearest weapon I could find, a large stone from the stone wall. It was about the size of my 7-year-old hand. With the chicken advancing toward me in a menacing manner, I threw the rock with all my might and hit that chicken right in the head. The bird was down for the count and twitched a couple times, and then it just lay there.
My happiness with my well-aimed rock gave way to a sense of dread. I had just killed one of Grandma’s chickens. I panicked, in my urine soaked stupor I was wondering how I needed to handle this…Confess my crimes? And all my brothers and cousin Jimmy would find out why I was all wet. In a moment of clarity, I realized what I had to do. I grabbed the lifeless bird and ran up to the side of the country road they lived on and threw that damn chicken on the shoulder. I ran into the house and told my Grandmother that the chicken was up by the side of the road eating gravel and must have been hit by a car. She said that was too bad and had me bring the bird in and showed me how to gut it and pulled the feathers . Not something I had planned on doing but did it as my own personal penance. We had fried chicken for dinner that night and my grandmother told the story to all about the bird getting hit by the car and how I cleaned the bird and helped her cook it. I really didn’t enjoy the dinner that much, probably because of my guilt for the lie and that funny urine smell I couldn’t wash off.
Many years later when I was cooking with my grandmother, I asked her if she remembered the chicken we cooked that day. She started laughing. “You mean the chicken that attacked you and made you p*e all over yourself?”
“You knew?” I said.
She told me it was the funniest thing she had ever seen and she had seen the whole thing. She was most impressed with my clever lie and knew I was mortified about the p*eing all over myself and didn’t want to embarrass me further. I loved my Grammy.