9.30.2003
Pasta pandemonium
Meat lab is coming to an end--already half the quarter has flown by and we’re now starting on student lunch projects. Of course, our group was chosen to go first.
We had to prepare for our class of 25 a three-course lunch menu--appetizer, entrée and dessert. For our presentation, we agreed upon jalapeño poppers stuffed with crab meat; beef tenderloin and white shrimp kabobs with chipotle-butter corn, over lemon couscous and tomato and feta pasta salad; and cheesecake drizzled with pink-peppercorn chocolate sauce.
I decided to take on the starches--the couscous and the pasta salad. Easy dishes, I figured. I’ll cruise through them both and still find time to help assemble the kabobs, and perhaps grill corn. Not so fast, said my chef instructor. You should make the pasta--not use pre-made noodles. This small task, I realized, had turned into a major project. I ran to the library to find examples of pasta shapes one can make with small, barely agile fingers. With this knowledge, I realized I would have to get to class early on presentation day to start making pasta dough. As if 8 a.m. wasn’t bad enough…
Pasta is surprisingly easy, even for someone who is measurement challenged, like myself. Half a pound of flour, three eggs, a teaspoon of salt, a teaspoon or two of oil and the same for water, and you’ve got a wonderfully gooey mass with which to play. And eat, if all goes well.
The best way to start fresh pasta dough is to make a volcano of the flour and salt (and whatever seasonings you choose) on a cutting board. Crack the eggs into the center, one at a time, being careful to not break the "walls" of the mountain with oozy egg.
This I simply cannot do. A brief flash back to grade school and I’m done, splashing egg lava down the sides of a rapidly deteriorating flour dome, scooping up the goop with my pastry knife, stopping up and then starting leaks with glee. Then chopping, mixing the mass into a paste which will adhere to every single finger, without exception. I’ll usually find a dot on my nose. And of course, I’ll discover an eggy blob on the unfortunate soul who has chosen to work across from me. They often do not find this flour abandonment funny. It is their loss.
The destruction of the volcano isn’t the end of the fun. Kneading the sticky dough into a soft mound is hypnotic, a good way to come down from the orgiastic egg mixing frenzy. There is a rhythm to kneading, and it is trance-like, somewhat like rubbing a happy cat, where the cat’s purring massages your fingers while you massage the cat. Everybody’s happy. There is a limit to this collective pleasure, however--too much kneading and the dough forms too much gluten, which makes the dough tough. If your pasta is chewy like beef jerky, you might want to chill out on the kneading.
Today my pasta had freckles of black pepper and paprika, just enough spice to give it a bit of a kick. But as a pasta salad, I needed a shape that would hold the tomatoes and feta I was planning to mix in once the dish was done. I settled on orichette--"little ears" in Italian. Generally, they do resemble small Mickey Mouse ears, perfectly round with a small indentation in the middle, a hollow to coddle just a small dab of cream sauce. When bought in the store, orichette (and other pasta shapes for that matter) are often machine made, so they are uniform in shape and size.
My ears…well, let’s just say that my ears were ears only a mother could love. I had big ears, and I had small ears. Lopsided ears. Pygmy ears, with enormous earlobes. Amoeba ears. I might have had a few noses in there too, but I managed to catch them in time. They cooked up just right, however; a small pepper essence with a good tooth bite -- just al dente.
There are many reasons my chef is a professional. Contemplating the finished product, he turned to me and said, “See, it’s good that these aren’t uniform…you can tell they are handmade.”
Sure, by my two left hands. But with love.
Meat lab is coming to an end--already half the quarter has flown by and we’re now starting on student lunch projects. Of course, our group was chosen to go first.
We had to prepare for our class of 25 a three-course lunch menu--appetizer, entrée and dessert. For our presentation, we agreed upon jalapeño poppers stuffed with crab meat; beef tenderloin and white shrimp kabobs with chipotle-butter corn, over lemon couscous and tomato and feta pasta salad; and cheesecake drizzled with pink-peppercorn chocolate sauce.
I decided to take on the starches--the couscous and the pasta salad. Easy dishes, I figured. I’ll cruise through them both and still find time to help assemble the kabobs, and perhaps grill corn. Not so fast, said my chef instructor. You should make the pasta--not use pre-made noodles. This small task, I realized, had turned into a major project. I ran to the library to find examples of pasta shapes one can make with small, barely agile fingers. With this knowledge, I realized I would have to get to class early on presentation day to start making pasta dough. As if 8 a.m. wasn’t bad enough…
Pasta is surprisingly easy, even for someone who is measurement challenged, like myself. Half a pound of flour, three eggs, a teaspoon of salt, a teaspoon or two of oil and the same for water, and you’ve got a wonderfully gooey mass with which to play. And eat, if all goes well.
The best way to start fresh pasta dough is to make a volcano of the flour and salt (and whatever seasonings you choose) on a cutting board. Crack the eggs into the center, one at a time, being careful to not break the "walls" of the mountain with oozy egg.
This I simply cannot do. A brief flash back to grade school and I’m done, splashing egg lava down the sides of a rapidly deteriorating flour dome, scooping up the goop with my pastry knife, stopping up and then starting leaks with glee. Then chopping, mixing the mass into a paste which will adhere to every single finger, without exception. I’ll usually find a dot on my nose. And of course, I’ll discover an eggy blob on the unfortunate soul who has chosen to work across from me. They often do not find this flour abandonment funny. It is their loss.
The destruction of the volcano isn’t the end of the fun. Kneading the sticky dough into a soft mound is hypnotic, a good way to come down from the orgiastic egg mixing frenzy. There is a rhythm to kneading, and it is trance-like, somewhat like rubbing a happy cat, where the cat’s purring massages your fingers while you massage the cat. Everybody’s happy. There is a limit to this collective pleasure, however--too much kneading and the dough forms too much gluten, which makes the dough tough. If your pasta is chewy like beef jerky, you might want to chill out on the kneading.
Today my pasta had freckles of black pepper and paprika, just enough spice to give it a bit of a kick. But as a pasta salad, I needed a shape that would hold the tomatoes and feta I was planning to mix in once the dish was done. I settled on orichette--"little ears" in Italian. Generally, they do resemble small Mickey Mouse ears, perfectly round with a small indentation in the middle, a hollow to coddle just a small dab of cream sauce. When bought in the store, orichette (and other pasta shapes for that matter) are often machine made, so they are uniform in shape and size.
My ears…well, let’s just say that my ears were ears only a mother could love. I had big ears, and I had small ears. Lopsided ears. Pygmy ears, with enormous earlobes. Amoeba ears. I might have had a few noses in there too, but I managed to catch them in time. They cooked up just right, however; a small pepper essence with a good tooth bite -- just al dente.
There are many reasons my chef is a professional. Contemplating the finished product, he turned to me and said, “See, it’s good that these aren’t uniform…you can tell they are handmade.”
Sure, by my two left hands. But with love.
9.29.2003
Numbers: One hour late to class. One rack of pork chops, feather bones removed, cut into individual chops. Twelve whole chickens, trussed for baking. Five peppers, cut into julienne strips. One hour spent wandering from the hot kitchen to the library and back again, looking for things to do. One pound of butter blended with chipotle peppers and mole sauce, for compound butter. Two dozen boned chicken legs stuffed with bread and vegetable stuffing. One very acidic cup of coffee, non-dairy creamer.
Meat stuffed with meat
I would like to travel back in time, to visit the kitchens of French chefs after the Revolution turned the country upside down and kicked all the culinary elite out into the streets. Not just any chefs, but the crème de la crème, the men (and they were mostly men) who saw themselves as artists and architects, as well as cooks. I’d love to loiter in the background as contemporaries of Careme put together towering sculptures of foodstuffs--crayfish and crab, oysters and mussels, piled high. At that time, presentation was everything--flavor a fortunate, if not rare, byproduct.
So much of what we know in culinary arts comes from the French, who were the first (in Western tradition, of course) to establish cookery as an art and as a science--something both honorable to pursue and pleasurable to consume.
But the culinary contortions one must go through to create traditional French dishes! Who came up with the galantine, this mysterious meat concoction that takes hours to prepare? And pity the creative chef, who, deep in the bowels of his steamy kitchen at the chateau, is sent word that the mistress of the house loved the pate en croute so much that she wants it every night, without fail. Mon dieu.
Observe this example. Today, our chef instructor spent half an hour de-boning a five pound chicken. Starting with the back, he slowly peeled the meat off the bones, carefully detaching the leg and wing joints and removing the delicate bones within each. The chef then spread the limp carcass on a cutting board and pounded it with a heavy mallet into a uniform, rectangular shape.
Into the center of the chicken he piled in a gooey mass of ground turkey, ground pork and back fat, creating a solid block about three inches thick. The forcemeat, as it is called (think glorified meat loaf) included blanched pistachios and dried cherries soaked in white wine, and was seasoned with glace de viande (a rich, concentrated stock of roasted veal bones and mirepoix) along with handfuls of pate spice and fresh herbs.
With much difficulty, our chef then rolled the entire mass together, using the flattened chicken as a sort of sausage casing, squeezing the forcemeat into its chicken skin, despite its best efforts to squeeze out every available gap.
A good yard of twine was wrapped around the log, to tame it and keep it in place during baking. After a heavy seasoning of salt and pepper, our chef threw it in the oven on high heat to crisp the skin, then turned the heat down to cook the galantine gradually, for about an hour and a half.
This was not a light lunch. The sauteed vegetables on our plates were simply a colorful garnish, a way to detract from the dense slab of meat wrapped in meat, swimming in a pool of veal demi-glace. It was, however, delicious: The chicken skin was crisp and salty, covering moist white meat directly underneath. The forcemeat tasted of nutmeg and herbs, fragrant albeit slightly chewy.
We stumbled out of class, dizzy yet sated. Perhaps turduckens aren’t such a bad idea after all.
Meat stuffed with meat
I would like to travel back in time, to visit the kitchens of French chefs after the Revolution turned the country upside down and kicked all the culinary elite out into the streets. Not just any chefs, but the crème de la crème, the men (and they were mostly men) who saw themselves as artists and architects, as well as cooks. I’d love to loiter in the background as contemporaries of Careme put together towering sculptures of foodstuffs--crayfish and crab, oysters and mussels, piled high. At that time, presentation was everything--flavor a fortunate, if not rare, byproduct.
So much of what we know in culinary arts comes from the French, who were the first (in Western tradition, of course) to establish cookery as an art and as a science--something both honorable to pursue and pleasurable to consume.
But the culinary contortions one must go through to create traditional French dishes! Who came up with the galantine, this mysterious meat concoction that takes hours to prepare? And pity the creative chef, who, deep in the bowels of his steamy kitchen at the chateau, is sent word that the mistress of the house loved the pate en croute so much that she wants it every night, without fail. Mon dieu.
Observe this example. Today, our chef instructor spent half an hour de-boning a five pound chicken. Starting with the back, he slowly peeled the meat off the bones, carefully detaching the leg and wing joints and removing the delicate bones within each. The chef then spread the limp carcass on a cutting board and pounded it with a heavy mallet into a uniform, rectangular shape.
Into the center of the chicken he piled in a gooey mass of ground turkey, ground pork and back fat, creating a solid block about three inches thick. The forcemeat, as it is called (think glorified meat loaf) included blanched pistachios and dried cherries soaked in white wine, and was seasoned with glace de viande (a rich, concentrated stock of roasted veal bones and mirepoix) along with handfuls of pate spice and fresh herbs.
With much difficulty, our chef then rolled the entire mass together, using the flattened chicken as a sort of sausage casing, squeezing the forcemeat into its chicken skin, despite its best efforts to squeeze out every available gap.
A good yard of twine was wrapped around the log, to tame it and keep it in place during baking. After a heavy seasoning of salt and pepper, our chef threw it in the oven on high heat to crisp the skin, then turned the heat down to cook the galantine gradually, for about an hour and a half.
This was not a light lunch. The sauteed vegetables on our plates were simply a colorful garnish, a way to detract from the dense slab of meat wrapped in meat, swimming in a pool of veal demi-glace. It was, however, delicious: The chicken skin was crisp and salty, covering moist white meat directly underneath. The forcemeat tasted of nutmeg and herbs, fragrant albeit slightly chewy.
We stumbled out of class, dizzy yet sated. Perhaps turduckens aren’t such a bad idea after all.
9.23.2003
Numbers: Ten pounds of pork shoulder de-boned and cut into two-inch hunks for grinding. Ten lymph nodes found and marveled at; three arteries cut out, large enough in diameter to stick my pinky finger in and through, much to the disgust of my classmates. Two pork chop racks cleaned and cut into approximately 14 chops. Eight pounds of squid cleaned, de-beaked and sliced in to bite-size pieces for jambalaya. One coffee, medium, sugar. One Pepsi.
Alice in Kitchenland
I've finally found out why my legs are so tired, all the time. I'm standing on my toes for five hours a day. Nothing in a professional kitchen is built for a person who barely clears the height requirement for most roller coasters. It seems that chefs are assumed to be giants, towering hunks of charred and scarred flesh, able to reach into fire without flinching and pick up 60-quart mixing bowls with their teeth. Not mini-people, diminutive culinary clods who slop soup on their too-roomy chef's jackets since the bucket weighs half their total body weight, or balance on tip-toe to reach hotel pans stacked precariously above sharp objects below.
Washing dishes is the most challenging task. I could crawl into the echoing aluminum chambers of the enormous sink, and still have room for the dozens of pans that clang through each hour. The sink is mounted along one wall of the meat lab, and moving right to left, has a high-pressure hose for clearing off food and other garbage into a constantly grinding trash disposal; at center, two huge basins for washing and rinsing; and at the end, four feet of steel and racks for drying.
The high-pressure hose offers an instant shower every time I aim it at a soiled cutting board or mixing bowl, the water curving upwards in a steaming arc right on to my neck and face. The sink basin lip comes just underneath my breasts, forcing me to balance on tip-toes to reach anything at the bottom of the sink. Every time I do this, my hat slides off my always-sweaty brow and into the muddy water. Retrieving a clean whisk from the bottom of the basin, I've got to hop to hang the utensil on the top rack above the sink.
I try to prove my mettle and mass by lifting things much bigger than myself. I'll hoist mixing bowls overflowing with pounds and pounds of meat loaf on to kitchen counters, or help load sides of beef into the walk-in refrigerator. My chef says I'm much stronger than I look. Not a bad compliment from a man who wields a chainsaw to carve 300 lb. blocks of ice as a hobby.
Alice in Kitchenland
I've finally found out why my legs are so tired, all the time. I'm standing on my toes for five hours a day. Nothing in a professional kitchen is built for a person who barely clears the height requirement for most roller coasters. It seems that chefs are assumed to be giants, towering hunks of charred and scarred flesh, able to reach into fire without flinching and pick up 60-quart mixing bowls with their teeth. Not mini-people, diminutive culinary clods who slop soup on their too-roomy chef's jackets since the bucket weighs half their total body weight, or balance on tip-toe to reach hotel pans stacked precariously above sharp objects below.
Washing dishes is the most challenging task. I could crawl into the echoing aluminum chambers of the enormous sink, and still have room for the dozens of pans that clang through each hour. The sink is mounted along one wall of the meat lab, and moving right to left, has a high-pressure hose for clearing off food and other garbage into a constantly grinding trash disposal; at center, two huge basins for washing and rinsing; and at the end, four feet of steel and racks for drying.
The high-pressure hose offers an instant shower every time I aim it at a soiled cutting board or mixing bowl, the water curving upwards in a steaming arc right on to my neck and face. The sink basin lip comes just underneath my breasts, forcing me to balance on tip-toes to reach anything at the bottom of the sink. Every time I do this, my hat slides off my always-sweaty brow and into the muddy water. Retrieving a clean whisk from the bottom of the basin, I've got to hop to hang the utensil on the top rack above the sink.
I try to prove my mettle and mass by lifting things much bigger than myself. I'll hoist mixing bowls overflowing with pounds and pounds of meat loaf on to kitchen counters, or help load sides of beef into the walk-in refrigerator. My chef says I'm much stronger than I look. Not a bad compliment from a man who wields a chainsaw to carve 300 lb. blocks of ice as a hobby.
9.17.2003
Numbers: Three 2 lb. flank steaks, cleaned of fat and sinew, cut into strips for stir-fry. Two chickens, cut into boneless, skinless breasts and boneless legs. Three salmon filets, cleaned of blood line and de-boned, cut into 6 oz. portions. Waste: 10 oz. of scrap, or, more than $10 in sellable product. Six tomato wedges, carved and skinned as to resemble flower petals. Or standing, armless squirrels. Two handfuls of sushi rice consumed. Ten pounds of veal shoulder, cleaned of fat and sinew, cut into 2 oz. blocks for pounding. One ear ache, from pounding. Six baby back rib racks, cleaned of tough connective tissue and rubbed with Barbeque Spice seasoning mix. Twenty-five thresher shark filets, marinated in Asian pesto, grilled almost to perfection but with slightly severe grill marks. One super-sweaty chef hat. One large cup of coffee.
Getting sharper
We have become, perhaps, too comfortable with our knives. We gesture with our knives when telling jokes, a natural extention of our arms. The grating, rough sound of knives being sharpened no longer gives me goosebumps. I can't imagine using any other knife, especially one shorter than my French knife -- like a favorite pen, somehow, working just doesn't feel right without it.
I remember the first day of lab last semester, after purchasing what’s known as our “tool kit” – a black, waterproof bag filled with knives and other kitchen tools: tongs, a handy spatula, a no-slip peeler and other goodies. The French knife dwarfed all the other items – 10 inches long, the knife sat in the middle of the kit, solid and scary. I remember picking up the knife -- almost as long as my forearm -- and thinking there would be no way I could ever use such a tool with any expertise – so intimidating, so heavy, so absolutely dangerous it seemed at the time.
The second week of school, one of my classmates ran his French knife through his palm, sending a solid arc of blood across the bakery shop, on to the banana-cream pies and fellow classmates. He needed five stitches, but he was back in class the next day. I almost fainted, and contemplated wearing full body armor to class.
It has been a while since someone has seriously hurt himself, and it is surprising. In the meat lab, there are knives everywhere. Packed tight on stainless steel tables, we place butcher blocks side by side, and set out our tools – French knife, boning knife, steel. That’s some 44 knives, placed haphazardly. Then we throw side towels, and raw meat, on those boards. Blood pools, making areas more slippery, and grips get slick. Then, there’s the jokes and squeals of the class clowns – the fat thrown, the cootie tag. The kitchen sink is ground zero for surprise injuries, since within the deep metal tub everything is thrown – boards, hotel pans, mixing bowls, and sometimes, accidentally, knives. I have learned to watch my hands, and know never to reach into a pool of standing water in a sink.
Getting sharper
We have become, perhaps, too comfortable with our knives. We gesture with our knives when telling jokes, a natural extention of our arms. The grating, rough sound of knives being sharpened no longer gives me goosebumps. I can't imagine using any other knife, especially one shorter than my French knife -- like a favorite pen, somehow, working just doesn't feel right without it.
I remember the first day of lab last semester, after purchasing what’s known as our “tool kit” – a black, waterproof bag filled with knives and other kitchen tools: tongs, a handy spatula, a no-slip peeler and other goodies. The French knife dwarfed all the other items – 10 inches long, the knife sat in the middle of the kit, solid and scary. I remember picking up the knife -- almost as long as my forearm -- and thinking there would be no way I could ever use such a tool with any expertise – so intimidating, so heavy, so absolutely dangerous it seemed at the time.
The second week of school, one of my classmates ran his French knife through his palm, sending a solid arc of blood across the bakery shop, on to the banana-cream pies and fellow classmates. He needed five stitches, but he was back in class the next day. I almost fainted, and contemplated wearing full body armor to class.
It has been a while since someone has seriously hurt himself, and it is surprising. In the meat lab, there are knives everywhere. Packed tight on stainless steel tables, we place butcher blocks side by side, and set out our tools – French knife, boning knife, steel. That’s some 44 knives, placed haphazardly. Then we throw side towels, and raw meat, on those boards. Blood pools, making areas more slippery, and grips get slick. Then, there’s the jokes and squeals of the class clowns – the fat thrown, the cootie tag. The kitchen sink is ground zero for surprise injuries, since within the deep metal tub everything is thrown – boards, hotel pans, mixing bowls, and sometimes, accidentally, knives. I have learned to watch my hands, and know never to reach into a pool of standing water in a sink.
9.16.2003
Numbers: A dozen “irregular” chicken breasts cut in half, and portioned out to 5 oz. for scaloppini. One frozen turkey carcass cut for boneless breasts. Three dozen corn fritters, fried in vegetable oil. One oil burn, middle finger. Five seafood kabobs assembled. Four Vietnamese fresh spring rolls, with shrimp and steak, rolled loosely and somewhat haphazardly, for my own consumption. One cup of coffee with Mocha Mix (ugh) and one Pepsi.
Sharks circling
This semester, the adage is true: There are far too many cooks in the kitchen.
When, a year ago, I tossed aside a clean, desk job for a hot, sweaty, often messy upright one, I felt alone in the world. Who the hell would give up a good paying job to dive headlong into the world of minimum wage, long and weekend hours, sexism and harassment? Oil burns, knife cuts, sore feet? Me, for one.
And a small army of similar-minded (read: directionless) souls. This year, there are more students in this culinary program than there ever have been in the history of CCSF. Same holds true for CCA, and culinary schools across the country. A New York Times article recently pointed out that there are also many second-career types turning to the kitchen in search of that spark that their last job didn’t provide.
But with such flashy icons of food, such as all-culinary cable channels, cookbooks that sell millions of copies, and the chef-as-superstar offering autographs to home-bound housewives, it’s easy, for a while, to see culinary school as a quick trip to professional success and happiness.
It's not. Get ready to work 10 hours a day, seven days a week -- and start at $10 an hour, if you're lucky. This is sweaty, difficult, stressful work where, it seems, only a few really shine -- and realistically, most of us stay on the line, churning out the chicken special, night in, night out. I know I can't cut it, but I sure admire the people who do.
Today I stared at a pile of chicken fat, globular and yellow. Sometimes, the fat gets on your fingers, and crusts there. Don’t even try to itch your nose. And that's all I did, really, for most of the class -- play with fat. Too many people, not enough work.
The adventure of culinary school has paled, I'm afraid. I’m knee-deep in fat and trying to figure out a way to make this worthwhile. How I can learn more than I could cram in on my own. Absorb knowledge from chef instructors who have been in the business longer than I’ve been on the earth. And make this transition a real transition, and not just a diversion from work, or reality, or the reality of real work.
Sharks circling
This semester, the adage is true: There are far too many cooks in the kitchen.
When, a year ago, I tossed aside a clean, desk job for a hot, sweaty, often messy upright one, I felt alone in the world. Who the hell would give up a good paying job to dive headlong into the world of minimum wage, long and weekend hours, sexism and harassment? Oil burns, knife cuts, sore feet? Me, for one.
And a small army of similar-minded (read: directionless) souls. This year, there are more students in this culinary program than there ever have been in the history of CCSF. Same holds true for CCA, and culinary schools across the country. A New York Times article recently pointed out that there are also many second-career types turning to the kitchen in search of that spark that their last job didn’t provide.
But with such flashy icons of food, such as all-culinary cable channels, cookbooks that sell millions of copies, and the chef-as-superstar offering autographs to home-bound housewives, it’s easy, for a while, to see culinary school as a quick trip to professional success and happiness.
It's not. Get ready to work 10 hours a day, seven days a week -- and start at $10 an hour, if you're lucky. This is sweaty, difficult, stressful work where, it seems, only a few really shine -- and realistically, most of us stay on the line, churning out the chicken special, night in, night out. I know I can't cut it, but I sure admire the people who do.
Today I stared at a pile of chicken fat, globular and yellow. Sometimes, the fat gets on your fingers, and crusts there. Don’t even try to itch your nose. And that's all I did, really, for most of the class -- play with fat. Too many people, not enough work.
The adventure of culinary school has paled, I'm afraid. I’m knee-deep in fat and trying to figure out a way to make this worthwhile. How I can learn more than I could cram in on my own. Absorb knowledge from chef instructors who have been in the business longer than I’ve been on the earth. And make this transition a real transition, and not just a diversion from work, or reality, or the reality of real work.
9.11.2003
Numbers: Four salmon fillets, cleaned but with skin on, cut into 45 - 6 oz. portions. Two bass fillets, pin bones removed, butchered into almost unusable 4.5 oz. portions when 6 oz was required. Ten potatoes, peeled, as penance. Bunch parsley chopped (more penance). Five sheet pans washed. Ten feet of Italian sausage, freshly cased, twisted into little sausage links. Three chickens cut to produce boneless skinless breasts. Two cups of coffee. One Pepsi, no ice. (machine broken)
Chickenese
I’m becoming proficient in chicken parts. In about seven minutes, give or take, I’m able to slice through the chicken’s side to the back, preserving a small, savory lump of meat known as the oyster. Bending the freed leg back, the hip joint pops out; two knife strokes cuts most of the tendons, and then, the whole leg from the bird. Repeat on other side with clean, smooth strokes. Breasts are a little harder, requiring some gentle sawing. Finding the breast bone, a quick stroke the length of the knife separates some of the breast meat from the bone; a few more saws and the flesh starts to fall at an angle from the thin rib cage. The wing bone pops from its socket from the weight, and one, two—the wing’s off, and the breast, in its water-injected, hormone glory, fits into the palm of my sticky hand. Wings come apart in three sections: The bone from the shoulder to elbow (think bicep), the wing, and the wingtip. I take a 10-inch French knife to the joints between each bone and without fail, snap them every time. A chef would consider this sloppy work, but this early, I’m just waking up.
Some chickens arrive with bubbles of water underneath the skin, silicon implants for chickens that never got to strut their newfound cleavage out among the ogling roosters. Chicken growers, we’re told, to make the chicken meat more succulent before the bird is slaughtered, inject the birds with water. This should produce a more tender meat (think brining). It feels like gelatin, gooey and slick. It’s all dressing, however; the water bubble is trimmed off with the rest of the yellowed, bubbly fat, and tossed with a resounding plop into the trash bin.
I hate fish
I hate cutting fish, and I hate when someone stands over my shoulder while I’m doing something for the first time. There is a constant feel of being on stage in the kitchen – and even more so in a professional kitchen. We’re students, sure – but we’ve also got to produce buyable product, i.e., food that looks and tastes good that our clientele (the college students) will purchase and ideally not get sick on – so we’ve got to learn fast.
I spent an hour or so cutting salmon into 6 oz. fillets, first thing this morning, and was feeling quite smug as by eye, I was able to gauge the weight and cut fairly accurately, within a ¼ oz. While I was finishing my project, a third semester student came down to the meat lab, and said he needed six portions of sea bass – a much denser, heavier fish than salmon – right away.
Chef throws the fish at me and says, cut this now. No problem. The student, who seems about 7-foot-10, hovers over me as I negotiate the pin bones in the middle of the fish. Nasty bones, they won’t be pulled out by needle-nose pliers, so you’ve got to cut the entire center of the fish clean, before cutting into portions.
My first portion cut was 4.5 oz. It feels like a rock in my hand, and I’m disbelieving. I weigh it again, same result. 4.5 oz.
“Cut it bigger,” the student says. “Duh,” I say.
I cut it slightly bigger, as the fish is larger in this part. 4.5 oz., on the nose.
The student’s sigh is audible. I cut another piece. 4.5 oz. My precision is exacting, my skills unparalleled. Only I’m working in the wrong kitchen, off the wrong menu, in a parallel dimension. And I’m angry, which makes me weepy, which is a no-no in the lab. You don’t cry, even though there is blood everywhere, unless it’s your own, and even then, you really don’t cry. Sissies cry, girls cry. Chefs grab hot pans and smile.
The student is watching his fish turn into stew, and barks at me to cut larger. I tell him to go away. I’ll bring him his freaking fish in a minute. Thankfully, he leaves.
Five minutes later, I have the Lego version of sea bass. Each piece has a smaller 1 oz. portion stuck to it, sealed with determination and bile. If the fucker sears it, the pieces will stick together. I hope he bakes it so that when he plates it, the pieces will fall apart, a small fault line on a fishy $6.95 entrée. I run the plate upstairs, well wrapped in cellophane, as if the illusion can be concealed under so much plastic wrap. I place the tray on a speed rack and run back to the basement, the meat lab, licking my fishy wounds with a dry, coffee-parched tongue.
I decide with more determination than ever that I do not want to work in a professional kitchen. I drink more soda and feel better.
Chickenese
I’m becoming proficient in chicken parts. In about seven minutes, give or take, I’m able to slice through the chicken’s side to the back, preserving a small, savory lump of meat known as the oyster. Bending the freed leg back, the hip joint pops out; two knife strokes cuts most of the tendons, and then, the whole leg from the bird. Repeat on other side with clean, smooth strokes. Breasts are a little harder, requiring some gentle sawing. Finding the breast bone, a quick stroke the length of the knife separates some of the breast meat from the bone; a few more saws and the flesh starts to fall at an angle from the thin rib cage. The wing bone pops from its socket from the weight, and one, two—the wing’s off, and the breast, in its water-injected, hormone glory, fits into the palm of my sticky hand. Wings come apart in three sections: The bone from the shoulder to elbow (think bicep), the wing, and the wingtip. I take a 10-inch French knife to the joints between each bone and without fail, snap them every time. A chef would consider this sloppy work, but this early, I’m just waking up.
Some chickens arrive with bubbles of water underneath the skin, silicon implants for chickens that never got to strut their newfound cleavage out among the ogling roosters. Chicken growers, we’re told, to make the chicken meat more succulent before the bird is slaughtered, inject the birds with water. This should produce a more tender meat (think brining). It feels like gelatin, gooey and slick. It’s all dressing, however; the water bubble is trimmed off with the rest of the yellowed, bubbly fat, and tossed with a resounding plop into the trash bin.
I hate fish
I hate cutting fish, and I hate when someone stands over my shoulder while I’m doing something for the first time. There is a constant feel of being on stage in the kitchen – and even more so in a professional kitchen. We’re students, sure – but we’ve also got to produce buyable product, i.e., food that looks and tastes good that our clientele (the college students) will purchase and ideally not get sick on – so we’ve got to learn fast.
I spent an hour or so cutting salmon into 6 oz. fillets, first thing this morning, and was feeling quite smug as by eye, I was able to gauge the weight and cut fairly accurately, within a ¼ oz. While I was finishing my project, a third semester student came down to the meat lab, and said he needed six portions of sea bass – a much denser, heavier fish than salmon – right away.
Chef throws the fish at me and says, cut this now. No problem. The student, who seems about 7-foot-10, hovers over me as I negotiate the pin bones in the middle of the fish. Nasty bones, they won’t be pulled out by needle-nose pliers, so you’ve got to cut the entire center of the fish clean, before cutting into portions.
My first portion cut was 4.5 oz. It feels like a rock in my hand, and I’m disbelieving. I weigh it again, same result. 4.5 oz.
“Cut it bigger,” the student says. “Duh,” I say.
I cut it slightly bigger, as the fish is larger in this part. 4.5 oz., on the nose.
The student’s sigh is audible. I cut another piece. 4.5 oz. My precision is exacting, my skills unparalleled. Only I’m working in the wrong kitchen, off the wrong menu, in a parallel dimension. And I’m angry, which makes me weepy, which is a no-no in the lab. You don’t cry, even though there is blood everywhere, unless it’s your own, and even then, you really don’t cry. Sissies cry, girls cry. Chefs grab hot pans and smile.
The student is watching his fish turn into stew, and barks at me to cut larger. I tell him to go away. I’ll bring him his freaking fish in a minute. Thankfully, he leaves.
Five minutes later, I have the Lego version of sea bass. Each piece has a smaller 1 oz. portion stuck to it, sealed with determination and bile. If the fucker sears it, the pieces will stick together. I hope he bakes it so that when he plates it, the pieces will fall apart, a small fault line on a fishy $6.95 entrée. I run the plate upstairs, well wrapped in cellophane, as if the illusion can be concealed under so much plastic wrap. I place the tray on a speed rack and run back to the basement, the meat lab, licking my fishy wounds with a dry, coffee-parched tongue.
I decide with more determination than ever that I do not want to work in a professional kitchen. I drink more soda and feel better.
9.09.2003
The first step before cutting a piece of meat is similar to the first step before sitting down to write: you need to make sure your tools are sharp. A dull knife is more dangerous than a sharp one; a dull, sleepy mind, likewise, is useless. Unfortunately, today I possess both.
In this blog, I will attempt to chronicle the following: one, my participation in the production kitchen at the local city college, otherwise known as the "Meat Lab;" two, my understanding of animal anatomy and the butchering steps I acquire from my very talented and knowledgeable chef instructors; and three, my state of mind, and body, as I cut apart animals in a fluorescent-lit, blood-splattered, bone-cold classroom at 8 a.m., everyday.
Welcome to class.
In this blog, I will attempt to chronicle the following: one, my participation in the production kitchen at the local city college, otherwise known as the "Meat Lab;" two, my understanding of animal anatomy and the butchering steps I acquire from my very talented and knowledgeable chef instructors; and three, my state of mind, and body, as I cut apart animals in a fluorescent-lit, blood-splattered, bone-cold classroom at 8 a.m., everyday.
Welcome to class.
