Modes of Instruction

Not one of us can go through life without guidance and instruction. It is fundamental to the advancement of humans as a species to learn from each generation, to refine ourselves in whatever pursuit we may take on. Guidance can be flawed, it can do more harm than good, but regardless of the quality we will always carry its significance with us.

Let the gravity of that settle in. Okay, now I'll stop talking like an asshole.

In anything, but most especially food, instruction and the sharing of information is paramount. People will slave for months in a kitchen without pay, just to learn from the masters; chefs who started off doing the same thing and have amassed a lifetime of culinary skill and experience. I value a good culinary education more than anything. I realize the importance of having a sound technical foundation upon which to build my creative and artistic house of haute cuisine. So basically what that means is I deeply value and respect my sous-chef and chef-owner.

I'll start from the beginning.

There are three things in my life I've devoted vast amounts of time and energy towards in the pursuit of perfection. I have generally failed at even coming close with all of them. But that's not really what is important. What is important is what I learned about myself along the way (where's my motivational poster? Perseverance + Pandas = Win! ... kind of).

Okay not at all actually, because I failed pretty hard at cello. Very much like my experience with public school, I was talented enough at cello to get by with very little work. This taught me the value of procrastinating, cheating, finding shortcuts, and exploiting the system. I never really loved cello. I occasionally loved a well-done orchestral performance, with me representing from the back of the section. I occasionally liked when I played a good master class, or had a good lesson. I really liked pulling off a good recital. But in general, I resented the instrument, I hated the Juilliard School, and I still loathe the large majority of classical musicians (sorry, guys ... but if you're reading this then you're probably not one of them).

I did love all my teachers though. Whereas my sister had the unfortunate luck of having stereotypically mean, horrid European teachers, my first cello teachers were sweethearts. Ardyth Alton was an ancient yet scarily energetic woman. She was as sweet as could be and was always willing to stick up for me, and guide me even though I was a huge pain in the ass. As I first began to learn the instrument she had me study with her assistant, Debbie Park. Debbie was also a wonderfully sweet girl, and not to mention smoking hot. To this day I have a massive crush on her because she was always so kind, so attractive, and willing to show me infinite patience as she prepared me for my Juilliard Pre-College audition. On the day of my audition she helped me warm up at seven in the morning, bought me hand warmers, bananas (potassium supposedly calms your nerves and prevents shaking, or some shit. Classical musicians swear by it.) and chocolate-almond bars (my favorite). There was no more perfect of a woman for a chubby 11-year old Chinese boy. There is still no more of a perfect woman for a 23-year old man-child. After I got accepted she offered to take me out to dinner. I chose McDonald's (duh).

So even though I didn't think of it at the time, because my teenage angst was overriding all coherent thought and emotion, when I got expelled from Juilliard I eventually realized I was doing them a huge disservice. What a great way to pay your dues to someone who sacrificed so much to teach someone so unteachable. By then I was studying with Andrey Tchekmazov, another great guy. Though he was a bit firmer than Mrs. Alton or Debbie ever was (c'mon, he's Russian), he was still always very patient and very encouraging. His skill and knowledge of the cello astounded me. I improved under his tutelage by leaps and bounds. So you can imagine one of the first and only times he ever got furious at me, when he learned I got expelled ... I was shitting my pants.

Now let's talk ultimate. I think I've mentioned this before, but I have absolutely no idea how I learned to throw a frisbee. There seems to be a curiously large blank spot in my memory that probably is related to all the alcohol quaffed freshman year. I remember really loving to play, but I don't remember my first forehand huck, first skying grab or first (clumsy) lay out.

But eventually by now I became a decent enough of a player. This evolution was very largely, and painfully self-taught. Thank you to all the captains over the years, but I struggled with the game internally for years. I wish for more than anything that I realized sooner what it takes to understand and excel at this game, but alas there is nothing to be done. I am grateful for having reached this point and I have the somewhat hands-on teaching that was offered by Northwestern Ultimate to thank for it.

When you're a rookie and all you know of ultimate is local pick-up and intramural sports, the senior players on your college team seem like gods of plastic (I didn't see a copyright, GoP). But these gods sit up high on Mt. Frisbee House and sometimes overlook the minor peons of Northwestern ultimate land. It is to be expected as many of these peons are non-believers, brief interlopers who seek to gain wisdom and beer from these gods, only to leave for North Campus Frat Quad land after the leaves fall. Other peons are devout but lack the proper skills to offer. They do not shun these poor souls, but rather give little hints that they are lacking and if you seek salvation there must truly be a great transformation.

Okay I can only write like Ted for like 10 sentences before my head starts to explode. Anyway my point is, I wasn't given a ton of attention or care by the senior players and hence was not offered much in the terms of education. That is understandable, I only had mild potential and not being a freshman meant my worth was unclear. But I stuck with the program, and the senior players let me tag along. I worked hard, but not hard enough until my last year. That's when I realized what it would take to be a good player, someone who you could count on when the game was on the line.

So we've examined my life (forgive my egocentric tendencies, but it is MY blog, bitches) and we see two methods of instruction. One where great instruction meets lack of interest. That equals disaster (i.e. expulsion). And then we see where unfocused instruction meets great passion. That equals a painfully slow pace of learning, but a great sense of self-awareness.

How about when sound instruction meets great passion?

I can only begin to surmise, but so far I feel it is working out. The cooks at Va Pensiero are not particularly fervent about their craft, but they do respect it as a lifestyle and art form. I don't know if cooking is my sous-chef, Chuy's calling in life, but he has taken the time to master it nonetheless. And he is also a kind soul, always forgiving of mistakes and gentle to correct them. I mention his influence the most because like in most kitchens, the sous-chef is the one who does much of the training and staff management. The executive chef or chef-owner often has a plethora of other responsibilities to attend to, leaving the second-in-command to micromanage. And how much I have already learned. How to properly score the skin of a duck breast to achieve a proper rendering of fat, how to butcher a chicken (I still suck at this and it frustrates the ever-living crap out of me), how to filet a fish, how to reduce a sauce, how to make a proper custard, how to order produce, how to cook a staff meal, etc. The list goes on and on.

The biggest problem is a language barrier. Though Chuy has what I would consider a very good grasp of the English language, there are still communication obstacles. He doesn't know how to properly describe the deboning process of a chicken, so he usually takes his knife and starts slicing and dicing while uttering "Then cut it kind of like deese, then jiggle it around like deese and then .. you see? It's very easy, mang you just have to practeece."

Oh okay, like that. I see. Then why the fuck does my chicken no longer resemble a chicken, but a poor fowl that wandered on to the Omaha Beach head on D-Day? Stupid fucking chickens.

But the education has only begun. There is still culinary school to attend and years of being someone else's bitch before I can rightly call myself a chef, and begin to consider my own culinary footprint. Like with ultimate, I regret it began so late, but instead of crying over spilled milk, I think I should just shut up and learn to temper that milk in to luscious, dark-chocolate ganache. Or however the saying goes.

In Memory of Ardyth Alton

A very sincere thank you to all the significant teachers I have had in my life. That includes you, Ice Cold Teddy Ballgame, #7.

EP #6 (Btw, Lebron changing his number to six .. HELL YES! Our time has come, Zaslow!)