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.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Friday, January 22, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
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.
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.
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