Midnight Madness

As I mentioned in the beet entry earlier, I eat a lot of my meals at work. From family meal once to twice daily to the grazing and tasting I do while cooking, I probably consume more at work than most individuals do in a day. So why is it that when I walk out the back door into the night at the end of a shift, I am ravenous for food?

We talk about our bodies when changing into our chef whites, or at those other times when our bodies in their shape and size make themselves apparent, such as getting a hip snagged by the swinging lowboy door or bruising a bony shoulder when passing the shelves of hotel pans. Almost everyone has a story regarding their body and what happened to it when they became a cook. It usually refers to gaining or losing 20 or more pounds, blaming empty calorie beer or the hours, which apparently can argue for either scenario. Nobody ever says their body has stayed the same.

We make jokes about the burn slashes across our forearms or the thumbnail that will never quite grow back straight. (Don’t worry, we always find the tip of thumb or finger and start fresh with a clean cutting board). Singed eyebrows and lashes, hot duck fat burns less than a centimeter from the eye, the fiddler crab lack of symmetry in our forearms, the callus as thick as the wall between my tiny apartment and my neighbor’s (it’s thin, relatively speaking about walls, but thick for a piece of skin on my hand).

Most of my cooking friends are as thin as a stalk of celery. They also are never hungry, as though they absorb nutrients through osmosis by touching the food all day. But that is not the case with me, I am always hungry! I am not of celery or any other kind of stalk thinness, but I have also managed to avoid looking like a butternut squash or a pear. Perhaps a fingerling potato, minus the bumps. Mmmm, potatoes.

I don't cook well enough for myself when I am outside of work. I realize that if I ate the way I did before becoming a professional cook but continued the on-my-feet-12-hours-a-day-carrying-heavy-things-regimen that I am on now, I would look like an Olympian. This summer, I worked three days a week while in school and spent all of my free time cooking. Now I hardly cook at all on days that I work. I have managed to avoid fast food places, but I seriously eat at least two frozen pizzas a week. I cook them first, so at least there is that. Some nights I go to Cafe Presse, where they make a mean croque madame, but drink three glasses of wine while I am at it because the spicy nuts they serve make me thirsty. And then there is the Deluxe, open when all other kitchens are closed, where I get a burger with cheese and bacon and fries and I am not kidding a side of ranch to dip not only my fries in, but also the corners of my burger! (One time at Deluxe I ordered deep fried balls of macaroni and cheese, and I liked it) And then there is the canned tuna. Some nights I make tuna melts. And I eat a bag of salt and vinegar chips while I wait for them to heat up. Once in a great while I go to Barrio and someone ALWAYS orders churros and then I have to also. I literally smear the chocolate on my face. But the most pathetic, most sad, is when I simply take a leftover baguette home from work and sit on the couch and rip pieces off and eat it until I get the hiccups. (I think it is the setting that is the problem with that one, because if I were eating baguette while sitting in a cafe in Paris, it would have an entirely different ambiance).

Obviously I value food, specifically food grown near the earth I live on, breathing the same air and drinking the same water. But it is as though I have given all of the food love I have to give, leaving nothing left for me. Is this another cobbler story, or am I simply lacking balance? Friends and I have tried several attempts at late night healthy food. We’ve made shepherd’s pie and lasagne, freezing individual portions for reheating later. I have pre-made salad to dress when I arrive home. I have even packed up the leftovers from family meal at work to reheat when I arrive home. But all it takes is the power of suggestion. One cook mentions he’s craving a burger and beer or those spicy tater tots from the hill, and I am off the healthy food wagon. I convince myself that I deserve to eat whatever I want because I worked hard that day. I’ll start tomorrow.

No burgers, bacon, frozen pizzas, or ranch dressing were consumed in the writing of this entry.

For the Love of Beet, Give Me a Banana!

Our produce deliveries since October have given me a serious workout. Do you know how much a box of celeriac weighs? Well, it is a lot lighter when I get through with it, those bulbous root vegetables rolling away from me while I heave the box onto our loading counter.

Anyone who has tried to faithfully eat local foods can attest to this- February in Washington means you’ve been eating root vegetables for four months. The thought of those first tender shoots of wild asparagus appear as an oasis on the horizon. But the first vegetables of the season are still two months away, and those beets promise to hang in there as long as you are willing.

For the record, I am not claiming to be a locavore. In August, with the exception of my South American coffee, spices, and Italian olive oil (and I haven’t been able to source any local gin), I eat mostly local and seasonal foods. I would be a fool not to. But I am a bit of a fair weather locavore, which makes me feel like I should not use the term for just part of the year. Granted, I probably eat more carrots, celeriac, beets, turnips, parsnips, and onions in the winter than anyone I know. It is easy because more than half of what I eat is at work, and that is what we have around. Local lentils and beans are added to the mix, along with some plums, apricots, and cherries that we preserved in the summer. With that kind of base, I am off to a good start.

Right around this time of year, however, I start to become desperate. I want a banana. Now, if I were a real locavore, I would only eat bananas when on exotic vacations (incentive enough, really). Eyeing the pyramid of bananas at the grocery store like a candy display, I grab a handle and hide it in my basket. To make myself feel better, I select the organic variety. I convince myself that the sticker signifies that they sailed here from Hawaii under wind power, instead of in a cargo liner followed by an eighteen wheeler. In case my daydream of sustainable banana travel doesn’t convince me, I reinforce it by telling myself that at least it isn’t a frozen pizza. And it has a compostable package.

Back to the season at hand. Last night an order came in with some extra words scrawled across the bottom in all capital letters. “NO BEETS!” This is definitely not an uncommon request, with an increase in frequency during the gray of winter. So we scan through their order, replacing roasted beets with braised cabbage or roasted parsnips, making a mental note to omit the beet coulis from the beef main. Ten minutes after this order came in, another ticket was pushed across the pass, again with words scrawled along the bottom. But this time it was different, it read “LOVES BEETS!”. I was overjoyed. After conferring with my line partner, we decided to put together a trio of beets on one course, an homage to beets if you will. It showcased everything from a beet and celeriac terrine wrapped in beet greens to beet consomme with a raviolo made with beet slices instead of pasta dough. We had most of these items on hand, with the season being what it is. But all lined up, with pickled beets arranged in a nest beneath herbed goat cheese, even beet coulis dragged into heart shapes (they were celebrating a late Valentine’s Day), this was a beet feast for the masses. Or not the masses, really. More of a feast for a few beet lovers out there.

So last night I was reminded to embrace the season. Go all in. Sink your lifeboats. Eat beets until you pee magenta.

Happy Valentine’s Day to You, and You, and You, and Every Other Two Top

Some people talk about how Valentine’s Day has become such an obnoxious holiday. The cards, candy, flowers, spa packages... what makes this a special day other than the fact that we are taught from a young age to give cards and hugs to loved ones? I still remember picking out boxes of tear-apart cardboard Valentines with a Garfield or Spiderman theme, struggling over whether to give my 7 year old crush Joey the one with a funny joke or the one with hearts. What message was I trying to send?! I remember thinking, if I didn’t make the right move, I would destined to be alone every Valentine’s Day for the rest of my life! Or, to be less dramatic, Joey would make fun of me on the playground for revealing my young love.

As it turns out, I will never be alone on Valentine’s Day. I will never be sitting at home alone on the couch watching sitcoms with a Valentine theme, eating chocolates given out by a co-worker. I will be cooking for two tops.

This year I haven’t spoken the words Valentine’s Day together, all I have talked about is Valentine’s Weekend. Weekend! A whole weekend! Take that, Hallmark! I am in the middle of this three day heart shaped gastronomic extravaganza at work. Over Friday and Saturday of this weekend, my co-workers and I have dished up over a thousand plates of food. Today is Sunday, THE day, and we will be dishing up close to 600 plates before the night is through. I am drinking my morning coffee and contemplating this extraordinary number, becoming aware of the fact that today is the holiday where men and women take their partners out to dinner. Our waiting list for reservations could keep another restaurant in business this weekend.

I often hear people say that we should express love to our partners and friends every day, not simply on Valentine’s Day. I agree wholeheartedly. After discussing this on the line during prep on Friday, I became curious about who these people are. Why are they coming in on Valentine’s Day and not every other day? Who do they think they are? Standing at the computer screen, I opened the reservation program to find out. I was overjoyed to see that our guests ranged from first timers just looking for something special to people who have come in over 50 times. Most of our guests had eaten with us before.

It made me that much more excited to share our special menu with our guests. It seemed more familial, not simply a bunch of strangers looking for a show. So bring it two tops, (and that weird occasional three top, whatever your story may be). We’re ready and excited to feed you.

Cooks Eating Out

The other day I went out to eat with a friend who is also a cook by trade. When cooks go out to eat, it can be a very different experience. I used to have a favorite dish at one or two places that I visited often. Now, it is not only a way to fuel the body and delight the palette, it is research. An egotistical journey. Perspective.

I read every word on menus now. I notice if they seem to be missing fin fish courses (which is odd because I rarely crave fish). A comment is made on the price and presentation of oysters, or on how they describe their house specialty of poutine. I am not looking for flaws here, I am strictly trying to make my dream menu better. (Okay, perhaps this is where the egotistical journey comes into play a little).

There is always the decision of how we want the meal to go. Do we want to order pork belly? I cook it every day at work and believe that ours is among the best. Ordering pork belly at another restaurant could provide the following results:
1. an education on another amazing way to prepare it
2. an education on how to never prepare it
3. somewhere in between
4. the realization that I taste pork belly every day and don’t feel like eating it now, on my day off

Will going out to eat ever simply be dinner again? My mind never stops working. I think, “we could serve sardines like this, but perhaps stuff them with a farce instead of wrap them with bacon. Then the sardine skin can get crispy!” And then I am two things:
1. excited to get back to the kitchen to try this
2. a bit smug because I think my hypothetical sardine might be better than theirs (seriously?)

So what is it with this whole competitive cooking thing anyway? I was never really like this, except with Scrabble. How did competition become such an integral part of cooking? Do I walk into the kitchen each day believing that I am about to film Top Chef? Padma and Tom are not coming for dinner. (And for this I am happy, actually. Cooking for pregnant women can be terrifying and traumatizing! No raw milk cheeses or raw fish, meats must be cooked through... some of the best things about food become a liability. Totally off subject, perhaps another time). Chances are, whether I brine or dry rub my pork belly would probably be beyond most diners, and perhaps even myself if I sat down to my own plate in a restaurant. Yet there is this underlying feeling of wanting to be the best.

It makes sense, the constant research and competitive slant to dining out. Who decides to cook food that is simply good enough? If a cook can make something taste better and has the means and palette to carry it out, they do. This is where the research and perspective come into play. I am not going to learn as much from a cookbook about flavors as I am from eating food. I might look across the table, head cocked to one side and an eye closed while I rub the last dregs of sauce around in my mouth, questioning, “cardamom? Do you taste that? Or is it coriander mixed with a bit of anise? I can only taste it at the end....”. Other diners might think I am drunk, and chances are, I am. But I haven’t gotten my moneys worth until I am inspired or taught something.

The best meals are where days or weeks later I am pulling celery root from the walk-in, determined to crack a code. Was the puree finished with brown butter? Or were the marcona almonds for garnish messing with me? I am determined to figure it out, and the cycle begins again: research, an egotistical journey, perspective.

Waiting For The Last Ticket

One eye on the swinging door that leads into the kitchen from the dining room, I distractedly wipe down the stainless surfaces. I sent out my last plates about 40 minutes ago, but there is one more reservation on the books. Their reservation isn't for another 10 minutes, but I am hoping that the first outfits they put on were just right for the occasion, that all of the stoplights were green. Perhaps they found a parking spot right out front and are now walking up the path leading to the restaurant.

The door swings in and the sommelier passes through. He walks directly to the wine cooler and a sigh comes from the cooks on the line. If he had come to report that we were “all in”, he would have walked right up to the pass with a big smile. He has a family at home waiting for him, so he understands the desire get started with the last table more than anyone. All I have waiting for me is a gin and tonic, a cat who wishes I worked 9-5, and a pair of old sweatpants.

Sometimes I wonder how a night of service would go if we couldn’t speak, and could only react according to facial expressions. When the servers enter the kitchen from the dining room, their customer service smiles fade to what is actually pressing. Eyes are wide and look directly to the line if they are waiting for plates. Eyes are averted, looking down, if they forgot to write “no mushrooms” on the ticket for the plates they just delivered to an unimpressed table. A long sigh if they need to tell us that their new arrival is allergic to gluten, soy, and dairy. No, it wasn’t listed in their reservation.

But tonight, everyone is simply minding their own business. It is a slower night, early in the week. We are all trying to get side work done while we wait, knowing that some or all of it will come undone with the arrival of a new ticket in the window. But we do it anyway.

Finally, “we are all in” spreads through the kitchen. The last table has arrived. Yes, they will be having a cocktail before ordering dinner. And a cheese plate later. This is great for the restaurant, so I feel guilty about wishing they would just order the duck to share and then head to the movies or a show at The Paramount.

I find these moments of frustration to be fleeting. Once their order is placed, I put as much love into cooking their meals as I did the first. The truth is, beyond my constant pressing desire to get out of work early so I can get an extra hour of sleep, I would prefer to be here cooking for people. Why would I want the extra sleep anyway? It would be to have more energy to... yep, get to work early to work on menu ideas. It is never so that I can take up crocheting again, or to start a book that is gathering dust on my bedside table. Unless, of course, that book is about curing meat or has pictures of interesting plate-up designs.

So what is this sense of urgency? Next ticket, next project, hurry hurry hurry. Is it a lack of control that I am trying to corral? I feel like a young child all over again, wanting to know how things are going to turn out. I feel like I am Caroline trying to prepare for a winter on Little House on the Prairie. I wonder if Laura ever got to snack on a cheese plate before bed in January.

Why This, Why Now

I just graduated from a culinary school in Seattle. I find myself going over and over the time line of my life thus far in my head, looking for a pattern that will indicate the future, hoping that the string of successes, failures, and adventures will make me confident that this life will turn out the way I envision it. At 27, I left my corporate job to pursue a cooking career. Two years later I am trading silk suit pants for flame retardant checkered pants with an elastic waist (and seriously, now I need that flexibility).

It all began when I woke up one morning and realized that the path I was on led to somewhere I didn’t recognize from my daydreams. It did, however, lead to financial security, the promise of five weeks off a year, and restful sleep. While these aspects made me hopeful for something deeper to fill in the gaps, I realized that it was not going to compensate for what I was losing each day. There is an old saying that there are two ways to lose your life: all at once or one day at a time. Each day that I continued to be unfulfilled at work, each moment I spent dreading walking into that office, I was losing the most precious gift we have.

Why am I spending so much time talking about the part of my life that has nothing to do with cooking? The purpose of this blog is to inspire others to follow their passion, regardless of how far out of their comfort zone it takes them. Sometimes our wildest adventures begin with a mere flicker of imagination. Mine began with a daydream of opening a restaurant: tending a vegetable garden with my mother, building a long oak bar with my dad, welcoming guests and taking their coats, all the while feeling the thrill of knowing that I had a large part in creating the experience they were about to have.

This blog will surely provide evidence that staying on track to a goal can be tricky. I get distracted easily by shiny things. A co-worker leaves to work at a 3 star Michelin restaurant, and suddenly I think I want to as well. Our mushroom forager comes in smelling of moss with leaves in his hair, and I start fantasizing about being a forager in the mountains. I hope you enjoy following me on my adventure. Perhaps someday you will be reading about my experience as I begin the physical construction of the foundation of knowledge I am building today.