For those of you who have never worked in restaurants, the fantastic benefit of being a waiter working for beans/whoring for tips, or a cook working for beans/whoring for your chef, is that you get to eat for free. Unless you work in a chain (Sorry, Carl).
Oh and a quick aside, at Blu Sushi Lounge we scavenge your food. Because sushi is usually served in bite sized pieces, any food left on a plate is generally untouched and free game. I don't know if it's because we're all really poor at Blu, but if we see guests slowing down with plenty of food on the plate, we are hoping you say "No, we won't take it home." That shit gets hawked down immediately. It's kind of unprofessional, but some of us will drop what we're doing, sneak back to the kitchen and scavenge the goodies as quickly as possible and get back to work. Sushi is an expensive and luxurious cuisine, alright? We like to enjoy it too.
Behold the wonder that is the family meal. Formally I guess it's a staff meal or an employee meal, but really restaurant staffers usually form close bonds so the term "family meal" is very appropriate. It's usually comprised of scraps and can be sub-par. A wise restaurant owner will not spend too much on their employees, it is the kitchen's responsibility to turn what would be waste in to food. But a delicious family meal really does wonders for morale, and is greatly appreciated by poor restaurant workers. Whenever Sergio, the pastry chef, has to make family meal he makes three trays of thin crust pizza with some fantastic toppings. Mozzarella cheese over a garlic-ricotta sauce, fontina cheese over spinach, sausage and tomato sauce, smoked mozzarella over grilled squash/zucchini and a tomato/jalapeno sauce. My favorite day of the week.
Every week at Va Pensiero when the schedule comes out the chef will kind of randomly highlight names for every day of the week. Those highlighted will make the family meal for that day. I noticed that so far I've been selected to make family meal every Sunday. I then noticed that that is the chef's day off. I guess he has no interest or faith in my ability to make a decent meal. Then I thought about it some more and realized that although I am developing very specific kitchen skills, my ability to create a whole meal is somewhat untested.
My fellow Mexican cooks also share the same opinion as Le Chef. The first week I was supposed to make family meal they went ahead and made a meal without me. They joked about it, assuming I didn't have the balls to make something. I was pretty hurt, I had devoted my whole train ride to thinking what we could use and what I could make. We eat a ton of pasta with tomato-based sauces, so I was going to play it safe in that direction, but still! C'mon! Give me a shot!
The next week wasn't much better. It was a super busy Sunday and I kind of forgot family meal needs to be pretty punctual at 4:30 PM. Our sous chef reminds me at about 4:05 and he's like, "Eric! Did you start family meal?" At which point I nearly shit my pants. SHIT-FUCK-DAMN! I run to the walk-in, grab onions, red bell peppers, mushrooms, garlic, and tomato remnants and start roughly chopping everything in sight. At the very least I impress people with my vastly improved knife skills. It was a decent meal.
During the week I also am occasionally responsible for making the salads that go along with the meal. The person working the cold station has to take whatever raw vegetables that are turning south in terms of freshness and make a decent salad out of them. I never paid attention to how Maestro makes the dressings for these salads, but they're usually quite decent and based on some sort of fruit. I take a page out of The French Laundry Cookbook and make Thomas Keller's standard family meal salad dressing.
Shallots
Sherry vinegar
1 egg yolk
1 clove of garlic
Salt and pepper
Olive oil
You throw it in a blender and emulsify it slowly with the oil, by drizzling it in during the process. The finished product is creamy and off-white, which I was not expecting at all. This is unlike any salad dressing I've come across (to be fair I'm very accustomed to Hidden Valley Ranch and maybe a balsamic vinaigrette). But the taste is quite good! A nice acidic note to counter the creaminess of the egg yolk/oil, and the gentle onion perfume of the shallots with the sharpness of garlic to accent it. Pretty tasty! Perhaps a bit too much garlic, but otherwise solid all around. I throw a bag of mixed greens in a bowl, toss in a handful of arugula, julienne some Granny Smith apples, red onion and empty out the dregs from a can of pistachios for some textural contrast. Hey that's a pretty good salad! I know I'm using exclamation points a lot, but seriously! I'm proud of myself! But I make the mistake of perhaps adding a bit too much dressing, allowing the greens to get a little soggy as opposed to crisp and fresh.
Alright so salads go pretty well, but any monkey with a bowl and some reasonably fresh vegetables can make a salad. How about a real family meal? Well here we are, Sunday the 20th. The wonderful thing about cooking family meal on a Sunday is that there are a plethora of ingredients to use. It's the end of our week and there's plenty of leftovers to go around. Unused chickens, leftover pork belly from an appetizer we didn't sell as much of as we had hoped, some cuts of pork and beef, and any vegetables are fair game because we get fresh ones on Tuesday. The Mexicans again snicker and offer assistance, not thinking I can pull this off. Well ... challenge accepted, you buttholes. (That's right I said buttholes .. 3rd grade, what up)
I go in to the walk-in and notice a big box of chicken wings leftover from butchering. The light goes off in my head. Ding! Perhaps my favorite thing in the world are buffalo wings. I need some starch too so I decide to make a pasta alongside it. This isn't going to be the most cohesive meal, but it will be tasty, damn it. I make another childhood favorite, pasta alfredo.
Making hot wing sauce from scratch is trickier, so I use Frank's Red Hot as a base. I know, I know I'm a cop out, whatever. Still these turned out friggin' great.
Frank's Red Hot Sauce
Ketchup (Heinz baby, represent Rob)
Splash of Tabasco
Splash of Valentina (a Mexican hot sauce .. we go through like one bottle a week)
Squeeze of lime juice
Melted butter with a touch of honey whisked in
Garlic paste (You mince cloves of garlic extremely fine, and then using kosher salt as an abrasive you mash it in to a fine paste)
I cook the wings at low temperature first and then blast them hot in the convection oven to crisp the skin. Ideally I would deep-fry those bad boys, but alas we don't have a fryer.
And then for my linguini Alfredo. We happen to have taken our linguini dish off the menu, so that pasta is fair game. We get all our parmigiano-reggiano from a ginormous wheel (we toss pasta in it tableside), so when we take the wheel apart we are left with the waxy rinds. I grate all the rinds to get every scrap of cheese, and add some pecorino as well. I make a blond roux (equal parts butter and flour) and start whisking in milk, effectively what's called a bechamel sauce. The roux is a thickener and I start whisking in the cheese. Now I have a thick, white, cheesey sauce. Essentially alfredo sauce. I saute julienned red bell peppers, mushrooms (shitakes and criminis leftover from our mushroom tagliatelle dish), onion and garlic (yeah I use it a lot). Toss everything together, hit it with some chopped parsley, and voila! Pasta!
All the food is put out and I look at what we have. It's a veritable feast. Luis has heated up some leftover pork tenderloin and made a 12-egg omelet (which he flipped very successfully in a pan... it was awesome). Mr. Cruz, the manager, has brought in a pepperoni pizza he got for free somewhere and Maestro has made a salad with leftover gorgonzola cheese for the dressing. This is one hell of a fatty meal. Then Chuy tells me he's kind of lactose intolerant, Luis tells me he just ate pasta at Bravo!, his other restaurant that he works at, so he's eating the omelet with Chuy. It just so happens our only two American waiters are working, so they go for pizza and salad, the girl staying away from my creamy, fatty pasta. And Mr. Cruz generally opts for a tomato salad or some bread usually, not interested in our family meal. So the pasta goes largely untouched. Then they tell me I need to go home because a 4-top and a 5-top have canceled, and they no longer need me. Thanks a lot guys. See you on Wednesday. ... Buttholes.
Those wings were fucking delicious though.
EP #6
PS - Thank you Eva and Paul for pointing out one of my errors. Buttholes.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Hanging in There
So some of you may think I am dead. Or at least have gone missing. Both are somewhat true. I am dying slowly, getting chewed up in the inferno of a professional kitchen.
A little more than two weeks have passed with me being a professional cook now, and frankly the work is harder than I could have anticipated. Even though I interned as a stage for quite some time, cooking for 5-6 days a week with 10-12 hour days thrown in are very tiring. As I look at my hands while typing this I notice the true mark of a novice line cook.
I have angry burns from splattered oil dotting the backs of my hand. I have a nice big cut on my right index finger from cleaning the deli slicer. On the other side of my index finger is a gnarled blister from using a knife for so many hours a day. A callus is proudly beginning to form. My cuticles are mangled, and the grime from cleaning 40 pounds of mushrooms remains difficult to cleanse. I could really use another manicure.
Err...
Anyhow, the point is that the work is hard. I do enjoy it though and the catharsis a 14 hour day of cooking offers is reward enough in itself. I am genuinely excited for my first paycheck so that I can experience my first compensation for working with food (also I just lost 3 rounds of credit card roulette on a random night of Monday drinking). As of now the work is not consistently 12 hours or more, but the weekends do require us to race, which has lead me to experience a few new things. The constant battle against the clock that is a cook's life, and the war-like camaraderie developed with your fellow cooks in that struggle.
Now I have responsibilities allocated just for me. I am currently acting as a swing cook between pasta and cold stations, setting up one or the other every day. I am frustrated by my lack of precision and speed. If I try to work too fast, the quality of my work begins to suffer, but if I work too slow I might not make it in time for service. The other cooks have been endlessly patient with me and I thank them for that. But I am personally very disappointed that I am not doing better. Right now I have been a supplementary factor to the line, an extra hand who always has a veteran guardian angel to pick up my slack. But starting this week I am going to command my own station, my chef hoping that I can pull my weight on the line.
I guess it is to be expected. Your first job is always a little difficult, but I am annoyed that I don't pick up cooking as easily. Cello was never hard for me to learn, I learned ultimate in a fairly relaxed manner, I can't afford to let this learning curve dominate me. But dominate me it must.
A few Saturdays ago, Le Chef lets me try out the beginning of service on the hot line as a pasta cook. We're picking up a wedding reception of 100 in an hour and we need to turn these first tables ASAP (to turn a table is the time it takes for guests to finish a table so that we can get them out the door, clean and reset the table for the next round of guests, restaurants will typically do 2-3 turns depending on the size and business of the dining room a night). I am getting hammered with orders getting called in waves of 2 or 3.
"Ordering one tagliatelle split, two ravioli and a pasta penne!"
Ordering means that I should start working on heating up the sauce, getting the taste and ingredients to the right point, and have it ready for the pick up. Once the order is picked up I then just heat the pasta in water, throw it in to the sauce, toss it and plate to maximize efficiency. So after this first order I need to saute a bunch of mushrooms, tomatoes and herbs in butter, add mushroom stock and begin to reduce it, prepare two pans of browned butter and sage, and heat up arrabiata sauce and add chicken for the penne. Adjust the seasoning on everything and keep it warm.
"Pick up tagliatelle! Fire table 23!"
The tagliatelle is getting picked up separately alongside the rest of the orders. I begin to heat up all my pasta, Luis starts double checking my sauces. I throw all the pasta in to the sauces and begin tossing, Luis has set up all the plates on the board for me. I plate, being careful to mound the pasta, adding cheese, wiping plates. Luis helps me to finish the plating.
Whew, first order done with marginal success!
"Ordering 2 tagliatelle, 2 pasta onion, penne appetizer! Pick up pork belly and cheese tart!"
I am also responsible for a few appetizers, those being the Braised Pork Belly with Crispy Onions and a Cranberry/Pomegranate Juice reduction and the Mediterranean Goat Cheese Tart with Arugula Oil and Tomato Vinaigrette.
I begin to slow down. My caramelized onion sauce begins to scorch slightly, I'm taking too long and the orders don't stop.
Le Chef looks at Luis and then at me.
"Eric, go help Maestro with picking up the salads for the wedding."
I've been benched. I am crushed. I don't know if I should have expected myself to handle a busy Saturday a week in, but I am disappointed nonetheless.
I have a lot to learn.
I am so upset because I care. I want to be a good cook, I want a solid foundation of cooking technique before I even begin to explore the idea of my own cuisine. A line cook's life is all about being able to express the big dog/chef's personal cuisine. It's not up to you to be creative, it's up to you to be precise and efficient.
Grant Achatz, who I consistently go on about because I kind of love him a lot, at age 23 was Thomas Keller's best line cook at The French Laundry, as it began its climb to the best restaurant in America. I knew he was uniquely artistic and endlessly creative, but I always sort of assumed that was his main asset, that his cooking technique was only slightly better-than-average.
How wrong I was. As I learn more about the enigma that is Grant Achatz I find that he most certainly earned the devotion and loyalty of his staff through his skills as a line cook. When he was the executive chef at Trio, it was often said that if you started slacking on the line he just came in and worked your station better, faster, harder, stronger than you ever could on your best day while expediting.
Fuck.
I really do have quite a bit to learn.
Wish me luck, give me strength.
EP #6
A little more than two weeks have passed with me being a professional cook now, and frankly the work is harder than I could have anticipated. Even though I interned as a stage for quite some time, cooking for 5-6 days a week with 10-12 hour days thrown in are very tiring. As I look at my hands while typing this I notice the true mark of a novice line cook.
I have angry burns from splattered oil dotting the backs of my hand. I have a nice big cut on my right index finger from cleaning the deli slicer. On the other side of my index finger is a gnarled blister from using a knife for so many hours a day. A callus is proudly beginning to form. My cuticles are mangled, and the grime from cleaning 40 pounds of mushrooms remains difficult to cleanse. I could really use another manicure.
Err...
Anyhow, the point is that the work is hard. I do enjoy it though and the catharsis a 14 hour day of cooking offers is reward enough in itself. I am genuinely excited for my first paycheck so that I can experience my first compensation for working with food (also I just lost 3 rounds of credit card roulette on a random night of Monday drinking). As of now the work is not consistently 12 hours or more, but the weekends do require us to race, which has lead me to experience a few new things. The constant battle against the clock that is a cook's life, and the war-like camaraderie developed with your fellow cooks in that struggle.
Now I have responsibilities allocated just for me. I am currently acting as a swing cook between pasta and cold stations, setting up one or the other every day. I am frustrated by my lack of precision and speed. If I try to work too fast, the quality of my work begins to suffer, but if I work too slow I might not make it in time for service. The other cooks have been endlessly patient with me and I thank them for that. But I am personally very disappointed that I am not doing better. Right now I have been a supplementary factor to the line, an extra hand who always has a veteran guardian angel to pick up my slack. But starting this week I am going to command my own station, my chef hoping that I can pull my weight on the line.
I guess it is to be expected. Your first job is always a little difficult, but I am annoyed that I don't pick up cooking as easily. Cello was never hard for me to learn, I learned ultimate in a fairly relaxed manner, I can't afford to let this learning curve dominate me. But dominate me it must.
A few Saturdays ago, Le Chef lets me try out the beginning of service on the hot line as a pasta cook. We're picking up a wedding reception of 100 in an hour and we need to turn these first tables ASAP (to turn a table is the time it takes for guests to finish a table so that we can get them out the door, clean and reset the table for the next round of guests, restaurants will typically do 2-3 turns depending on the size and business of the dining room a night). I am getting hammered with orders getting called in waves of 2 or 3.
"Ordering one tagliatelle split, two ravioli and a pasta penne!"
Ordering means that I should start working on heating up the sauce, getting the taste and ingredients to the right point, and have it ready for the pick up. Once the order is picked up I then just heat the pasta in water, throw it in to the sauce, toss it and plate to maximize efficiency. So after this first order I need to saute a bunch of mushrooms, tomatoes and herbs in butter, add mushroom stock and begin to reduce it, prepare two pans of browned butter and sage, and heat up arrabiata sauce and add chicken for the penne. Adjust the seasoning on everything and keep it warm.
"Pick up tagliatelle! Fire table 23!"
The tagliatelle is getting picked up separately alongside the rest of the orders. I begin to heat up all my pasta, Luis starts double checking my sauces. I throw all the pasta in to the sauces and begin tossing, Luis has set up all the plates on the board for me. I plate, being careful to mound the pasta, adding cheese, wiping plates. Luis helps me to finish the plating.
Whew, first order done with marginal success!
"Ordering 2 tagliatelle, 2 pasta onion, penne appetizer! Pick up pork belly and cheese tart!"
I am also responsible for a few appetizers, those being the Braised Pork Belly with Crispy Onions and a Cranberry/Pomegranate Juice reduction and the Mediterranean Goat Cheese Tart with Arugula Oil and Tomato Vinaigrette.
I begin to slow down. My caramelized onion sauce begins to scorch slightly, I'm taking too long and the orders don't stop.
Le Chef looks at Luis and then at me.
"Eric, go help Maestro with picking up the salads for the wedding."
I've been benched. I am crushed. I don't know if I should have expected myself to handle a busy Saturday a week in, but I am disappointed nonetheless.
I have a lot to learn.
I am so upset because I care. I want to be a good cook, I want a solid foundation of cooking technique before I even begin to explore the idea of my own cuisine. A line cook's life is all about being able to express the big dog/chef's personal cuisine. It's not up to you to be creative, it's up to you to be precise and efficient.
Grant Achatz, who I consistently go on about because I kind of love him a lot, at age 23 was Thomas Keller's best line cook at The French Laundry, as it began its climb to the best restaurant in America. I knew he was uniquely artistic and endlessly creative, but I always sort of assumed that was his main asset, that his cooking technique was only slightly better-than-average.
How wrong I was. As I learn more about the enigma that is Grant Achatz I find that he most certainly earned the devotion and loyalty of his staff through his skills as a line cook. When he was the executive chef at Trio, it was often said that if you started slacking on the line he just came in and worked your station better, faster, harder, stronger than you ever could on your best day while expediting.
Fuck.
I really do have quite a bit to learn.
Wish me luck, give me strength.
EP #6
Saturday, November 28, 2009
And So It Begins..
First, a few things about this blog.
I'm not sure who reads it, I'm assuming mostly my Gchat buddy list, but every once in a while I'll encounter people in real life and they will reference this blog. This is both flattering and terrifying. I guess I should be more conscious now of what I am writing.
Leave comments. They make me feel loved.
I understand these posts are generally very long and that I overuse the narrative device of "narrative (insert inner monologue in parantheses here) lolcano." I also realize I use an unnecessary amount of adverbs. These are things I will be addressing from this point on. Even though I'm convinced you cubicle rats can spare 6 minutes to read a diatribe about me burning myself in the kitchen. And then leave a comment telling me how much you love me.
I express desire to reorganize and smooth over this blog because I am about to enter a new stage of my life. On Wednesday, December 2, 2009 I will begin work as a full-time, paid line cook.
A few weeks ago, I almost didn't go to Va Pensiero because I was feeling lazy and kind of hungover. I mustered up the strength to get on the train and somewhere between family meal and dinner shift my chef corners me in the bakery. He begins very somberly, questioning me about my plans for the next few months. I'm pretty sure he's about to axe me, telling me he needs to cut the excess fat before the holidays and get his crew in to tip-top shape. I'm freakin'. Suddenly I hear the words, "I need a guy I can count on. You've obviously showed the dedication. I need another guy. I was thinking about you."
What?! Ex-squeeze me? Did I hear that correctly? You want the Asian intern to be your new line cook? Holy crap!
I don't accept immediately because I wasn't sure what was to happen with Blu. I have worked out a deal to work at both places. And yes I am still wanting to start working at the bakery, I just haven't been able to figure out the timing and logistics yet.
So here we go. I'm going to be a full-time cook at Va Pensiero, honing my skills and training for culinary school in the fall. Every profession needs a strong foundation of technical expertise. At least that's the goal for now. To harden myself in the fires of the kitchen. To pursue perfection in every dish, every ingredient. To constantly offer true hospitality and care while working the front of the house. To never stop learning about the phenomenon that is the restaurant, this very curious aspect of human society.
But this also means I will be working a lot. Needless to say, this means I won't be playing very much ultimate anymore. Though this saddens me, I am excited to move on to this part of my life. So don't expect many ultimate posts to be coming. Eventually the time will come to say goodbye to this blog. If I will create another one I don't know, but we'll keep this going as long as I can.
So onward and upward I say! I have already shed that which takes away my focus, my drive. My life now belongs to the kitchen. My heart now belongs to my restaurants. Now all I have is to focus on being the best cook I can be. To train to be a damn good restaurateur. To chase the dream.
Wish me luck.
EP #6
I'm not sure who reads it, I'm assuming mostly my Gchat buddy list, but every once in a while I'll encounter people in real life and they will reference this blog. This is both flattering and terrifying. I guess I should be more conscious now of what I am writing.
Leave comments. They make me feel loved.
I understand these posts are generally very long and that I overuse the narrative device of "narrative (insert inner monologue in parantheses here) lolcano." I also realize I use an unnecessary amount of adverbs. These are things I will be addressing from this point on. Even though I'm convinced you cubicle rats can spare 6 minutes to read a diatribe about me burning myself in the kitchen. And then leave a comment telling me how much you love me.
I express desire to reorganize and smooth over this blog because I am about to enter a new stage of my life. On Wednesday, December 2, 2009 I will begin work as a full-time, paid line cook.
A few weeks ago, I almost didn't go to Va Pensiero because I was feeling lazy and kind of hungover. I mustered up the strength to get on the train and somewhere between family meal and dinner shift my chef corners me in the bakery. He begins very somberly, questioning me about my plans for the next few months. I'm pretty sure he's about to axe me, telling me he needs to cut the excess fat before the holidays and get his crew in to tip-top shape. I'm freakin'. Suddenly I hear the words, "I need a guy I can count on. You've obviously showed the dedication. I need another guy. I was thinking about you."
What?! Ex-squeeze me? Did I hear that correctly? You want the Asian intern to be your new line cook? Holy crap!
I don't accept immediately because I wasn't sure what was to happen with Blu. I have worked out a deal to work at both places. And yes I am still wanting to start working at the bakery, I just haven't been able to figure out the timing and logistics yet.
So here we go. I'm going to be a full-time cook at Va Pensiero, honing my skills and training for culinary school in the fall. Every profession needs a strong foundation of technical expertise. At least that's the goal for now. To harden myself in the fires of the kitchen. To pursue perfection in every dish, every ingredient. To constantly offer true hospitality and care while working the front of the house. To never stop learning about the phenomenon that is the restaurant, this very curious aspect of human society.
But this also means I will be working a lot. Needless to say, this means I won't be playing very much ultimate anymore. Though this saddens me, I am excited to move on to this part of my life. So don't expect many ultimate posts to be coming. Eventually the time will come to say goodbye to this blog. If I will create another one I don't know, but we'll keep this going as long as I can.
So onward and upward I say! I have already shed that which takes away my focus, my drive. My life now belongs to the kitchen. My heart now belongs to my restaurants. Now all I have is to focus on being the best cook I can be. To train to be a damn good restaurateur. To chase the dream.
Wish me luck.
EP #6
Sunday, November 22, 2009
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!)
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!)
Monday, November 16, 2009
Just Do What Tastes Good
Quick aside,
Asian people. Tip better. I know in Asia it is not necessary nor customary to tip, but for the love of god, you are in America and these poor Americans who are serving you sushi are dirt poor and depend on tips. Especially on Mondays when Blu does half-off sushi/sashimi and the waiter spends 15 minutes explaining every cut of fish, its freshness and flavor, and then bringing giant plates of the stuff to you because you are taking advantage of our amazing deal. You are saving upwards of $60-70. You can spare an extra $5 to make it a 20% tip, especially when I flirt with and charm you. And if that's your girlfriend/mom, well my bad it didn't seem that way. But still, don't be insecure and jealous just respect my ballsiness and effort. Prease.
Ahem.
I splurged big time for my birthday and bought many, many cookbooks and food-related books. Not that I need to reiterate my own insecurity about my career, but they are just more concrete and definitive reminders that I have a lot to learn. Everyday, that massive volume of The Complete Thomas Keller, and the Alinea cookbook, and La Technique by Jacques Pepin look me in the face and say,
"You, sir... are a noob."
But I am beginning to redefine what the word "delicious" means to me. What is delicious? I'm reading The Fourth Star by Leslie Brenner, a NY Times reporter who spends a year in Daniel Boulud's flagship restaurant as he strives for the coveted 4-star review. She goes on to say that four-star quality food must be "gorgeous, original, amazing - even, one hoped, transcendent."
Now, chicken nuggets are about the farthest thing from transcendent. They are pond scum in the evolutionary chain of cuisine. But they are delicious. To me at least. Who doesn't like chicken nuggets, honestly? Dave Thomas' time-tested recipe serves up 5 crispy little wonders, conveniently packaged and delivered piping hot for $1.09 (Yeah not really a dollar anymore. Even Dave Thomas can't fight the recession). What a wonderful vehicle for a plethora of sauces! Honey mustard, sweet & sour, barbecue sauce, even ranch...
But what separates this lowly yet lovely Dave Thomas chicken nugget from Thomas Keller's "Roasted Guinea Fowl en Crepinette de Byaldi with Pan Jus?" The fancy French name and technique, ingredients, complexity, quality are obvious differences. But are they that different on the spectrum of enjoyment? (By the way that dish is ridiculous. Byaldi is sort of like a ratatouille, it in fact looks like the ratatouille that Remy made in the movie. This lovely vegetable mixture is encased with the guinea fowl in caul fat and baked. The bundle of joy slowly melts out the fat and combines with the juices of the vegetables to baste and cook the bird all at the same time. Genius. Seriously.)
Hear me out. When you go to The French Laundry you are expecting fireworks and the staff is more than happy to oblige. You would expect a dish such as the one mentioned above. You would deeply, deeply enjoy it. But when you're in the middle of nowhere-Tennessee, in a 1994 Dodge Caravan and the big face of a freckled red-headed stepchild shines at you like a lighthouse, do you not also get giddy with excitement for the wonders within? No? Just me? Okay, moving on.
My point is, when you go to a restaurant there are several things to consider. I've already talked about service and the importance of ambiance, front-of-the-house machinations. Now let's talk about food. Many places will get away with mediocre food if they have above average service and trendiness. And many places will get away with awful decor and location because they have fantastic food. Honestly I would prefer that food just taste good. I'm not a picky eater, I'll eat anything. In fact, I kind of hate picky eaters. I used to be one myself. As a child I was strictly a carnivore, consuming animal flesh in fried or grilled form only. Imagine my mother's relief when she discovered I wanted to be a cook (okay the relief that came after the shock/disappointment/threats of disowning/grief) and that I would love to try and taste anything.
It was winter 2007. I was beginning to take tentative steps towards a culinary career. A little research, a little planning, a little reading. It was still an idea, a great but young idea. My mother wanted to take us out to dinner, somewhere kind of fancy. I used to loathe the idea. Hours of transportation, sitting in stuffy white tablecloth joints, talking about my failing music career away from the internet. But all of a sudden I was now excited. We went to BLT Market, Chef Laurent Tourondel's restaurant on the Upper East Side that focuses on sustainable purveyors and superbly fresh seasonal ingredients. It was fantastic.
Potato gnocchi in a black truffle cream sauce, with roasted lobster.
Sauteed foie gras served on a frisee salad with garlic crouton.
Antipasto board with prosciutto, jamon de iberico, garlic baguette and fresh cheese
Roasted duck breast with an orange reduction
Fallen banana and caramel souffle with fresh fall berries
The memories are unfortunately imprecise, but that's what I remember. And I remember it being spectacular. This was the first time I had eaten haute cuisine but with the intent of knowing it, enjoying it and studying it. It was an experience that was rife with epiphany. It's like you go skin diving your whole life and you are suddenly given scuba gear. Everything is clear, you have the capacity to enjoy, you can see so much.
So maybe this post kind of got off track. I just kind of put out food porn for myself for a few pages. Well, what I meant to get at is; just cook what is delicious, cook with love, and eat with an open mind. When you go to a real restaurant, I'm not talking about a chain or an entrepreneurial endeavor, a restaurant that at it's very soul just wants to nourish, entertain and feed you, eat everything. The chef is not trying to poison you, he's trying to give you something good to eat because at the heart of all chefs, is a heart that likes to feed others. He's working hard out of passion, and if he slips then he slips, but he's trying and a good chef will not put out something he doesn't think tastes good. (I realize I use the pronoun "he" a lot, I did that out of convenience, not because I'm sexist. Women belong in a kitchen.)
I never loved fish. Especially fishy fish. Black sea bass, salmon, tuna sushi, I really like. Mahi mahi, monkfish, sable, I'm still ... getting used to. But fish is important because other people do love it, and you have to put it on your menu. The way we do it at Va P is a very simple, but what I believe to be delicious preparation. We do it this way because we think it's good, and we hope you do too. Where it actually falls on your spectrum of deliciousness we may not know, but all we can do is try our best and give you a quality product.
Black sea bass (sometimes cod) baked with a salt crust. It's stuffed with lemon and thyme, seasoned well, filleted table side. Served with grilled vegetables (red peppers, squash, zucchini, roasted red onion) and a salsa verdi. Simple yet delightful. Though more similar to a chicken nugget in complexity, we hope it's high up on the tastiness scale.
"When you acknowledge as you must, that there is no such thing as perfect food, only the idea of it, then the real purpose of striving towards perfection becomes clear; to make people happy. That's what food is all about." -Thomas Keller
EP #6
PS - I bolds his name because he is ze pr0.
Asian people. Tip better. I know in Asia it is not necessary nor customary to tip, but for the love of god, you are in America and these poor Americans who are serving you sushi are dirt poor and depend on tips. Especially on Mondays when Blu does half-off sushi/sashimi and the waiter spends 15 minutes explaining every cut of fish, its freshness and flavor, and then bringing giant plates of the stuff to you because you are taking advantage of our amazing deal. You are saving upwards of $60-70. You can spare an extra $5 to make it a 20% tip, especially when I flirt with and charm you. And if that's your girlfriend/mom, well my bad it didn't seem that way. But still, don't be insecure and jealous just respect my ballsiness and effort. Prease.
Ahem.
I splurged big time for my birthday and bought many, many cookbooks and food-related books. Not that I need to reiterate my own insecurity about my career, but they are just more concrete and definitive reminders that I have a lot to learn. Everyday, that massive volume of The Complete Thomas Keller, and the Alinea cookbook, and La Technique by Jacques Pepin look me in the face and say,
"You, sir... are a noob."
But I am beginning to redefine what the word "delicious" means to me. What is delicious? I'm reading The Fourth Star by Leslie Brenner, a NY Times reporter who spends a year in Daniel Boulud's flagship restaurant as he strives for the coveted 4-star review. She goes on to say that four-star quality food must be "gorgeous, original, amazing - even, one hoped, transcendent."
Now, chicken nuggets are about the farthest thing from transcendent. They are pond scum in the evolutionary chain of cuisine. But they are delicious. To me at least. Who doesn't like chicken nuggets, honestly? Dave Thomas' time-tested recipe serves up 5 crispy little wonders, conveniently packaged and delivered piping hot for $1.09 (Yeah not really a dollar anymore. Even Dave Thomas can't fight the recession). What a wonderful vehicle for a plethora of sauces! Honey mustard, sweet & sour, barbecue sauce, even ranch...
But what separates this lowly yet lovely Dave Thomas chicken nugget from Thomas Keller's "Roasted Guinea Fowl en Crepinette de Byaldi with Pan Jus?" The fancy French name and technique, ingredients, complexity, quality are obvious differences. But are they that different on the spectrum of enjoyment? (By the way that dish is ridiculous. Byaldi is sort of like a ratatouille, it in fact looks like the ratatouille that Remy made in the movie. This lovely vegetable mixture is encased with the guinea fowl in caul fat and baked. The bundle of joy slowly melts out the fat and combines with the juices of the vegetables to baste and cook the bird all at the same time. Genius. Seriously.)
Hear me out. When you go to The French Laundry you are expecting fireworks and the staff is more than happy to oblige. You would expect a dish such as the one mentioned above. You would deeply, deeply enjoy it. But when you're in the middle of nowhere-Tennessee, in a 1994 Dodge Caravan and the big face of a freckled red-headed stepchild shines at you like a lighthouse, do you not also get giddy with excitement for the wonders within? No? Just me? Okay, moving on.
My point is, when you go to a restaurant there are several things to consider. I've already talked about service and the importance of ambiance, front-of-the-house machinations. Now let's talk about food. Many places will get away with mediocre food if they have above average service and trendiness. And many places will get away with awful decor and location because they have fantastic food. Honestly I would prefer that food just taste good. I'm not a picky eater, I'll eat anything. In fact, I kind of hate picky eaters. I used to be one myself. As a child I was strictly a carnivore, consuming animal flesh in fried or grilled form only. Imagine my mother's relief when she discovered I wanted to be a cook (okay the relief that came after the shock/disappointment/threats of disowning/grief) and that I would love to try and taste anything.
It was winter 2007. I was beginning to take tentative steps towards a culinary career. A little research, a little planning, a little reading. It was still an idea, a great but young idea. My mother wanted to take us out to dinner, somewhere kind of fancy. I used to loathe the idea. Hours of transportation, sitting in stuffy white tablecloth joints, talking about my failing music career away from the internet. But all of a sudden I was now excited. We went to BLT Market, Chef Laurent Tourondel's restaurant on the Upper East Side that focuses on sustainable purveyors and superbly fresh seasonal ingredients. It was fantastic.
Potato gnocchi in a black truffle cream sauce, with roasted lobster.
Sauteed foie gras served on a frisee salad with garlic crouton.
Antipasto board with prosciutto, jamon de iberico, garlic baguette and fresh cheese
Roasted duck breast with an orange reduction
Fallen banana and caramel souffle with fresh fall berries
The memories are unfortunately imprecise, but that's what I remember. And I remember it being spectacular. This was the first time I had eaten haute cuisine but with the intent of knowing it, enjoying it and studying it. It was an experience that was rife with epiphany. It's like you go skin diving your whole life and you are suddenly given scuba gear. Everything is clear, you have the capacity to enjoy, you can see so much.
So maybe this post kind of got off track. I just kind of put out food porn for myself for a few pages. Well, what I meant to get at is; just cook what is delicious, cook with love, and eat with an open mind. When you go to a real restaurant, I'm not talking about a chain or an entrepreneurial endeavor, a restaurant that at it's very soul just wants to nourish, entertain and feed you, eat everything. The chef is not trying to poison you, he's trying to give you something good to eat because at the heart of all chefs, is a heart that likes to feed others. He's working hard out of passion, and if he slips then he slips, but he's trying and a good chef will not put out something he doesn't think tastes good. (I realize I use the pronoun "he" a lot, I did that out of convenience, not because I'm sexist. Women belong in a kitchen.)
I never loved fish. Especially fishy fish. Black sea bass, salmon, tuna sushi, I really like. Mahi mahi, monkfish, sable, I'm still ... getting used to. But fish is important because other people do love it, and you have to put it on your menu. The way we do it at Va P is a very simple, but what I believe to be delicious preparation. We do it this way because we think it's good, and we hope you do too. Where it actually falls on your spectrum of deliciousness we may not know, but all we can do is try our best and give you a quality product.
Black sea bass (sometimes cod) baked with a salt crust. It's stuffed with lemon and thyme, seasoned well, filleted table side. Served with grilled vegetables (red peppers, squash, zucchini, roasted red onion) and a salsa verdi. Simple yet delightful. Though more similar to a chicken nugget in complexity, we hope it's high up on the tastiness scale.
"When you acknowledge as you must, that there is no such thing as perfect food, only the idea of it, then the real purpose of striving towards perfection becomes clear; to make people happy. That's what food is all about." -Thomas Keller
EP #6
PS - I bolds his name because he is ze pr0.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Complexity and Food
I apologize for the delay between posts. Been a crazy few weeks. Busy weekends at the restaurants, new life developments ... you understand, right?
With molecular gastronomy asserting its dominance as a new food craze, the idea of food and what is delicious food is becoming confusing.
Molecular gastronomy in itself is confusing. That's almost the point. To deliver the unexpected, to surprise your palate, to have fun with food. I totally respect that and I think we as humans have come to a point that allows us to make fun of food. And I think it's obvious from my blog that I have a massive man crush on Grant Achatz. But there's a reason for that.
Using space-age technology and obscure chemicals in the kitchen is just fine, so long as it tastes good. I haven't eaten at Alinea or El Bulli, but even Grant himself seems to have an issue with his mentor's food. After studying the cookbooks of both, reading what a 20+ course dinner is like at each establishment, there seems to be a clear difference. Chef Achatz, though innovative and distinguished, still focuses on food being tasty. Chef Adria has seem to switched his focus to being as crazy and new-age as possible, taste has almost become secondary.
I obviously can't truly make that statement with much validity because I haven't eaten their food personally (except when I tried to elbow that grandma out of my way at Chef Achatz's cooking demo ... she boxes out like a champ). So I will leave it at a distant personal observation, and the opinions of others to give that statement weight. Anyway, I wanted to illustrate another point.
At what point do complexity and flavor reach a wonderful harmony? The answer: Thomas Keller. Okay not necessarily, but I really admire his balance between complex flavors and straight-up deliciousness. It would be a fulfillment of my ultimate dream to work at Per Se, Bouchon or The French Laundry. But if you compare the recipes of Keller, to Achatz, to Adria, to Portale ... or between Scott Bryan, Mario Batali, and Rick Bayless ... they each toe a line between simplicity and complexity, with every dish reaching the perfect point somewhere along that line.
Some dishes are meant to be simple, their ingredients being lightly dressed to allow the brightness and boldness of their flavors to shine through. I'm thinking of a good beef carpaccio. High-quality, grass-fed beef, pounded thin with a kiss of lemon juice, salt and olive oil ... it's delicious (though at Va Pensiero we add a little tomato fondue, parmigiano reggiano and arugula). Some dishes are incredibly complex, sometimes taking several days to get all the pieces together. Generally, the whole Alinea cookbook is kind of like that. You can see for yourself here, Carol Blymire's blog about cooking Alinea at home. Delicious, though very labor intensive.
So I guess the grand question is, where do I want to fit in on this spectrum? The S. Pellegrino List of the World's 50 Best Restaurants seems to have a thing for molecular gastronomy restaurants. But it also has plenty of restaurants that pride themselves on having dishes that contain less than 6 ingredients. I'd like to say I lean towards the simpler side, though I guess even that is subjective; what is simple?
One of my favorite dishes at Va Pensiero seems very complex, but it's quite simple.
Scallops with Brandied Lobster Sauce
The sauce is a standard mirepoix sauteed with lobster and shrimp shells. Once they are softened and much of their juice has been released, you deglaze with brandy, add dried tarragon and tomato paste. Then you add a truck load of cream and let it reduce for the day until it has a beautiful color reminiscent of a creamsicle. Strain, keep warm.
The scallops are U-10 (under 10 per pound, so ... big scallops), crusted with our herb mix (parsley, sage, rosemary, thyme, marjoram), seasoned and sauteed. The final dish is served with the sauce on the plate, scallops on top with navel orange supremes and a light salad of microgreens or arugula.
It's kind of a heavy dish, but it's rich and delicious. A lot of the dishes I like seem to have this level of "complexity." A veal saltimbocca with shallot sauce, a steak au poivre with a creamed mushroom pan sauce, steamed lobster with ghee and Old Bay even.
So if it ever comes to be the time you can come to my restaurant, as of now I promise no shenanigans. But things could change. After all, I'm going for fireworks. Who knows where that could take my food?
Feel free to comment and tell me your favorite dish. I love to hear about that kind of stuff.
EP #6
With molecular gastronomy asserting its dominance as a new food craze, the idea of food and what is delicious food is becoming confusing.
Molecular gastronomy in itself is confusing. That's almost the point. To deliver the unexpected, to surprise your palate, to have fun with food. I totally respect that and I think we as humans have come to a point that allows us to make fun of food. And I think it's obvious from my blog that I have a massive man crush on Grant Achatz. But there's a reason for that.
Using space-age technology and obscure chemicals in the kitchen is just fine, so long as it tastes good. I haven't eaten at Alinea or El Bulli, but even Grant himself seems to have an issue with his mentor's food. After studying the cookbooks of both, reading what a 20+ course dinner is like at each establishment, there seems to be a clear difference. Chef Achatz, though innovative and distinguished, still focuses on food being tasty. Chef Adria has seem to switched his focus to being as crazy and new-age as possible, taste has almost become secondary.
I obviously can't truly make that statement with much validity because I haven't eaten their food personally (except when I tried to elbow that grandma out of my way at Chef Achatz's cooking demo ... she boxes out like a champ). So I will leave it at a distant personal observation, and the opinions of others to give that statement weight. Anyway, I wanted to illustrate another point.
At what point do complexity and flavor reach a wonderful harmony? The answer: Thomas Keller. Okay not necessarily, but I really admire his balance between complex flavors and straight-up deliciousness. It would be a fulfillment of my ultimate dream to work at Per Se, Bouchon or The French Laundry. But if you compare the recipes of Keller, to Achatz, to Adria, to Portale ... or between Scott Bryan, Mario Batali, and Rick Bayless ... they each toe a line between simplicity and complexity, with every dish reaching the perfect point somewhere along that line.
Some dishes are meant to be simple, their ingredients being lightly dressed to allow the brightness and boldness of their flavors to shine through. I'm thinking of a good beef carpaccio. High-quality, grass-fed beef, pounded thin with a kiss of lemon juice, salt and olive oil ... it's delicious (though at Va Pensiero we add a little tomato fondue, parmigiano reggiano and arugula). Some dishes are incredibly complex, sometimes taking several days to get all the pieces together. Generally, the whole Alinea cookbook is kind of like that. You can see for yourself here, Carol Blymire's blog about cooking Alinea at home. Delicious, though very labor intensive.
So I guess the grand question is, where do I want to fit in on this spectrum? The S. Pellegrino List of the World's 50 Best Restaurants seems to have a thing for molecular gastronomy restaurants. But it also has plenty of restaurants that pride themselves on having dishes that contain less than 6 ingredients. I'd like to say I lean towards the simpler side, though I guess even that is subjective; what is simple?
One of my favorite dishes at Va Pensiero seems very complex, but it's quite simple.
Scallops with Brandied Lobster Sauce
The sauce is a standard mirepoix sauteed with lobster and shrimp shells. Once they are softened and much of their juice has been released, you deglaze with brandy, add dried tarragon and tomato paste. Then you add a truck load of cream and let it reduce for the day until it has a beautiful color reminiscent of a creamsicle. Strain, keep warm.
The scallops are U-10 (under 10 per pound, so ... big scallops), crusted with our herb mix (parsley, sage, rosemary, thyme, marjoram), seasoned and sauteed. The final dish is served with the sauce on the plate, scallops on top with navel orange supremes and a light salad of microgreens or arugula.
It's kind of a heavy dish, but it's rich and delicious. A lot of the dishes I like seem to have this level of "complexity." A veal saltimbocca with shallot sauce, a steak au poivre with a creamed mushroom pan sauce, steamed lobster with ghee and Old Bay even.
So if it ever comes to be the time you can come to my restaurant, as of now I promise no shenanigans. But things could change. After all, I'm going for fireworks. Who knows where that could take my food?
Feel free to comment and tell me your favorite dish. I love to hear about that kind of stuff.
EP #6
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
The Big Dog
I am not sure what kind of picture I paint about my Chef, but I think it's time I introduce you to my working environment.
The Va Pensiero kitchen is through and through Chef Jeffrey Muldrow's ship. It's a big boat, it's a little old, but it's well-organized and functional. There are many things about it that I love, and a few things about it that bother me.
The restaurant is rather old, and it shows sometimes. Our roundeaus are warped and the bottoms look like JCVD placed a violent roundhouse in to them, thus creating a cooking surface that has mountainous summits and jagged canyons. They heat and cook very unevenly, requiring me to be vigilant so that no poor onion explorers get scorched in any canyons, or are left to freeze on any mountaintops. (Okay weird analogy got taken too far .. I get it, shut your face, I had to go with it). Our mandolines are frustratingly dull, our knives can't hold an edge to save their lives, and we have stupid vegetable peelers that have perpendicular blades as opposed to parallel ones. I HATE those peelers. Also, our appetizer plates are ugly and the 80s want them back.
But the space is huge, there are WINDOWS, and as previously mentioned it is meticulously organized. Anytime I need something I know exactly where to find it (mainly because it's staring right at me from an industrial steel rack across the stove), and dry goods are stacked and labeled in the back. At Oceanique it was like a scavenger hunt every time I wanted something (no offense, Mark). And I reiterate the space for soon I feel I will be working in a New York City kitchen that allows no room for personal space, let alone working space, and has a dungeon-like prep kitchen with a torturous flight of stairs. I should stop getting annoyed when Maestro jostles me to use my oven.
And it's important to describe the Va P kitchen in detail because it represents Chef Jeff better than words could. He is a solid cook. I sometimes find myself questioning his methods, and maybe wondering why he isn't "big time," but without a doubt he is a good cook. Some feel that I could find a paying job in a lesser institution, like a decent diner or bistro, but I am constantly reminded why I am here. Sure, you could go to state college for cheap, maybe even for free, but a lot of you went to Northwestern and shelled out massive cash because of the education. That's the way I feel. Chef Jeff runs a good restaurant and it isn't by chance. He has spent a lifetime honing his skills on the line.
He seems crass a lot of the time. He has potty-mouth humor, doesn't have a very expansive vocabulary, and his penchant for sarcasm often makes me feel stupid. But he is very knowledgeable about Italian food and how to make it.
I made a ragu Bolognese today. He walked me through the steps and gave me an in-depth tour of Italy along the way. As you can imagine, sauce Bolognese originates from Bologna which is in the Emilia-Romagna region of Italy. Emilia-Romagna, as he explains, is what separates and combines Northern and Southern Italy. In the North you have room to rear cows so beef is a major protein. Your cheeses are cow's milk cheese, and dairy in general is king. In the South is where tomatoes are prominent, but not cows. So sheep and seafood are your major proteins and much of the cuisine is based on those. Well Bologna, apparently, is where everything comes together. Tomatoes are turned in to tomato paste and brought north, milk is brought south, prosciutto is brought from Parma, mortadella is made in Bologna, etc. The Chef believes it to be a quintessentially Italian creation wrongfully bastardized by Americans (see: spaghetti with meat sauce, or as he calls it ketchup and hamburger shat out of a cafeteria).
We carefully grind pork, veal, beef, prosciutto and mortadella, adding cold lardo, or pig back fat to the mixture, making sure it stays cold. I dice up a fine mirepoix (onions, carrots, celery, 2:1:1 ratio). Saute the meat mixture, just barely cook it through and strain the fat off. Saute the veg, get a nice little brown color, hit it with tomato paste. Let that brown up a bit, French people (the Chef no like ze French) call it pincage. Add the meat back in and add whole milk. You reduce it until it reaches a pinkish hue. You hit it with more tomato paste. The final product is a dark orange and is creamy, incredibly flavorful and pleasantly chunky. It takes a few hours to reach the right flavor profile and consistency, but oh is it worth it. We serve it layered like a lasagna but with crepes instead of pasta. He says that's very traditional. The crepes are folded, topped with a leek sauce (sauteed leeks, carrots, heavy cream and thyme), sprinkled with parmigiano reggiano and browned in the broiler.
One sauce. One afternoon. A veritable treasure trove of knowledge. I'm not going to lie, half the reason I wrote this post is so I could remember all that. And that happens very often for me. I ask about polenta, I get a very lengthy but fascinating lecture. Foccacia bread, tagliatelle, orecchiette, Cremini mushrooms, pistachio pesto ... I ask a lot of questions to learn, and I am not disappointed to always get a lot of answers.
But any nerd with a textbook and a few months in Italy could probably spit that out. Can the man cook? Well I've said it before and I will emphasize it again ... hell yes. I was once given random advice to work in a kitchen where the chef still cuts his own protein. I was not disappointed on day one to find the Chef cleaning a massive pork shoulder with his own hands and (shitty) knives. He doesn't work the line anymore like most chef/owners who have to spend their time elsewhere. But I am confident that he was and is a very reliable line cook. He taught me how to break down a chicken. He did it with unteachable confidence and ease. He taught me how to filet a fish and I basically got a piscine anatomy lesson. And it's not just food. He teaches me how to be a mechanically sound cook.
When I first started working on the hot line I quickly realized there was a lot more to it than just making good food. There are movements and actions one learns naturally by cooking for years. Movements that immediately display skill and experience. Movements that suggest confidence and ease, not my current state of awkwardness and panic. You learn these faster by having someone yell at you to stop being so goddamn clumsy.
I like to rest my hands on my hips sometimes but that means my elbows increase the space I take up by two-fold. He always barks, "Tuck in your big fucking elbows, Eric, you're going to cause a disaster," (Somehow I am the tallest and thinnest person at this restaurant). He reminds me that when there is a lull in service that it's not break time, it's "check to see how fucked you are" time. Check your ingredients, are you running low on something? Do you have more? Where is it? Can you get it easily? Can you make more in time, just in case? Where's your knife? Don't kill anyone. Clean off your station. If you're not busy help the dishwasher out and bring your pots to him, he's got enough shit to do. Do you have tongs? Did Luis steal them? He's a tongs-stealing bastard ("Bastard" is his favorite word). Towels? Are they clean? If they're covered in shit and oil throw them in the laundry. Got time to wipe off the burners? You get some rebellious cooking fat and you now have a grease fire. If I have to turn on the Ansul because of you I swear to God, Eric, I will end you (Ansul is an emergency fire extinguisher system that most kitchens have). Bring 16 ravioli to the front of your low-boy (refrigerator) so when an order gets called you are ready. Check your pasta water. Is there enough? Is it hot? Is it so starchy that it is now essentially a solid? What about your pasta baskets? Is there shit in them? Look ... a stray strand of linguini. Getting an onion ring in your fries is cool at Burger King, but that shit don't fly at Va Pensiero.
Where else would you get such a loving and helpful lesson?
So the man is deeply intimate with Italian cuisine and its history. He's an experienced and capable cook. He is clearly a well-organized and profitable chef. And he is willing to have me in his kitchen. He is willing to accept there may not be perfection, because this stupid Asian kid is eff'ing everything up. But he is willing to teach me, and guide me unto the right path. Because he likes to yell at me and frankly I think he thinks it's funny. He also likes Asian people.
Sometimes my schedule at Blu and Va P don't line up nicely, and I have to explain to him that I can't come in that day anymore, I got scheduled at work ... you know, where they pay me? The next time he sees me it usually goes something like this..
"You missed a good time the other day."
"Yeah, I'm really sorry, Chef. Sometimes it's unpredictable. Did everything go alright?"
"Don't fucking worry. Va Pensiero isn't going to close because your clumsy ass didn't show up."
I love you too, Chef.
EP #6
The Va Pensiero kitchen is through and through Chef Jeffrey Muldrow's ship. It's a big boat, it's a little old, but it's well-organized and functional. There are many things about it that I love, and a few things about it that bother me.
The restaurant is rather old, and it shows sometimes. Our roundeaus are warped and the bottoms look like JCVD placed a violent roundhouse in to them, thus creating a cooking surface that has mountainous summits and jagged canyons. They heat and cook very unevenly, requiring me to be vigilant so that no poor onion explorers get scorched in any canyons, or are left to freeze on any mountaintops. (Okay weird analogy got taken too far .. I get it, shut your face, I had to go with it). Our mandolines are frustratingly dull, our knives can't hold an edge to save their lives, and we have stupid vegetable peelers that have perpendicular blades as opposed to parallel ones. I HATE those peelers. Also, our appetizer plates are ugly and the 80s want them back.
But the space is huge, there are WINDOWS, and as previously mentioned it is meticulously organized. Anytime I need something I know exactly where to find it (mainly because it's staring right at me from an industrial steel rack across the stove), and dry goods are stacked and labeled in the back. At Oceanique it was like a scavenger hunt every time I wanted something (no offense, Mark). And I reiterate the space for soon I feel I will be working in a New York City kitchen that allows no room for personal space, let alone working space, and has a dungeon-like prep kitchen with a torturous flight of stairs. I should stop getting annoyed when Maestro jostles me to use my oven.
And it's important to describe the Va P kitchen in detail because it represents Chef Jeff better than words could. He is a solid cook. I sometimes find myself questioning his methods, and maybe wondering why he isn't "big time," but without a doubt he is a good cook. Some feel that I could find a paying job in a lesser institution, like a decent diner or bistro, but I am constantly reminded why I am here. Sure, you could go to state college for cheap, maybe even for free, but a lot of you went to Northwestern and shelled out massive cash because of the education. That's the way I feel. Chef Jeff runs a good restaurant and it isn't by chance. He has spent a lifetime honing his skills on the line.
He seems crass a lot of the time. He has potty-mouth humor, doesn't have a very expansive vocabulary, and his penchant for sarcasm often makes me feel stupid. But he is very knowledgeable about Italian food and how to make it.
I made a ragu Bolognese today. He walked me through the steps and gave me an in-depth tour of Italy along the way. As you can imagine, sauce Bolognese originates from Bologna which is in the Emilia-Romagna region of Italy. Emilia-Romagna, as he explains, is what separates and combines Northern and Southern Italy. In the North you have room to rear cows so beef is a major protein. Your cheeses are cow's milk cheese, and dairy in general is king. In the South is where tomatoes are prominent, but not cows. So sheep and seafood are your major proteins and much of the cuisine is based on those. Well Bologna, apparently, is where everything comes together. Tomatoes are turned in to tomato paste and brought north, milk is brought south, prosciutto is brought from Parma, mortadella is made in Bologna, etc. The Chef believes it to be a quintessentially Italian creation wrongfully bastardized by Americans (see: spaghetti with meat sauce, or as he calls it ketchup and hamburger shat out of a cafeteria).
We carefully grind pork, veal, beef, prosciutto and mortadella, adding cold lardo, or pig back fat to the mixture, making sure it stays cold. I dice up a fine mirepoix (onions, carrots, celery, 2:1:1 ratio). Saute the meat mixture, just barely cook it through and strain the fat off. Saute the veg, get a nice little brown color, hit it with tomato paste. Let that brown up a bit, French people (the Chef no like ze French) call it pincage. Add the meat back in and add whole milk. You reduce it until it reaches a pinkish hue. You hit it with more tomato paste. The final product is a dark orange and is creamy, incredibly flavorful and pleasantly chunky. It takes a few hours to reach the right flavor profile and consistency, but oh is it worth it. We serve it layered like a lasagna but with crepes instead of pasta. He says that's very traditional. The crepes are folded, topped with a leek sauce (sauteed leeks, carrots, heavy cream and thyme), sprinkled with parmigiano reggiano and browned in the broiler.
One sauce. One afternoon. A veritable treasure trove of knowledge. I'm not going to lie, half the reason I wrote this post is so I could remember all that. And that happens very often for me. I ask about polenta, I get a very lengthy but fascinating lecture. Foccacia bread, tagliatelle, orecchiette, Cremini mushrooms, pistachio pesto ... I ask a lot of questions to learn, and I am not disappointed to always get a lot of answers.
But any nerd with a textbook and a few months in Italy could probably spit that out. Can the man cook? Well I've said it before and I will emphasize it again ... hell yes. I was once given random advice to work in a kitchen where the chef still cuts his own protein. I was not disappointed on day one to find the Chef cleaning a massive pork shoulder with his own hands and (shitty) knives. He doesn't work the line anymore like most chef/owners who have to spend their time elsewhere. But I am confident that he was and is a very reliable line cook. He taught me how to break down a chicken. He did it with unteachable confidence and ease. He taught me how to filet a fish and I basically got a piscine anatomy lesson. And it's not just food. He teaches me how to be a mechanically sound cook.
When I first started working on the hot line I quickly realized there was a lot more to it than just making good food. There are movements and actions one learns naturally by cooking for years. Movements that immediately display skill and experience. Movements that suggest confidence and ease, not my current state of awkwardness and panic. You learn these faster by having someone yell at you to stop being so goddamn clumsy.
I like to rest my hands on my hips sometimes but that means my elbows increase the space I take up by two-fold. He always barks, "Tuck in your big fucking elbows, Eric, you're going to cause a disaster," (Somehow I am the tallest and thinnest person at this restaurant). He reminds me that when there is a lull in service that it's not break time, it's "check to see how fucked you are" time. Check your ingredients, are you running low on something? Do you have more? Where is it? Can you get it easily? Can you make more in time, just in case? Where's your knife? Don't kill anyone. Clean off your station. If you're not busy help the dishwasher out and bring your pots to him, he's got enough shit to do. Do you have tongs? Did Luis steal them? He's a tongs-stealing bastard ("Bastard" is his favorite word). Towels? Are they clean? If they're covered in shit and oil throw them in the laundry. Got time to wipe off the burners? You get some rebellious cooking fat and you now have a grease fire. If I have to turn on the Ansul because of you I swear to God, Eric, I will end you (Ansul is an emergency fire extinguisher system that most kitchens have). Bring 16 ravioli to the front of your low-boy (refrigerator) so when an order gets called you are ready. Check your pasta water. Is there enough? Is it hot? Is it so starchy that it is now essentially a solid? What about your pasta baskets? Is there shit in them? Look ... a stray strand of linguini. Getting an onion ring in your fries is cool at Burger King, but that shit don't fly at Va Pensiero.
Where else would you get such a loving and helpful lesson?
So the man is deeply intimate with Italian cuisine and its history. He's an experienced and capable cook. He is clearly a well-organized and profitable chef. And he is willing to have me in his kitchen. He is willing to accept there may not be perfection, because this stupid Asian kid is eff'ing everything up. But he is willing to teach me, and guide me unto the right path. Because he likes to yell at me and frankly I think he thinks it's funny. He also likes Asian people.
Sometimes my schedule at Blu and Va P don't line up nicely, and I have to explain to him that I can't come in that day anymore, I got scheduled at work ... you know, where they pay me? The next time he sees me it usually goes something like this..
"You missed a good time the other day."
"Yeah, I'm really sorry, Chef. Sometimes it's unpredictable. Did everything go alright?"
"Don't fucking worry. Va Pensiero isn't going to close because your clumsy ass didn't show up."
I love you too, Chef.
EP #6
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