My friends are not all cooks. Some of my culinary colleagues appear surprised when I mention visiting an old schoolmate, who may be in film, an artist, a PR agent, or a teacher. There is some kind of alien-like wonder about how they live... “so, your friend gets out of work at 5?” or “is there like a desk that she works at in an office?” or even, “a teacher? I don’t think I’ve seen an actual child in 3 years.” Many cooks appear shocked when I mention a life before cooking, a sailing career, or working for a consultant. Upon my recent return from Mexico, a friend immediately asked what I ate and how I planned my trip. Did I decide on where to go, then look at restaurants, or find out where I wanted to eat, and then plan my trip around that? The answer was neither; I decided where I wanted to go to not think about cooking, as in, where I wanted to go on vacation. Yes, I wanted to eat, but I also wanted to be freed from the constant burden of making every single eating experience focused on learning and inspiration.
It’s just that in order to lead a successful cooking career, it always feels as though every moment not spent cooking, eating out, discussing food trends, or reading about cooking techniques or restaurants, is time contributed to becoming left behind by the industry. I recently spoke with the office manager at my previous restaurant, explaining to her that I had taken most of December and part of January off to just relax. Her eyes grew wide, but I could tell she wanted to reach out and relate in the way someone does upon hearing about a tremendous loss, illness, or tragedy. “Chef gave me a Monday off a few weeks ago. By 4 pm, I had cleaned my whole house, worked out, paid the bills, and was chomping at the bit to get back to work. I get it.”
But did she?
Or, am I simply lazy, basking in time to just..... be?
Where I am heading here is that while most people work hard, cooks work really hard. Often 12 hours at a clip, standing, not drinking water in order to minimize breaks, constantly calculating ways to be more efficient with one’s own energy and the product at hand, brainstorming new combinations or unsuspecting cooking methods. I can’t think of a single day on the line where my prep time wasn’t also my brainstorming session, (or shower time, driving time, going to sleep time). Scallops on the menu tomorrow... do I want to brine them... smoke them, and if so, hot or cold... or dust them with ground coriander and sear them... should I make a sauce or perhaps gremolata.... the flow of ideas can be constant.
The surprise that comes to us cooks, however, is that not everyone is interpreting the earth with a plate as the canvas. Whether a cook is passionate about molecular gastronomy, slow food and barbeque, Vietnamese noodles, or sliders: every shape, every smell, every memory, the earth itself begins a reel of images and ideas and how it translates to food. I feel that this is true for any cook who is looking to grow, create an experience to marvel the diner, have an emotional experience, to be satiated in more ways than simply caloric fulfillment. And I am not just talking about chefs like Grant Achatz, evoking the sensation of a chilly autumn day with delicately prepared pheasant amidst a branch of burning oak leaves. Moons Over My Hammy not excluded, there are playful attempts everywhere to create a sensation, trigger a memory, and trick the eye only to reveal a textural or flavorful surprise. Whether it be antique French oak barrels lining a wall in a bistro, hearts of palm cut and prepared to look like a piece of bone offering marrow, or good old huevos rancheros playfully being spelled Wavos Rancheros, they each have a goal of broadening the experience beyond necessity.
Sometimes I forget that not everyone sees dirt as ground amaretti cookies, Jaimy’s desk the rich color of venison tenderloin, or a wooden jewelry box as a treasure chest to be recreated with phyllo and filled with culinary jewels like braised pork cheeks. Years ago, after I butchered my first case of rabbits, I went home and traced my own cat’s flesh and muscles with my hands, trying to recreate the motions and understand each part so I may be that much faster the following day.
Every now and then I am reminded of this. Yesterday, it was a discussion with Captain Noah. He had just informed me that he and another Captain had bought a pig to split for this coming season. As he listed off a few organs, asking if I had any interest, I blurted, “save the head! I want the head!” Now, if I had said this just an hour later at the Italian restaurant where I am trailing, they’d give me a weird look. As in, duh. Of course. When I blurted this to Noah, however, I was met first with silence, then, “one pig head it is, you bloodthirsty cook you.” And then I remembered that discussing the head of an animal isn’t exactly a topic that enters every day conversation.
Now, when I went into work that day, I shared my prep station with a pig’s head. It sat in a vat of brine, staring at me through the magnifying water. And this was normal. I wouldn’t have thought twice about it if it hadn’t been the topic of conversation earlier. But realizing that us cooks see things that ordinary folks don’t see all the time, it became very funny to me. My fellow cooks giggled as I made small talk with the head, pretending he was hard of hearing as the ears had already been removed.
We each have our own universe of what is normal. It is easy to become entranced, to get sucked in to an all encompassing career where we begin seeing everything in relation to our work. Perspective is maintained by having friends outside of our industry, taking time away to relax and just be, and allowing our minds to be quiet for a change. After a couple of months of purging my mind of obsessing over specials, integrating new product, or trying to get more creative with cooking, I am ready to rejoin the masses.
I hope I still fit in. I hope I have not been left behind in the dust. Or pig pen.
