Butter - Butter & Scotch: recipes from Brooklyns favorite bar & bakery

For our mothers

CONTENTS

KEAVY

In the Beginning

When I was four, my parents found me hiding in our living room closet, parked between the broom and the vacuum, chugging a bottle of maple syrup.

At five, my mom taught me how to make risotto. She would pull up a stool, hand me a wooden spoon, and I would stir for hours without budging or ever getting bored.

In second grade, my teacher went around the room and asked each of us what we wanted to be when we grew up. I proudly answered that I was planning to work part-time at McDonalds and part-time at Burger KingI couldnt bear to pick just one.

When I was seven, I discovered the joys of recipe testing. I would raid the kitchen cabinets, pulling out everything that appealed to me: flour, white chocolate (which I would end up eating before it got into the batter), eggs, honey, sugar, fruit, and whatever else was at arms reach. I would pile everything into a big bowl and mix, not knowing or caring about measurements. Nothing ever turned out quite right, and my mess, as my mother still never tires of reminding me, was never cleaned.

At eight, I discovered my entrepreneurial spirit in the form of a lemonade stand. I would set up the stand every day with my friend Laura. We would hold up signs bigger than our bodies and scream at the few cars that passed down the small side street in front of my house. We would fruitlessly try to sell lemonade, never giving up hope, even when hours would pass without a single sale.

When I entered middle school, I became obsessed with Lynne Rossetto Kaspers cookbook, The Splendid Table, and turned every homework assignment into a culinary adventure. When studying the Renaissance, I brought in a giant platter of tagliatelle with caramelized oranges and almonds, and for our lessons on Mexico, I baked off a pan de muerto the size of one of the school desks. My essays received Cs, but I discovered that food was a wonderful way to make friends.

In high school, I tried my hand at bartending: mixing vodka with Snapple, doing shots of dark rum and Malibu, or drinking peach schnapps straight from the bottle. This new hobby led me to be grounded for most of my high school years. My mom would look at me and furiously tell me I wasnt allowed out of the house for the next two weeks, and I would look back, smile, and say, Okay, what are we cooking?

When I was seventeen, I got my first job as a line cook at a popular restaurant in my hometown, Mount Vernon, Washington. The second day on the job, I chopped the top of my finger off dicing jalapeos. Blood squirted everywhere, and the front-of-house staff screamed as they watched me toss the tip of my finger into the garbage. I wound up getting a bandage on my middle finger that was twice as long as my actual finger, but I didnt care; I had my first war wound, and I couldnt have been happier. I worked doubles on school nights, blasting Ani DiFrancos Dilate while scrubbing down low-boys. I smoked pot with the prep cook in the dry goods section of the basement before making veggie burgers, which, if I remember correctly, took me at least ten hours. I befriended the night baker, who would let me help her bake after I had clocked out for the evening, filling me in on all the restaurant gossip.

And after many more glorious and not-so-glorious years in the food industry, at thirty, I found myself having drinks with Allison, discussing our future retail location. We wanted something that was different than your typical bakery: a place that was edgy but built around nostalgia, where our desserts and drinks had integrity, but also a sense of humor. A place that was friendly and inviting but at times could be a little debaucherous. We wanted a place that was just like us.

ALLISON

As soon as I learned of its existence, I begged and begged my mom for an Easy-Bake Oven.

This was back in the eighties, and she was hardly a helicopter mom, but for some reason, she got it into her head that the tiny 100-watt lightbulb that magically brought little cakes to life would hopelessly disfigure me (or burn our house down). I never got my Easy-Bake Oven (though I have nearly succumbed to impulse-buying one for myself on many a late-night internet browse), but perhaps that unfulfilled desire is what brought me to my present profession.

My moms concern for my safety might be perceived as bizarrely sporadic: No toy ovens allowed, but whenever Id get a little cold, shed whip up some extremely potent hot toddies in lieu of NyQuil. On a visit back to my birthplace in New Mexico, we went on a family hike, and when my parents realized theyd forgotten to pack any water for me and my brother, we all shared a family wineskin. I developed my taste for whiskey and wine from a young age, and its served me quite well.

We were lucky to travel extensively as a family, and one year we spent the holidays in Champagne, France (you know, where Champagne comes from!). It was there that I experienced my first bite of foie gras, and then my second, and then my fortieth. I couldnt stop eating the stuff and wound up with a stomach of regret late that evening.

Despite this seemingly sophisticated palate, the first time I ever got really drunk (outside of the family home), I was fourteen, majorly crushing on a cute sophomore, and we found ourselves at a home-coming party, with the last pick from the home bar that everyone was raiding. All that we could salvage was a bottle of green crme de menthe. We passed it back and forth, enjoying the minty, slippery liqueur and exchanging swoony, green-toothed smiles. I experienced my first hangover the next day and swore off crme de menthe for many years to come.

Perhaps youre seeing a pattern here? The Robert Heinlein quote under my high school yearbook photo read, Everything in excess! To enjoy the flavor of life, take big bites. (Yes, I was a nerd who read Heinlein in high school). Indulgence, and overindulgence, were the name of the game for me for many years (name a vice, any vice, and odds are Ive sampled it).

Now that Im all grown up and responsible, I try to temper my indulgences with a bit of moderation, but Im not always successful. Ive made my job about pleasure: both mine and my patrons. I do not eat simply to survive. I do everything I can to avoid eating something mediocre just because Im hungry. I want to enjoy every bite that I put in my mouth, and I aim every day to provide that enjoyment for our customers.

Keavy and I decided to open not just a bakery, and not just a bar, but a bar and bakery, because we knew that such a place ought to exist. Why enjoy a massive slice of birthday cake on its own when you can alternate bites with sips of bright, bubbly cava? Why dunk your chocolate chip cookie in a glass of milk when you can dunk it in a White Russian? Butter & Scotch is a place where you can say YES to whatever crazy indulgence you want to experience. You want a vanilla milkshake with a shot of tequila and a slice of Key lime pie swirled in? Yes, we will happily make that for you (and great idea, by the way).