So my last day at Futami has gone and past. I didn't hang up my black shirt, pants and apron in the closet, this time I took them home. It would be the last time I walked through that kitchen as an employee. I shook hands, gave bro hugs, wished everyone good luck, because they have an undoubtedly questionable future at that restaurant, and walked out in to the alley. It would most likely be the last time I breathed in the rank summer air that baked the garbage of four collective restaurants. It would be the last time I had a cigarette there, sitting on the emergency exit stoop and looking in at FlatTop and their odd melange of customers. It would quite possibly be one of the last times I am in Evanston for a long, long time.
Not to draw out the poetic value of the event, but it had a serious impact on me. I can't believe how long I've been in this town. It seems as if it has been too much, and yet I know I will miss it. Six years in Evanston really, a long college tenure plus a year of employment. There were many reasons it took me this long to leave, and sometimes I feel like the time has been wasted, but there was valuable personal growth in those years. I've come a long way, and I like to think it has been all for the better.
I stopped by Va Pensiero during my lunch break that day. I figured if this was one of the last times I were going to be in Evanston, I had to visit the old crew who had recently reopened under a new chef, and moniker (just "Pensiero" now). I stopped by First Liquors and picked up a 12-pack of Modelo Especial, and trekked the familiar path to the Margarita Inn. I opened the side door to the Va P waiter station was greeted by some very unfamiliar sights. This was the first time I'd been to the building since April.
The heavy green curtains that covered the dining room windows were gone. The room seemed more bare, now minus all the personal touches of Chef Jeff. The rosemary sprigs and marble tablets that served as centerpieces, the empty vintage Italian wines that lined the dining room, the warm tea candles all gone. Now just the black fabric chairs and walnut colored tables, waiting for high thread count linens.
I entered the kitchen and it had changed. Someone had reorganized the pots and pans rack, the dishwasher was stacked with dirty plates, and the kitchen seemed darker. Only Chuy and Sergio remained a familiar sight. The owner, Michael, had kind of recognized me and gave me a passing nod as he sat in the chair I was so used to seeing Jeff in. Chuy was dismantling chickens, something he was incredibly adept at, and stuffing what looked like a compound sage butter under the skins. We shook hands and chit-chatted about what had happened in the past few months.
He asked how my family was, I asked the same of him, I wondered what he had been up to in terms of work for the past few months. I had the luxury of another job, and if worse came to worst I could have always packed up my bags and went home to reconnect myself to the parental teat. He did not have that luxury, he had a wife and three kids to support, he needed money ASAP. So he was a mercenary cook for the past few months, just cooking where he would be paid and accepted for it, and no doubt excelling as he is one of the most technically sound cooks I have ever worked with.
He gave me some encouraging words as I told him how difficult it was for me to find a job as a cook in Chicago. He explained that's why it was important that I go to culinary school, because on paper I just didn't have the requisite experience to do any serious work. But he encouraged me and told me I had done very well at Va Pensiero. That I was a reliable cook, a nice guy and of passable intelligence. It meant a lot to me. Having never really had a father or an older brother, Chuy had become something of both to me in the 9-10 months we worked together. I know that seems silly, but when you're working next to a guy for that long, in close quarters with high heat and stress, you bond quickly. It's one of the most fascinating things about the kitchen, the camaraderie it inspires through tribulation.
And I wanted to believe him, but I'm not so sure. I look to my next tasks, my next step in life with a bit of trepidation. I'm going home to start over, to round out my education and to really sink in to my career.
I considered this last year in Chicago kind of a fun, "testing-the-waters" year. It still was pretty college-like, all my college friends pretty much in the same place, still playing ultimate and doing stupid things on the weekends. I was just getting a crash course on what was to come, working 40-50 hours weeks in the kitchen at a leisurely pace, and then spending my off days waiting tables. It wasn't terribly difficult in the perspective of labor. I enjoyed it, I learned a lot, but I think I spent most of this year focusing on myself and my friends.
I don't think I can afford to do that anymore. Not only will I not have much in terms of time, but I will be isolated in the suburban dystopia that is Long Island. It will be time to put my skills to the test as I focus on what is truly important to me and my family, i.e., our own restaurant.
For those who are curious, I plan to start culinary school at The Culinary Institute of America in the Spring 2011. It may be pushed back, so we shall see, but as of now, that is what I'm hoping. I will work lunch in Pearl East's kitchen, probably doing prep on dim sum, Chinese barbecue ribs, vegetables and your usual suspects of soups (won ton soup, chicken and corn soup, hot and sour soup). Hopefully I will get to work the line and learn how to stir fry off a jet butane burner and a cast-iron wok, but as my mother thinks I am the clumsiest bastard alive (not totally unwarranted) and worries for my safety, that may take some working up to. During dinner, I will work the floor using that smile you guys all love (don't lie, you do!) to charm the rich, Jewish grandmoms that make up our clientele.
I don't know what to expect. I really don't know Chinese kitchens at all, I'm not even sure if they really do mise-en-place (I'm assuming they must, as I don't think there is a more efficient system to kitchen work). I've only known, worked in and studied Western kitchens. And my mother constantly bemoans how inefficient and lackluster her kitchen can be. She has lost her dim-sum chef, essentially her executive chef, to another of his ambitious solo projects (talent is hard to keep around), and things are a bit chaotic. I don't know where I'll fit in, I'm scared of the possibility of working with people who don't care about food, but I'll hope for the best. For God's sake, I just hope the kitchen is nice and clean.
The dining room I know. If I had any talent at restaurants, it's working the floor. I know how to mollify an angry customer, I know how to make it all better, I know how to make customers feel cared for. In that arena I know I can help and have a significant impact.
So I guess I have some goals. Restaurant wise, I need and want to get that place on stable ground. Pearl East is very busy, but it's hard to please everyone consistently and we could definitely get our name more established. We are somewhat unknown, and at the very least we should be a "hidden gem." I recognize these as faults. So we turn to Yelp, and other food media outlets, and try to tame the beast that is the public opinion. We try to deliver a more consistent product, and when we inevitably make mistakes, we try to patch those up better than before.
I can't quantify it exactly, but if I can establish a system that makes my mother's life easier, increase our ratings, our public awareness, our kitchen consistency, then I will be very happy. If I can make it so my mother doesn't have to be there seven days a week, ten to twelve hours a day, then I will be very happy, because I don't think she should be working that hard at her age (which I won't reveal because even though she can't use the internet, she'd fucking kill me if I ever told anyone).
So we shall see. It's been a fun, yet difficult, enlightening, yet at times depressing year in Chicago. I have a lot of mixed feelings about it. And I have a lot of mixed feelings about going home. Most aspiring cooks would be slogging away in a (hopefully) excellent kitchen, focusing on working their station well. Somehow I've managed to skip all that and gotten to the managing an entire restaurant phase. Granted, I won't be alone and if I mess up, there will be back up for me. But I can't help but ask myself the question, am I ready? Am I ready to take this on? Am I ready to make this my life? Am I ready to give up a lot of the other things I like in life? Because I foresee it will be many, many hours and many, many weekends, and many, many holidays.
But I always knew that would happen. That this day was coming, when I could no longer consider myself a kid and do whatever I wanted, and play ultimate whenever I pleased. But perhaps now that the reality is staring me in the face that I am a little nervous.
Let's just hope I don't revert back to high school habits of doing triple-feature movie days, and doing drugs at the train station. I like to think I've gotten past that point at least.
If you're ever in New York, you know who to call. See you there,
EP6
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