10.27.2003
In the center ring
Twelve hours on my feet, shod in cheap Payless Shoe Source non-slip shoes, and I’m ready to collapse. This evening was my first china service dinner where I was the lead--the point of all contact, the one to shoulder the praise as well as the blame--and surprisingly, the event went well. No fires, no dropped food.
After about a week as a full-time catering supe, I think I’ve got the hang of it. Although it’s taking me at least three cans of Coke a day to try to keep my mind working at the pace required and with the level of detail needed to keep all these knives and forks in place.
The biggest challenge has been simply trying to figure out where everything is in the cave we call “Operations.” It’s where all the catering attendants buzz in and buzz out of, before and after events, grabbing china and lemonade, plastic plates and cookies. Along one wall stand enormous silver coffee brewing machines, which can percolate some 20 gallons of coffee simultaneously. Large canisters catch the brew, and live underneath the machines when empty. The filter cups are large enough to fit over my head, a proper helmet considering the potential for trash fights the longer an evening wears on.
Located in the back of the long, rectangular room is the cage, where all the utensils and silver lay in aging and somewhat greasy plastic containers. Separating silverware is the most groaned-over task; one can judge the crankiness of a catering attendant by the amount of noise made while throwing handfuls of coffee spoons and butter knives into their appropriate containers.
There’s a table for plating cookies and other bakery desserts, which arrive bright and early at 6 a.m. A speed rack (a tall rack that holds most standard professional baking trays; misnamed, however, since most are so beat up they are far from speedy) filled from top to bottom with chocolate chip, peanut butter, sugar and oatmeal cookies, as well as brownies, stands in this area most of the day to provide us with goods as we need them. A walk-in refrigerator (abbreviated simply to “walk-in,” since, you can do just that) holds canned sodas and juices, jams and cream cheese, alcohol and mixers, anything we could possibly need immediately without having to run up to the larger kitchen walk-ins upstairs. Yet, there is always something missing, and most of the time, I’ll have to run somewhere. Truly, I run everywhere.
A typical set-up goes something like this: We get an order for breakfast, for 20, at 8:30 a.m. Bagels, muffins, scones. Coffee service, with tea. Disposable cutlery and plates. Linen for the buffet table and a few other guest tables. With this information, we jump into action.
One attendant heads to the plastics room to grab plates, napkins, forks, knives and spoons. Crashes into something; hollers; throws napkin at co-worker. Another brews java, pours half-and-half into a thermos. Grabs labels--regular or decaf--for the coffee, drip trays for the containers. Changes the radio station to easy listening and everybody yells; changes it back again to dance music that makes the walls vibrate.
I run up to the kitchen to make sure the baked goods are plated and good to go; I’m told the pastry chefs needs 10 more minutes, so I go to check on cream cheese, jam, butter. Pour jam into a container, get some on shoes. Grab a block of cream cheese with gloved hands and smash it into a spreadable mixture. Run back and forth between china room and operations room trying to find a bowl for butter. Convince the dishwasher who carries a copy of Dianetics under his arm everywhere to grab me a couple from the stockroom. Steal cart from the pantry. Grab linen and risers for the baked good platters and run into ice machine with cart, upsetting pastries. Push them back on plate with elbow, while maneuvering cart around garbage cans.
Yell out that I’m leaving for order No. 5, and grab attendants to drive the evil van that likes to jump curbs. We forget the coffee stirrers; an attendant jumps out of the van to grab them. Finally, sweating and jostling for limited cab space, we’re off.
I exaggerate a bit but it’s often a circus, with so many acts happening in too many rings at once. The crew is alternately scattered and sharp; they all know they need to work hard, yet they all make sure they’re having fun in the process, too. I can learn a lot here, I feel--I work diligently, but the refreshing fact is that the moment I leave, my work is done. I get to go home and think about my real life--of writing, of cooking, of loving, of living.
Then again, I just worked a 12-hour shift. It’s almost midnight, and this blog entry is far from polished, let alone well thought-out. Perhaps I’ll find some more inspiration tomorrow, walking to work with the sunrise at 7 a.m.
Twelve hours on my feet, shod in cheap Payless Shoe Source non-slip shoes, and I’m ready to collapse. This evening was my first china service dinner where I was the lead--the point of all contact, the one to shoulder the praise as well as the blame--and surprisingly, the event went well. No fires, no dropped food.
After about a week as a full-time catering supe, I think I’ve got the hang of it. Although it’s taking me at least three cans of Coke a day to try to keep my mind working at the pace required and with the level of detail needed to keep all these knives and forks in place.
The biggest challenge has been simply trying to figure out where everything is in the cave we call “Operations.” It’s where all the catering attendants buzz in and buzz out of, before and after events, grabbing china and lemonade, plastic plates and cookies. Along one wall stand enormous silver coffee brewing machines, which can percolate some 20 gallons of coffee simultaneously. Large canisters catch the brew, and live underneath the machines when empty. The filter cups are large enough to fit over my head, a proper helmet considering the potential for trash fights the longer an evening wears on.
Located in the back of the long, rectangular room is the cage, where all the utensils and silver lay in aging and somewhat greasy plastic containers. Separating silverware is the most groaned-over task; one can judge the crankiness of a catering attendant by the amount of noise made while throwing handfuls of coffee spoons and butter knives into their appropriate containers.
There’s a table for plating cookies and other bakery desserts, which arrive bright and early at 6 a.m. A speed rack (a tall rack that holds most standard professional baking trays; misnamed, however, since most are so beat up they are far from speedy) filled from top to bottom with chocolate chip, peanut butter, sugar and oatmeal cookies, as well as brownies, stands in this area most of the day to provide us with goods as we need them. A walk-in refrigerator (abbreviated simply to “walk-in,” since, you can do just that) holds canned sodas and juices, jams and cream cheese, alcohol and mixers, anything we could possibly need immediately without having to run up to the larger kitchen walk-ins upstairs. Yet, there is always something missing, and most of the time, I’ll have to run somewhere. Truly, I run everywhere.
A typical set-up goes something like this: We get an order for breakfast, for 20, at 8:30 a.m. Bagels, muffins, scones. Coffee service, with tea. Disposable cutlery and plates. Linen for the buffet table and a few other guest tables. With this information, we jump into action.
One attendant heads to the plastics room to grab plates, napkins, forks, knives and spoons. Crashes into something; hollers; throws napkin at co-worker. Another brews java, pours half-and-half into a thermos. Grabs labels--regular or decaf--for the coffee, drip trays for the containers. Changes the radio station to easy listening and everybody yells; changes it back again to dance music that makes the walls vibrate.
I run up to the kitchen to make sure the baked goods are plated and good to go; I’m told the pastry chefs needs 10 more minutes, so I go to check on cream cheese, jam, butter. Pour jam into a container, get some on shoes. Grab a block of cream cheese with gloved hands and smash it into a spreadable mixture. Run back and forth between china room and operations room trying to find a bowl for butter. Convince the dishwasher who carries a copy of Dianetics under his arm everywhere to grab me a couple from the stockroom. Steal cart from the pantry. Grab linen and risers for the baked good platters and run into ice machine with cart, upsetting pastries. Push them back on plate with elbow, while maneuvering cart around garbage cans.
Yell out that I’m leaving for order No. 5, and grab attendants to drive the evil van that likes to jump curbs. We forget the coffee stirrers; an attendant jumps out of the van to grab them. Finally, sweating and jostling for limited cab space, we’re off.
I exaggerate a bit but it’s often a circus, with so many acts happening in too many rings at once. The crew is alternately scattered and sharp; they all know they need to work hard, yet they all make sure they’re having fun in the process, too. I can learn a lot here, I feel--I work diligently, but the refreshing fact is that the moment I leave, my work is done. I get to go home and think about my real life--of writing, of cooking, of loving, of living.
Then again, I just worked a 12-hour shift. It’s almost midnight, and this blog entry is far from polished, let alone well thought-out. Perhaps I’ll find some more inspiration tomorrow, walking to work with the sunrise at 7 a.m.
10.22.2003
Culinary school drop-out
It's important to pay attention to details; at least, that's what I've been taught in the months I've spent training to be a professional chef. Just good enough isn't--pushing for perfection is a daily, hourly, minute-to-minute task.
For a restaurant, paying attention to details can make or break a business. As a fellow foodie friend told me while cooking creme Anglaise: Pay attention. One minute the sauce is heaven, sticky with vanilla aroma and cream--the next moment, you've cooked the tastiest scrambled eggs. Ah, details.
Tuesday I was on the bus, sleepless, but still noticing details. I was 15 minutes late to class, again. Didn't shower. Same pants, three days in a row. Forgot breakfast, along with my class notes. Remembered that I had a midterm that Friday on pig and lamb anatomy, and I hadn't studied, nor had I been to the 7 a.m. class in three weeks.
It was plain to see that I wasn't taking school seriously any more. Not that it was completely intentional: working full-time and going to school full-time is no joke. I would wake up at 6:30 a.m. and stumble to school, often late. Rush from class at 1 p.m. to make work at 2; work until 10 p.m., often later. Repeat.
I don't understand how people do this, but I do know a lot of people who keep this insane schedule. Perhaps due to financial circumstances or otherwise, they've no choice. They're better people, and far stronger than I, for sure.
So, I dropped out. After 10 months of class, it was far easier than I expected. I had to pay back tuition, however; a friendly jab that made my guilt turn briefly to bile as I forked over $70 for classes I wasn't taking anymore. I went to the locker room, shoved all my blood-stained and otherwise stinking chef's jackets, checked pants and aprons in my backpack, grabbed my knife kit, and left.
I'm proud of where I'm at, however, despite the drop-out label. First of all, it's great that I decided to enroll in culinary school at all. I tossed a previous job aside to try out a new professional path; I studied, and spent long hours on my feet dicing, sauteing and frying; and now, I'm working full-time in the profession I actively chose. And, I'm even writing about food, with plans to do more. School was a tool, and it got me where I am now. When tools are no longer useful, it makes sense to toss them aside.
However, I will miss the students, my comrades in cuts--the teenage misfits, the second-careerists, the sharp wits and the stumblers, covered in spilled soup, swathed in sweaty paper chef's hats and stained coats. I'll miss the stolen food, the early-morning acidic coffee, the adrenaline rush at service, the slow creep of the Meat Lab clock. All those flavorful discoveries and fantastic failures.
I can't wait to write about the stars-to-be, and will be thrilled to say, I knew you when.
It's important to pay attention to details; at least, that's what I've been taught in the months I've spent training to be a professional chef. Just good enough isn't--pushing for perfection is a daily, hourly, minute-to-minute task.
For a restaurant, paying attention to details can make or break a business. As a fellow foodie friend told me while cooking creme Anglaise: Pay attention. One minute the sauce is heaven, sticky with vanilla aroma and cream--the next moment, you've cooked the tastiest scrambled eggs. Ah, details.
Tuesday I was on the bus, sleepless, but still noticing details. I was 15 minutes late to class, again. Didn't shower. Same pants, three days in a row. Forgot breakfast, along with my class notes. Remembered that I had a midterm that Friday on pig and lamb anatomy, and I hadn't studied, nor had I been to the 7 a.m. class in three weeks.
It was plain to see that I wasn't taking school seriously any more. Not that it was completely intentional: working full-time and going to school full-time is no joke. I would wake up at 6:30 a.m. and stumble to school, often late. Rush from class at 1 p.m. to make work at 2; work until 10 p.m., often later. Repeat.
I don't understand how people do this, but I do know a lot of people who keep this insane schedule. Perhaps due to financial circumstances or otherwise, they've no choice. They're better people, and far stronger than I, for sure.
So, I dropped out. After 10 months of class, it was far easier than I expected. I had to pay back tuition, however; a friendly jab that made my guilt turn briefly to bile as I forked over $70 for classes I wasn't taking anymore. I went to the locker room, shoved all my blood-stained and otherwise stinking chef's jackets, checked pants and aprons in my backpack, grabbed my knife kit, and left.
I'm proud of where I'm at, however, despite the drop-out label. First of all, it's great that I decided to enroll in culinary school at all. I tossed a previous job aside to try out a new professional path; I studied, and spent long hours on my feet dicing, sauteing and frying; and now, I'm working full-time in the profession I actively chose. And, I'm even writing about food, with plans to do more. School was a tool, and it got me where I am now. When tools are no longer useful, it makes sense to toss them aside.
However, I will miss the students, my comrades in cuts--the teenage misfits, the second-careerists, the sharp wits and the stumblers, covered in spilled soup, swathed in sweaty paper chef's hats and stained coats. I'll miss the stolen food, the early-morning acidic coffee, the adrenaline rush at service, the slow creep of the Meat Lab clock. All those flavorful discoveries and fantastic failures.
I can't wait to write about the stars-to-be, and will be thrilled to say, I knew you when.
10.15.2003
Make it my way
My first event as a catering supervisor in training was a small sit-down dinner for faculty authors celebrating the overall sucess of the group in publishing. A simple affair, it was to be a pre-set salad, buffet entree, and served dessert.
First rule: If you assume something will be simple it won't. Second rule: Nothing is ever simple.
And the rule to trump all rules: When food is free people will conduct themselves like spoiled kings. They will want more, and better. They won't understand why you can't just create a filet mignon out of thin air, nor, why, at 10 p.m., after all the kitchen staff three blocks away have gone home, you can't whip up sauteed spinach for 15.
The guest list went from 31 to 40 one hour before the event. We didn't know this; neither did the kitchen. When the buffet dinner was set out, the guests went to town, eating both meat and vegetarian entrees. And when the vegetarians got into line -- their overall lack of protein making them move slower, I guess -- they got couscous. Lots of it. One, singular, soggy spinach leaf remained in one dish; the liquid from seared portobello mushrooms in another.
While their carnivorous fellow writers chowed, the vegetarians complained -- adding our performance to the long litany of crimes against non-meat eaters through the ages. We called the kitchen, demanding from the skeleton staff: more spinach pronto! Fifteen minutes later we get a motley pasta combo, with a touch of tomato sauce and other sauteed goodies. I float from table to table, announcing to guests that, please, we've got more chow now -- help yourselves.
But there's one mushroom hold-out, and pasta just won't cut it. Holding a private hunger strike, he declares that he wants mushrooms, and has pushed his banana tartlet to the side with disgust while the rest of his fellow diners have moved on to coffee and conversation.
My partner and trainer goes in to do the dirty work, explaining to this gentleman that although mushrooms do grow at night, they're not going to appear on his plate any time soon. The discussion ends in detente, and both people return to their parties to mutter in frustration about the other. Luckily, we in the "back of the house," hiding in the kitchen, have leftover banana tartlets to play with, eating without forks and giggling.
I laugh a bit too but realize that very soon, I'll have to put on that thankless grin and be the culinary diplomat, smoothing out wrinkles in rankled diners. For now, I'm in training, hiding behind a banana tartlet. More chocolate sauce, please.
My first event as a catering supervisor in training was a small sit-down dinner for faculty authors celebrating the overall sucess of the group in publishing. A simple affair, it was to be a pre-set salad, buffet entree, and served dessert.
First rule: If you assume something will be simple it won't. Second rule: Nothing is ever simple.
And the rule to trump all rules: When food is free people will conduct themselves like spoiled kings. They will want more, and better. They won't understand why you can't just create a filet mignon out of thin air, nor, why, at 10 p.m., after all the kitchen staff three blocks away have gone home, you can't whip up sauteed spinach for 15.
The guest list went from 31 to 40 one hour before the event. We didn't know this; neither did the kitchen. When the buffet dinner was set out, the guests went to town, eating both meat and vegetarian entrees. And when the vegetarians got into line -- their overall lack of protein making them move slower, I guess -- they got couscous. Lots of it. One, singular, soggy spinach leaf remained in one dish; the liquid from seared portobello mushrooms in another.
While their carnivorous fellow writers chowed, the vegetarians complained -- adding our performance to the long litany of crimes against non-meat eaters through the ages. We called the kitchen, demanding from the skeleton staff: more spinach pronto! Fifteen minutes later we get a motley pasta combo, with a touch of tomato sauce and other sauteed goodies. I float from table to table, announcing to guests that, please, we've got more chow now -- help yourselves.
But there's one mushroom hold-out, and pasta just won't cut it. Holding a private hunger strike, he declares that he wants mushrooms, and has pushed his banana tartlet to the side with disgust while the rest of his fellow diners have moved on to coffee and conversation.
My partner and trainer goes in to do the dirty work, explaining to this gentleman that although mushrooms do grow at night, they're not going to appear on his plate any time soon. The discussion ends in detente, and both people return to their parties to mutter in frustration about the other. Luckily, we in the "back of the house," hiding in the kitchen, have leftover banana tartlets to play with, eating without forks and giggling.
I laugh a bit too but realize that very soon, I'll have to put on that thankless grin and be the culinary diplomat, smoothing out wrinkles in rankled diners. For now, I'm in training, hiding behind a banana tartlet. More chocolate sauce, please.
10.13.2003
One foot on the floor, one out the door
I'm trying to figure out how I can be a full-time student, a full-time employee, and a full-time freelance writer of food in a 24-hour day. This week I'll discover whether something has to give.
I've just been hired by Bon Appetit, a national food service and catering company, as a catering supervisor. This company also happens to be the on-site food service for the University of San Francisco; I had worked for the school's catering arm as a server a number of times. The group is run by a wonderful woman named June who is all business and smiles, who picked me out of a group of tuxedo-clad temps and offered me a job, resume unseen. A welcome lesson to the cynical: Sometimes hard work really does pay off.
Landing this position has put the varnish on a couple of ideas I was still laying out to dry. One, this will definitely be my last semester of culinary school. With a year of dicing and sauteeing behind me, I feel I've got the bug enough to pursue more food knowledge on my own. I knew from the start I would never want to be a professional chef; I won't feel incomplete without that culinary certificate. I am thankful, however, for this year. The time spent as a struggling student has given me the opportunity to figure out just where I need to be.
A funny aside, to illustrate: last week I completed an assignment for the Sunday Source of The Washington Post on making piroshki, and shot a cocktail party with a great food photographer who carries with him a solid sense of food styling and a double helping of humor. The party didn't get us the product cover shot we needed; after class the next day, I hurried out yet another batch of dumplings so he could shoot them again. While styling the doughy, rather dull piroshki on a plate with greens and vegetable brunoise, the photographer commented on the dill being rather "problematic."
I laughed, as we had just spent the past half-hour talking about our professional paths and how after so many years of jobs that just didn't feed what we were craving, we both ended up, somehow, involved with food.
"Isn't it great," I said, "that we can talk about having 'dill problems' and actually be serious?"
He laughed as well. And why not? We ate my work afterwards. Food work does create some stress, but what great rewards. How could I not be happy?
Two, this job will give me the financial insurance that will allow me to pursue food writing without sweating over making ends meet. It's a good feeling, and my shoulders have decended considerably from my ears in the past month. Now, however, the work begins.
I'm working from 2 p.m. to 10 p.m. every day this week. School's from 8 a.m. to 1 p.m. I'll probably work weekends, too, depending on the schedule. And overtime, as well.
Welcome to the world of hospitality. I asked for it, and I got it.
I'm trying to figure out how I can be a full-time student, a full-time employee, and a full-time freelance writer of food in a 24-hour day. This week I'll discover whether something has to give.
I've just been hired by Bon Appetit, a national food service and catering company, as a catering supervisor. This company also happens to be the on-site food service for the University of San Francisco; I had worked for the school's catering arm as a server a number of times. The group is run by a wonderful woman named June who is all business and smiles, who picked me out of a group of tuxedo-clad temps and offered me a job, resume unseen. A welcome lesson to the cynical: Sometimes hard work really does pay off.
Landing this position has put the varnish on a couple of ideas I was still laying out to dry. One, this will definitely be my last semester of culinary school. With a year of dicing and sauteeing behind me, I feel I've got the bug enough to pursue more food knowledge on my own. I knew from the start I would never want to be a professional chef; I won't feel incomplete without that culinary certificate. I am thankful, however, for this year. The time spent as a struggling student has given me the opportunity to figure out just where I need to be.
A funny aside, to illustrate: last week I completed an assignment for the Sunday Source of The Washington Post on making piroshki, and shot a cocktail party with a great food photographer who carries with him a solid sense of food styling and a double helping of humor. The party didn't get us the product cover shot we needed; after class the next day, I hurried out yet another batch of dumplings so he could shoot them again. While styling the doughy, rather dull piroshki on a plate with greens and vegetable brunoise, the photographer commented on the dill being rather "problematic."
I laughed, as we had just spent the past half-hour talking about our professional paths and how after so many years of jobs that just didn't feed what we were craving, we both ended up, somehow, involved with food.
"Isn't it great," I said, "that we can talk about having 'dill problems' and actually be serious?"
He laughed as well. And why not? We ate my work afterwards. Food work does create some stress, but what great rewards. How could I not be happy?
Two, this job will give me the financial insurance that will allow me to pursue food writing without sweating over making ends meet. It's a good feeling, and my shoulders have decended considerably from my ears in the past month. Now, however, the work begins.
I'm working from 2 p.m. to 10 p.m. every day this week. School's from 8 a.m. to 1 p.m. I'll probably work weekends, too, depending on the schedule. And overtime, as well.
Welcome to the world of hospitality. I asked for it, and I got it.
10.06.2003
Chicken finger-painting
We eat, truly, with all our senses. I salivate when I smell bacon frying--a true Pavlovian response. The sound of popping corn kernels instantly reminds of salt, and butter, and furtive cuddles across a movie theater armrest. Eye-catching cake decorations, with soft creams and ripe fruit, proffer a tasty advertisement of more sweetness to come. Gooey taffy begs to be pulled taught, broken, and then licked off sticky fingers.
Most professionally prepared food stimulates all the senses. And often the added bonus is that most of what is on your plate, whether it be piled three feet high or covered in gold leaf, is edible. Works of art you can digest! Now that’s a museum I’d belong to.
But then, there’s traditional French cuisine. Some of the more elaborate presentations boggle the mind and the senses. And unfortunately, you wouldn’t want to eat them at all.
Why? Because they’re not supposed to be eaten--a feast for the eyes only. Chaud-froid is one classic example of French food artistry that teases the senses but would revolt the palate. Meaning “hot-cold” in French, it’s the combination of a white sauce and aspic, a meat-infused gelatin. The creamy glaze is painted on food, somewhat like paint on a canvas. Colorful decorations are then placed on the food, such as vegetables cut to resemble flowers, birds, etc. The whole lot is painted with a clear gelatin to seal the decorations on, and to make them shine.
Think nail polish for chicken breasts. That’s pretty much the sum of it.
We used a short cut today: mayonnaise instead of a bechamel or veloute. Our chef mixed the mayo with the warm aspic and then quickly cooled the entire mixture over an ice bath, until the gelatin started to thicken. Then, with a hefty ladle, he poured the chaud-froid over just the skinned breast portion of a whole cold chicken. After three coats, the birds had smooth, blindingly white breasts, empty canvases waiting for the inspiration of two dozen student chefs.
It felt like kindergarten art, all over again. It is very hard to look, or feel, serious, while cutting out heart shapes from the leaf of a leek with a small cutter. Or trying not to giggle while snipping green onions to resemble grass blowing in some imaginary wind.
I made a tree. And a sun, with carrots and yellow bell peppers. There were lots of trees and suns. Some students were more creative: one hula girl, with red bell-pepper breasts; one fish, with eggplant and carrot scales. One mushroom forest. One Christmas tree, with dill branches.
And then it was over, and our chicken breast canvases were full. Now what, chef? We all asked in unison. Do we eat them?
No, he said. We’ll probably just throw them away, or scrape the decorations off and use the chicken for salad.
So much for taking my art project home to show Mom and Dad.
We eat, truly, with all our senses. I salivate when I smell bacon frying--a true Pavlovian response. The sound of popping corn kernels instantly reminds of salt, and butter, and furtive cuddles across a movie theater armrest. Eye-catching cake decorations, with soft creams and ripe fruit, proffer a tasty advertisement of more sweetness to come. Gooey taffy begs to be pulled taught, broken, and then licked off sticky fingers.
Most professionally prepared food stimulates all the senses. And often the added bonus is that most of what is on your plate, whether it be piled three feet high or covered in gold leaf, is edible. Works of art you can digest! Now that’s a museum I’d belong to.
But then, there’s traditional French cuisine. Some of the more elaborate presentations boggle the mind and the senses. And unfortunately, you wouldn’t want to eat them at all.
Why? Because they’re not supposed to be eaten--a feast for the eyes only. Chaud-froid is one classic example of French food artistry that teases the senses but would revolt the palate. Meaning “hot-cold” in French, it’s the combination of a white sauce and aspic, a meat-infused gelatin. The creamy glaze is painted on food, somewhat like paint on a canvas. Colorful decorations are then placed on the food, such as vegetables cut to resemble flowers, birds, etc. The whole lot is painted with a clear gelatin to seal the decorations on, and to make them shine.
Think nail polish for chicken breasts. That’s pretty much the sum of it.
We used a short cut today: mayonnaise instead of a bechamel or veloute. Our chef mixed the mayo with the warm aspic and then quickly cooled the entire mixture over an ice bath, until the gelatin started to thicken. Then, with a hefty ladle, he poured the chaud-froid over just the skinned breast portion of a whole cold chicken. After three coats, the birds had smooth, blindingly white breasts, empty canvases waiting for the inspiration of two dozen student chefs.
It felt like kindergarten art, all over again. It is very hard to look, or feel, serious, while cutting out heart shapes from the leaf of a leek with a small cutter. Or trying not to giggle while snipping green onions to resemble grass blowing in some imaginary wind.
I made a tree. And a sun, with carrots and yellow bell peppers. There were lots of trees and suns. Some students were more creative: one hula girl, with red bell-pepper breasts; one fish, with eggplant and carrot scales. One mushroom forest. One Christmas tree, with dill branches.
And then it was over, and our chicken breast canvases were full. Now what, chef? We all asked in unison. Do we eat them?
No, he said. We’ll probably just throw them away, or scrape the decorations off and use the chicken for salad.
So much for taking my art project home to show Mom and Dad.
10.05.2003
I’ll be your servant this evening
We stumbled through the servants’ entrance, past the towering garbage container and piles of broken, discarded furniture, tucking in shirt tails, straightening bow ties. A parade of hung-over penguins, just waking up for the night’s work.
My tuxedo fits me poorly, but at least it’s clean. Across from me in the room where we’re all assembled, waiting for instructions, a woman sits in a wrinkled shirt, sleeves soiled by sauce and wine. The cuffs of her pants are ragged and torn; she’s got loose, somewhat sweaty hair falling around her face. Her socks are argyle, a yellow and blue pattern.
My friend and catering compatriot leans over to me and whispers, ‘She’ll get written up for that.’ I nod in agreement and notice my own semi-matched black socks. One’s inside out. So much for details.
I am a server, and am paid minimum wage plus tips to be the well-groomed, socially presentable middleman between the kitchen and the table. I open and pour wine. I carry oval trays laden with eight to 10 dishes, weighting upwards of 40 lbs., balanced on my shoulder with my right arm. I clean and clear dishware, fold dirty napkins, empty lipstick-stained glasses. I never say ‘no,’ or ‘I don’t know.’ I’m often on my feet for eight hours at a stretch.
This experience has been my social anthropology experiment, in a sense. Accustomed to management and my own, often overzealous, need to be in control, I wondered what it would be like to be on the other side. Will people treat me as an experienced professional, or as a simple servant?
It has been a mixed experience. There are evenings when I feel I can do no wrong, that my involvement has made someone’s night just that more special, more enjoyable. Then there are evenings when I’m grabbed or harassed, commanded to fetch this or that, and I want to bark or bite back, feeling a mangy cur, a disobedient dog. And there are many evenings. I haven’t had a weekend off in months.
Last night was a classic example of the chaos that is catering. Working for a temp placement service, I seldom work with the same group twice. Some servers have years of experience, and float through a sit-down dinner for 300 with grace. Some still can’t tell the difference between a water or a wine glass, and probably never will. Attention to detail is one skill that is valued; common sense is another. It’s shocking how many people have neither, yet, manage to still remain employed.
The incident centered over stemware. In most traditional table settings, there is a glass for water, and a glass for both red and white wine. This evening we also had a separate flute for champagne. An open bar, with martinis and other well drinks, added more glass clutter to the already over laden tables. I was told, by another server, to clear empties and champagne flutes once dinner was over and everyone started dancing. Fair enough; it would make less work for us once all the guests had left the party and stumbled home.
I had four glasses in my hands when the captain comes up, cheeks ablaze and eyes intent through heavy black-framed glasses. I have already hissed at this man once tonight; in his efforts to make me more ‘efficient,’ he stacked far too many plates on an overflowing tray, and the effort of lifting it from the crowded dining room, down the stairs, up some more stairs to the kitchen made me dizzy. I am not in the mood for another lesson, I think. But I’m about to get one.
You’re supposed to only clear empties, he tells me. I stare at the glasses in my hand. They are empty, sure. There’d be wine on my shoes if they weren’t. But in the candlelight I apparently wasn’t able to discern the tell-tale white wine ring at the bottom of two of the glasses, thus proving that they had been used once, and maybe, they could be used again. Bad server, bad.
I was on my way to making a smart-ass comment about the near-unused-ness of the glasses, when I was reminded that humor is lost on the anal retentive. The captain must have read my scorn, as he beckoned me to follow him through the heavy brocade curtains and through the dining room doors outside.
Who told you to remove glasses from tables, he asks.
I think, but can’t remember who. I shrug, and contemplate Mars, rising, over his shoulder.
Was it the blond girl? Because I’m really annoyed by a certain server this evening, he adds.
Whoa. Now I’m asked to be a narc. Thankfully I’d make a miserable witness; I can’t ever remember names, let alone facial details. And in the faint glow of the moon, all I can see of my captain’s face is the outline of his glasses, so his anger doesn’t register on me as anything too menacing. Mars continues to twinkle, begging me to tap that inner teenager and be sullen, surly. It is tempting, this tirade is tiring. But I behave, as I know how frustrating it is to herd cats, as this serving group has proven itself to be.
The next five minutes are taken up on a diatribe on how to clear stemware from tables during catering events. I know all this but I listen politely. The real rules, I mumble to myself, is that every single company does things differently. There are no general operating procedures--every catering company, restaurant or private club has their own whims, rules and regulations that change as often as the linen. This makes anticipating demands challenging, and following poorly defined rules even more so. Thus, you’ll always do something wrong, and you’ll always get yelled at for it.
The captain, speech concluded, whisks off to see who else is screwing up. I come back into the dining room, and take in the scene--couples dancing, roses slowly wilting from all this collective body heat, candlelight playing off the silver vases, crystal glasses. A couple droops quietly into their chairs, and I fetch them two glasses of water before they’ve a chance to ask. I grab a drink for an elderly gentleman whose glass is empty; he blows me a kiss and speaks to me in Italian, as he’s done all night.
The party’s over and the guests are going home. In the kitchen we sign out, and the other captain, a woman, tells me I’m great, I 'sure know how to serve.' I manage a smile and leave.
We stumbled through the servants’ entrance, past the towering garbage container and piles of broken, discarded furniture, tucking in shirt tails, straightening bow ties. A parade of hung-over penguins, just waking up for the night’s work.
My tuxedo fits me poorly, but at least it’s clean. Across from me in the room where we’re all assembled, waiting for instructions, a woman sits in a wrinkled shirt, sleeves soiled by sauce and wine. The cuffs of her pants are ragged and torn; she’s got loose, somewhat sweaty hair falling around her face. Her socks are argyle, a yellow and blue pattern.
My friend and catering compatriot leans over to me and whispers, ‘She’ll get written up for that.’ I nod in agreement and notice my own semi-matched black socks. One’s inside out. So much for details.
I am a server, and am paid minimum wage plus tips to be the well-groomed, socially presentable middleman between the kitchen and the table. I open and pour wine. I carry oval trays laden with eight to 10 dishes, weighting upwards of 40 lbs., balanced on my shoulder with my right arm. I clean and clear dishware, fold dirty napkins, empty lipstick-stained glasses. I never say ‘no,’ or ‘I don’t know.’ I’m often on my feet for eight hours at a stretch.
This experience has been my social anthropology experiment, in a sense. Accustomed to management and my own, often overzealous, need to be in control, I wondered what it would be like to be on the other side. Will people treat me as an experienced professional, or as a simple servant?
It has been a mixed experience. There are evenings when I feel I can do no wrong, that my involvement has made someone’s night just that more special, more enjoyable. Then there are evenings when I’m grabbed or harassed, commanded to fetch this or that, and I want to bark or bite back, feeling a mangy cur, a disobedient dog. And there are many evenings. I haven’t had a weekend off in months.
Last night was a classic example of the chaos that is catering. Working for a temp placement service, I seldom work with the same group twice. Some servers have years of experience, and float through a sit-down dinner for 300 with grace. Some still can’t tell the difference between a water or a wine glass, and probably never will. Attention to detail is one skill that is valued; common sense is another. It’s shocking how many people have neither, yet, manage to still remain employed.
The incident centered over stemware. In most traditional table settings, there is a glass for water, and a glass for both red and white wine. This evening we also had a separate flute for champagne. An open bar, with martinis and other well drinks, added more glass clutter to the already over laden tables. I was told, by another server, to clear empties and champagne flutes once dinner was over and everyone started dancing. Fair enough; it would make less work for us once all the guests had left the party and stumbled home.
I had four glasses in my hands when the captain comes up, cheeks ablaze and eyes intent through heavy black-framed glasses. I have already hissed at this man once tonight; in his efforts to make me more ‘efficient,’ he stacked far too many plates on an overflowing tray, and the effort of lifting it from the crowded dining room, down the stairs, up some more stairs to the kitchen made me dizzy. I am not in the mood for another lesson, I think. But I’m about to get one.
You’re supposed to only clear empties, he tells me. I stare at the glasses in my hand. They are empty, sure. There’d be wine on my shoes if they weren’t. But in the candlelight I apparently wasn’t able to discern the tell-tale white wine ring at the bottom of two of the glasses, thus proving that they had been used once, and maybe, they could be used again. Bad server, bad.
I was on my way to making a smart-ass comment about the near-unused-ness of the glasses, when I was reminded that humor is lost on the anal retentive. The captain must have read my scorn, as he beckoned me to follow him through the heavy brocade curtains and through the dining room doors outside.
Who told you to remove glasses from tables, he asks.
I think, but can’t remember who. I shrug, and contemplate Mars, rising, over his shoulder.
Was it the blond girl? Because I’m really annoyed by a certain server this evening, he adds.
Whoa. Now I’m asked to be a narc. Thankfully I’d make a miserable witness; I can’t ever remember names, let alone facial details. And in the faint glow of the moon, all I can see of my captain’s face is the outline of his glasses, so his anger doesn’t register on me as anything too menacing. Mars continues to twinkle, begging me to tap that inner teenager and be sullen, surly. It is tempting, this tirade is tiring. But I behave, as I know how frustrating it is to herd cats, as this serving group has proven itself to be.
The next five minutes are taken up on a diatribe on how to clear stemware from tables during catering events. I know all this but I listen politely. The real rules, I mumble to myself, is that every single company does things differently. There are no general operating procedures--every catering company, restaurant or private club has their own whims, rules and regulations that change as often as the linen. This makes anticipating demands challenging, and following poorly defined rules even more so. Thus, you’ll always do something wrong, and you’ll always get yelled at for it.
The captain, speech concluded, whisks off to see who else is screwing up. I come back into the dining room, and take in the scene--couples dancing, roses slowly wilting from all this collective body heat, candlelight playing off the silver vases, crystal glasses. A couple droops quietly into their chairs, and I fetch them two glasses of water before they’ve a chance to ask. I grab a drink for an elderly gentleman whose glass is empty; he blows me a kiss and speaks to me in Italian, as he’s done all night.
The party’s over and the guests are going home. In the kitchen we sign out, and the other captain, a woman, tells me I’m great, I 'sure know how to serve.' I manage a smile and leave.
10.01.2003
Numbers: One veal breast, seven rib bones torn out by hand, the veal pounded and stuffed with frozen meat farce and tied. Twenty pounds of flank steak cleaned and cut into 5 oz. portions. One beef tenderloin, chain removed and cleaned. Handfuls of roast duck, dipped in hoisin sauce, consumed with gusto. One DECAF coffee (I'm detoxing) and one Pepsi.
Just ducky
At lunch today, we were presented with a colorful pile of Peking duck, sliced horizontally across the breast, atop a steaming portion of sautéed eggplant and shitake mushrooms. Along the border of the plate were small dollops of hoisin sauce, hiding underneath petite bunches of shredded green onions.
A thin egg pancake colored with cilantro leaves offered an easy way to devour the dish utensil-free: grab a slice of duck and some scallion, tear off a portion of pancake and wrap it around the duck. Dip it decisively in hoisin and stuff it in mouth. Repeat. Double-dip if needed; after all, it’s your own plate.
I think it took me under three minutes to eat the whole duck pile. I calmly ignored the vegetables; my taste buds were otherwise occupied. I briefly contemplated licking the remaining hoisin sauce off the plate, but as there were still people milling about, I used my fingers to clean the sweet and sticky soy mixture off the porcelain until it squeaked.
Among the fair fowl, duck is the fairest. In flavor, no other bird (in my limited experience) offers meat so tender and flavorful. Chicken is often too dry, overcooked, and far too healthy--the popularity of skinless, boneless chicken breasts boggles my mind. I’d rather have shoe leather with sauce. Turkey often suffers the same chalky fate. Smaller fowl are nice, but rare. I haven’t yet had goose, but am accepting dinner offers if anyone wants to cook one up.
Duck is the sensual fowl, a bird that’s all wiggle-hips and wobbly-ass, shaking left and right as it wanders thankfully from the pond to the dinner table. All that fat (so much fat!) renders right into the bird’s dark meat as it’s cooked, leaving a crisp skin and moist muscle that begs to be eaten with just a touch of tangy sauce, berry coulis or as today’s menu provided, hoisin. Duck should not be overcooked, or it gets rubbery and dry. Medium rare, with just a touch of pink in the middle of a cut breast, is just perfect.
Duck lovers are unapologetic about their passion. As we stood and consumed our luncheon special, the three student chefs responsible for the repast stood off to the side of the classroom, huddled over a chopping block. They weren’t discussing the success or failure of their menu; they were picking off the best duck pieces from a carcass with slippery fingers, and sharing among themselves. Wise women, indeed.
Just ducky
At lunch today, we were presented with a colorful pile of Peking duck, sliced horizontally across the breast, atop a steaming portion of sautéed eggplant and shitake mushrooms. Along the border of the plate were small dollops of hoisin sauce, hiding underneath petite bunches of shredded green onions.
A thin egg pancake colored with cilantro leaves offered an easy way to devour the dish utensil-free: grab a slice of duck and some scallion, tear off a portion of pancake and wrap it around the duck. Dip it decisively in hoisin and stuff it in mouth. Repeat. Double-dip if needed; after all, it’s your own plate.
I think it took me under three minutes to eat the whole duck pile. I calmly ignored the vegetables; my taste buds were otherwise occupied. I briefly contemplated licking the remaining hoisin sauce off the plate, but as there were still people milling about, I used my fingers to clean the sweet and sticky soy mixture off the porcelain until it squeaked.
Among the fair fowl, duck is the fairest. In flavor, no other bird (in my limited experience) offers meat so tender and flavorful. Chicken is often too dry, overcooked, and far too healthy--the popularity of skinless, boneless chicken breasts boggles my mind. I’d rather have shoe leather with sauce. Turkey often suffers the same chalky fate. Smaller fowl are nice, but rare. I haven’t yet had goose, but am accepting dinner offers if anyone wants to cook one up.
Duck is the sensual fowl, a bird that’s all wiggle-hips and wobbly-ass, shaking left and right as it wanders thankfully from the pond to the dinner table. All that fat (so much fat!) renders right into the bird’s dark meat as it’s cooked, leaving a crisp skin and moist muscle that begs to be eaten with just a touch of tangy sauce, berry coulis or as today’s menu provided, hoisin. Duck should not be overcooked, or it gets rubbery and dry. Medium rare, with just a touch of pink in the middle of a cut breast, is just perfect.
Duck lovers are unapologetic about their passion. As we stood and consumed our luncheon special, the three student chefs responsible for the repast stood off to the side of the classroom, huddled over a chopping block. They weren’t discussing the success or failure of their menu; they were picking off the best duck pieces from a carcass with slippery fingers, and sharing among themselves. Wise women, indeed.
