12.28.2003
Eat your meat
It's amusing that when, finally, mad cow disease arrived in America, we discovered it wasn't our fault. Blame the Canadians! They sent the faulty cow to us. Not that it matters one bit where the poor bovine came from--the meat's still bad, and the panic has already set deep in our own muscle tissues.
Considering that the British already took it on the chin for the rest of the carnivorous world years ago, I'm sure this anti-epidemic won't go far. One bad cow slaughtered, a handful of recalls and potentially tainted meat tossed, a couple of points of McDonald's share price shed, and we will all go back to our daily business, eating fast food while flying down the freeway, saving time, saving money.
I am no vegetarian firebrand; don't misunderstand. I have a fondness for processed meat, in all shapes and sizes. I'll eat Spam when in Hawaii; the holiday "Beef Stick" is as traditional as is egg nog and mistletoe. My mouth waters when recalling hot, wrinkled sausages consumed off greasy cardboard with a dollop of spicy mustard off Wensceslas Square in a wintery Prague; I may have had horse for dinner in the Soviet Union, more than a decade ago. It was hard to tell, but it definitely didn't taste like chicken.
Perhaps I have the hope that with this scare, people will actually think about what they eat. We can't all be farmers, with small plots of fresh vegetables in our backyards--if we even have backyards. But we could be just a bit more informed about what food is good for us, and how to get it. There are so many quality, wholesome alternatives to fast food, that can be just as fast. I know I live in a culinary oasis, where it is as easy to order chicken tikka masala on the go as it is to grab a Super-sized Big Mac--so perhaps there are few options for those living on the fringe of large cities.
But then, perhaps the question is--do we really need to move so fast? I remember that my mother when I was younger, during one of her diets, was instructed to look at her food while she was eating. No television, no book. It was understood that in paying attention to what was going in our mouths, we would potentially eat less, and of better quality. There is good reason for paying attention to the fuel that enters our bodies. We were scolded as children for gobbling. Why not now?
It's amusing that when, finally, mad cow disease arrived in America, we discovered it wasn't our fault. Blame the Canadians! They sent the faulty cow to us. Not that it matters one bit where the poor bovine came from--the meat's still bad, and the panic has already set deep in our own muscle tissues.
Considering that the British already took it on the chin for the rest of the carnivorous world years ago, I'm sure this anti-epidemic won't go far. One bad cow slaughtered, a handful of recalls and potentially tainted meat tossed, a couple of points of McDonald's share price shed, and we will all go back to our daily business, eating fast food while flying down the freeway, saving time, saving money.
I am no vegetarian firebrand; don't misunderstand. I have a fondness for processed meat, in all shapes and sizes. I'll eat Spam when in Hawaii; the holiday "Beef Stick" is as traditional as is egg nog and mistletoe. My mouth waters when recalling hot, wrinkled sausages consumed off greasy cardboard with a dollop of spicy mustard off Wensceslas Square in a wintery Prague; I may have had horse for dinner in the Soviet Union, more than a decade ago. It was hard to tell, but it definitely didn't taste like chicken.
Perhaps I have the hope that with this scare, people will actually think about what they eat. We can't all be farmers, with small plots of fresh vegetables in our backyards--if we even have backyards. But we could be just a bit more informed about what food is good for us, and how to get it. There are so many quality, wholesome alternatives to fast food, that can be just as fast. I know I live in a culinary oasis, where it is as easy to order chicken tikka masala on the go as it is to grab a Super-sized Big Mac--so perhaps there are few options for those living on the fringe of large cities.
But then, perhaps the question is--do we really need to move so fast? I remember that my mother when I was younger, during one of her diets, was instructed to look at her food while she was eating. No television, no book. It was understood that in paying attention to what was going in our mouths, we would potentially eat less, and of better quality. There is good reason for paying attention to the fuel that enters our bodies. We were scolded as children for gobbling. Why not now?
12.27.2003
Off the clock
This is an unusual state for a culinary professional--I have almost a week and a half of vacation, during the holidays. Ordinarily, I should be working 12-hour days, serving yule log, popping champagne for merry revelers. But working for a university food establishment has its benefits. The kids go home, the professors skip town, and we shut down. I’m now on temporary leave, more specifically, unpaid mandatory vacation. If I was union, apparently I could apply for unemployment; but I’m not. If I was really zealous, I could go sign up with other real caterers, get some part-time work. Thankfully, I’m not.
I’ve worked for about three months, the official probationary time for most workplaces, and it looks as if Bon Appetit is going to keep me. Not that I had much concern; this is, in the words of my 30-year-old supervisor, “just food and beverage.” And it is, albeit often on a grand scale. As a parting shot, I managed three graduation parties, one following the other, each with over 2,000 people. We served 35 sheet cakes, each three feet wide by two feet long; 100 gallons of guava punch, 50 gallons of artificial fruit punch, 30 gallons of iced water, 50 gallons of iced tea, and some 50 gallons of coffee. The results of which left us wrestling with pounds and pounds of garbage, disposable plates, cups and napkins sticky with whipped cream and punch. We managed without much disaster--no cakes dropped, no urns overturned. After the 13-hour day, I went home, tore off my heels (a poor shoe choice, to be sure) and collapsed. I could still smell the punch on my ruby-stained fingers.
There have been the same work challenges, the same personnel issues, as in any workplace. Not that I expected this job to be different; perhaps I thought that outside of a “traditional” corporate environment, the concerns might be of a specific sort. And they are, to a degree--but it is much more a function of the workforce, and not the job itself. This is a young industry. Our director of catering is 30; her catering manager is 32. I am 30, and together, we represent the oldest people on the staff. Most of the part-time staff are students, and are under 21. For many, this is their first job. The kitchen staff is divided into two camps: those who have been working since they were kids, and are now counting work experience in decades, and those who are still kids, playing with knives, working 12-hour shifts and partying all night.
This dynamic has presented its own set of problems. People just don’t show up for work. Responsibility is a vague term that some understand, most shrug off--if a student doesn’t have to work, punctuality is a difficult value to instill. Behavior on the job, considering the general age of the crew, often resembles behavior off the job, in the dorms or off campus--locker room talk, colorful obscenities. Granted, I’ve heard it all before and thankfully, few of the missives are directed at me. There is also a benefit to being able to dish, with a stern reprimand, as well as the next man. Yet the contrast between the corporate office and the kitchen is stark. Starting in January, we’ll have sexual harassment training for the crew, and it is time. There is so much to unlearn.
This is an unusual state for a culinary professional--I have almost a week and a half of vacation, during the holidays. Ordinarily, I should be working 12-hour days, serving yule log, popping champagne for merry revelers. But working for a university food establishment has its benefits. The kids go home, the professors skip town, and we shut down. I’m now on temporary leave, more specifically, unpaid mandatory vacation. If I was union, apparently I could apply for unemployment; but I’m not. If I was really zealous, I could go sign up with other real caterers, get some part-time work. Thankfully, I’m not.
I’ve worked for about three months, the official probationary time for most workplaces, and it looks as if Bon Appetit is going to keep me. Not that I had much concern; this is, in the words of my 30-year-old supervisor, “just food and beverage.” And it is, albeit often on a grand scale. As a parting shot, I managed three graduation parties, one following the other, each with over 2,000 people. We served 35 sheet cakes, each three feet wide by two feet long; 100 gallons of guava punch, 50 gallons of artificial fruit punch, 30 gallons of iced water, 50 gallons of iced tea, and some 50 gallons of coffee. The results of which left us wrestling with pounds and pounds of garbage, disposable plates, cups and napkins sticky with whipped cream and punch. We managed without much disaster--no cakes dropped, no urns overturned. After the 13-hour day, I went home, tore off my heels (a poor shoe choice, to be sure) and collapsed. I could still smell the punch on my ruby-stained fingers.
There have been the same work challenges, the same personnel issues, as in any workplace. Not that I expected this job to be different; perhaps I thought that outside of a “traditional” corporate environment, the concerns might be of a specific sort. And they are, to a degree--but it is much more a function of the workforce, and not the job itself. This is a young industry. Our director of catering is 30; her catering manager is 32. I am 30, and together, we represent the oldest people on the staff. Most of the part-time staff are students, and are under 21. For many, this is their first job. The kitchen staff is divided into two camps: those who have been working since they were kids, and are now counting work experience in decades, and those who are still kids, playing with knives, working 12-hour shifts and partying all night.
This dynamic has presented its own set of problems. People just don’t show up for work. Responsibility is a vague term that some understand, most shrug off--if a student doesn’t have to work, punctuality is a difficult value to instill. Behavior on the job, considering the general age of the crew, often resembles behavior off the job, in the dorms or off campus--locker room talk, colorful obscenities. Granted, I’ve heard it all before and thankfully, few of the missives are directed at me. There is also a benefit to being able to dish, with a stern reprimand, as well as the next man. Yet the contrast between the corporate office and the kitchen is stark. Starting in January, we’ll have sexual harassment training for the crew, and it is time. There is so much to unlearn.
