After a full month of meticulously picking out ingredients and preparing a home cooked meal for two, I was starting to go a bit stir crazy. Had I been cooking in a Martha Stewart kitchen overlooking the bay, wandering the gardens with a basket to select ingredients for dinner, it may have been a different story. Except that in our kitchen, I am pretty sure we are the first tenants to ever use anything other than the microwave in our wee cooking space. If I open the fridge, dishwasher, and oven doors, there isn’t a floor anymore. After spending hours in our tiny Capitol Hill kitchen trying to develop the perfect pork rub, twice fry sweet potatoes to make them crispy without being dry, or the pan fry the crispiest yet moist wienerschnitzel, I was ready to cook for someone else. Somewhere else. Nothing beats nurturing the ones you love with food, except maybe a chance to banter and cook alongside some great chefs in a beautiful kitchen.
With a full schedule of cooking planned for summer, I decided to revisit the concept of an apprenticeship this spring. As I mentioned in the last entry, my plan was to never work for free again. The last couple of years has taught me, however, that there are more ways to cook the sizable pantry of ingredients out there than I will ever learn. And my chances of maximizing these skills will not come from any single restaurant. I decided to spend the month of March learning about Piedmontese cuisine (that’s a northwestern Italian region, in case you’re wondering).
Before committing to this path, I evaluated what I would be giving the restaurant. I then listed what I hoped to gain from the experience. It seemed like a fair trade, not to mention a great new group of contacts. In exchange for learning regional preparations of mixing, rolling, and cooking pasta, making ragout and other savory sauces, rich Italian desserts, as well as other preparations yet to unfold, I would be a focused chopper, cleaner, delivery putting away runner, and if they let me, cook. The cost to them: taking the time to show me how they do what they do, a 2 x 3 foot space, and the risk that I would turn around and open a competing Italian restaurant next door. The cost to me: pay, time, my aching feet and back, and any semblance of ego (which, as I am sure you will agree, is a good thing to be rid of).
I am embarrassed to say that I have never applied for a job in the culinary industry. The sub shop at 16 doesn’t count, and every other cooking job I’ve had since has been offered through a contact or by chance. No time to complain about that (I know, poor me, right?), except that I quickly realized that I’ve been lacking the confidence one gains from the application process and overcoming rejection.
This is how I found myself sitting behind the wheel of my car, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that my fingernails dug into the palms of my hands. The rain outside had fogged the windows considerably, and my racing heart and panicky breath were muffled by the drops hitting the roof and windshield. My resume sat on the seat beside me, and I could just make out the shadows of figures moving behind the large restaurant windows. It hadn’t occurred to me until now that this could be scary.
I walked through the front door (there is no back door) at the Seattle based Piedmontese establishment, resume in hand, lines well practiced.
The front of house servers, bartender, and floor manager (the gatekeepers) eyed me as I faltered with the door handle. A single anonymous voice from the small crowd, “we’re closed, service starts at 5 pm,” as they all returned to napkin folding and polishing glassware. “Actually, um...” I paused. Two useless words have flooded out of my mouth, and I realize I hadn’t practiced how to get past the aloof gatekeepers. They’ve been heavily prepped to not allow anyone to distract from the kitchen preparations for service. Especially not the chef. But to my surprise, they all turned to me, waiting to hear what I had to say next.
“I, um...” wow, this had gone so much better in my head. “I am here to see Chef Jason?” I optimistically hoped that this would be sufficient.
“Is he expecting you?”
Argh. Why isn’t he expecting me. Why didn’t I call or email or do ANYTHING to make my visit anything other than an unexpected inconvenience? I glanced at the clock, also noticing that it was already nearly 4. My mini meltdown had set me behind by half an hour, bringing my visit dangerously close to the time when a Chef would not hire you on principle for disregarding the demand of crunch time before service.
“If he is expecting me, he must be really good.” I forced a laugh. It worked. I got a chuckle out of the woman closest to the bar, and she asked my name before heading into the kitchen to fetch the Chef. He immediately came around the corner, and time seemed to speed up exponentially.
I won’t bore you with details here, but after some back and forth where I explained my desire to learn from the best Italian restaurant in Seattle combined with my timing constraints for summer, and he asked many questions about my credentials, intentions, and desire to learn, we were both smiling. At that point I realized that we had sat down at a table, he was holding my resume and inviting me for a one day stage the following afternoon.
“After that,” he said, “we can see if this will be a good fit for both of us and devise a plan.”
Getting back into my car, I breathed a sigh of relief. It was over, I had gotten through it. But wait. It wasn’t over, I realized. It was the beginning.
awesome!
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