Indeed not. You built a fire of hardwood (in this case, apple, maple, and oak) first. And there it was, blazing down to fiery coals in the bake house's 15-foot-long hearth. Then with various long-handled rakes and tongs, hooks and Dutch ovens, you redistributed the heat.
Things went smoothly in Episode I. Staib knocked out a rabbit stew with spaetzle - "a tribute to the Germans [such as the Rittenhouse clan, nee Rittenhausen] who came here," birthing water-powered industry and bequeathing their name, later, to the city's most elegant square.
But toward noon, Episode II - the intricate assemblage of a dish called Veal Olives - got off to an inauspicious start. The fire was roaring just behind Staib, probably at 850 degrees at its center. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dabbed at repeatedly by a production assistant.
He was instructed by producer Jim Davey to look down at the massive, 53-pound leg of veal he was beginning to butcher with a surgically sharp boning knife. And then to look up at Camera 1. No, Camera 2.
The eye and hand lost coordination momentarily. But the tip of the knife continued its course, stabbing under the nail of Staib's left thumb.
History TV was suddenly Reality TV, a bright, red trickle of blood running down the chef's hand.
But as Staib likes to point out, he is a stoic man of the Black Forest. And as he pressed a cloth to the wound and a hunt for Band-Aids was launched, he rinsed the thumb off and sealed the cut smartly with a dab of Krazy Glue.
The show, as it must, went on.
Veal Olives does not, in the end, involve olives at all.
