Fake it 'til you make it

Let me tell you what is possible with the wonders of technology in today's kitchens. Not so recently, at one of Mario Batali's restaurants(Can I be sued for this mention?), I was doing a "trail" to feel the place out, and, if hired, consider the possibility of working at said place. 

  It is commonplace to pursue several trails in a given period before weighing all your options based on salary offers and whatnot. The restaurant also takes on several trails and hires based on performance, pay requirement, and body odor. 

  Anywho, at Mario Batali's restaurant, I'm following this know-it-all guy from Vermont(who was quite successful there, apparently, but had never before set foot in an NYC kitchen) and he tells me in his haughty manner to fetch some treviso from the walk-in for our grilled treviso plate.

  Now, any normal human(or a cook from the past) might say, "Treviso? What is treviso?" After reading my culinary school's guidelines on trails, I decided it was best not to ask questions. Yes, the school suggests that is best to make assumptions rather than bother the chef. My smart brain told me two things to assume. "Treviso" kind of sounds like "chorizo," so it must be some sort of cured meat. The fact that we would be grilling it further supported my assumptions. 

  I spent a good two minutes snooping around the walk-in, looking for a meat called treviso. I began to panic a little bit, but since there was no one else in the refrigerator, I pulled out my phone and googled it(other uses include snapping photos of station set-ups and searching for recipes). It turned out to be a type of lettuce. WHAT? I proudly brought the bin to my trainer, who was not impressed. Nevertheless, I got the job. I turned it down for a slightly better-paying, but still a slave-wage job(see previous post below). 

Not all NYC kitchens are created equal

Since I moved to New York- seven, or so, years ago- I have observed the ins and outs of about a dozen restaurants by either working or "stageing" there. I have seen just about everything.

One of the first places I worked was closed on weekends and every Monday morning the staff had to sweep up any rats left dead from extermination. Occasionally we missed one. Unbeknownst to the guest, a napkin was draped over the animal until the guests paid and left. Just about any God-awful horrid restaurant thing you can think of occurred in this place: rats and roaches and expired milk. It was also where I learned the secret to their(and many other dingy places') success: marrying liquor. Customers loved the place because the drinks were always "strong." They didn't realize that at the end of every night, bartenders were instructed to pour Alexis Vodka into the Grey Goose bottles. And yep, you were charged double the price for the same crappy vodka. Despicable.

Fortunately that place was an anomaly and has since been shut down. I will tell you that just about every place bends health department rules and every place goes into a frenzy when a health inspector walks through the door. Common practices include skipping glove-wearing to speed up service, using the same cutting board for everything, and eating/drinking on the station.

My latest job is the strictest in terms of everything, really. After stageing at four different places, I finally settled with this one in corporate fine dining. There is no laid-backness, a selling point at all the other gigs. Just discipline and consistency. I suppose if I was far along enough in my career, I would appreciate a place that was a little laid-back where I knew what to do without any guidance. But, I'm still new to the game and after working in a place where we were not allowed to pee or eat, a little strict discipline doesn't frighten me.

In corporate dining, there is no shortage in the budget for fresh ingredients. If anything looks even a little questionable, it's thrown out, and gloves abound! Gloves for everything. With a small kitchen staff of carefully picked individuals, the kitchen is mostly quiet, with everyone focused on tasks at hand, and the occasional rant from the peeved chef: "Those onions need to be cut evenly, otherwise they won't cook properly!" "What do you mean you have no more cilantro?! We are not running a business out of the grocery store- if you need something, it has to be ordered ahead of time- how many times do I have to tell you that?"

Maybe in six months I will hate my job, but for right now all the order is kind of refreshing.

New Year, new post

Finally, I am returning to the land of employment. Max is six months old and my time off has been sweet. He has started eating solids(beets are the latest surprise in his diaper- butt staining!) and I started a little jam company called Uptown Treats. Now that the post-holiday jam fervor has died down, it's time to continue my cooking career.

However exciting the possibilities, it is difficult to imagine not spending most of my days with my happy, chunky little guy. It's something every parent has to go through, though, right?

Ugh. I get anxiety thinking about the whole balancing act. I have to find time to be a good mother, wife, pet owner, and professional. My parents worked 16 hour days running a restaurant and managed to raise two non-criminals. If they could do it, anything is possible.

Pregnant? Cooks can't be pregnant!

I kept the fact that I was pregnant a secret for awhile. The thought of being treated delicately was not something I wanted when I was trying to prove myself. Although delightful, the surprise had me wondering how I'd balance my career as a cook with being a mother. Julia Child never got pregnant. Hmm.
I decided I would quit when I was six months pregnant. Meanwhile, rumors swirled and my bladder grew smaller. Time blew by, and, nervous as I was, I spoke to my chef about putting in my two weeks notice. She seemed disappointed, but not all that surprised, given the high turnover rate of employees.
"May I ask why you want to leave?" she said.
Unable to contain myself, I tearily explained that I didn't want to, but had to because I was pregnant. She hugged me and somehow(even though I secretly looked forward to days of lounging around) convinced me that I didn't necessarily need to quit.
I was relieved.

I continued to work as my belly expanded. Each week I went up a new uniform size: 34, 36, 38... On days when we were out of the larger pants, I had to make due with undone buttons and a makeshift belt made of plastic wrap (which poses a problem when you need to pee every fifteen minutes and you can't untie the darn thing).
My coworkers, some of the most awesome people ever, were nice enough to throw me a baby shower. The pastry girls baked the best cake I have ever tasted- and then refused to share the recipe! Very strange. I was told I could find it in the recipe book. Not so. Come to think of it, I also wanted this Lemon Basil Verbana sorbet recipe and never got it. =o|

Anyway, the best part about being pregnant and working the Garde Manger and Pastry stations was the unlimited access to made-fresh-daily ice creams. I took advantage of the whole being pregnant thing and milked it for all it was worth. I was frequently caught poking my head in the freezer to explore the ice cream selection. Once, the grill cook forgot to make a steak I had requested, and I looked down at my belly and patted it, saying, "It's ok, baby- no steak for us tonight..." to which everyone responded, "Awwww.." and I got my steak and then some.
That's not to say I didn't work my butt off. It was tough being on my feet- bending and lifting and waddling- when it already felt like I had a case of beer strapped to my abdomen. I hoped that all the exertion would force me into early labor, but quite the opposite happened.
Three weeks before I was due, I finally called it quits and spent the time resting up and showing my Mom around town. The due date came. And went. Ultimately, we had to induce labor. A whole day later, out came little(big) baby Max! He's the sweetest thing and I attribute that to my ample consumption of delicious ice cream.

I made this last night

The hardest part was waiting for the cake to cool so I could flip it over. I didn't have a lot of dark chocolate for the icing, so I substituted some milk chocolate. Thanks, http://www.joythebaker.com/ !

Cockadoodle Doo

It's been a long time coming since Culinary school.
Since then, I have:

• gotten married


• gotten a kitchen job


• had a baby!


• subsequently become a stay-at-home mom

As a result of my kitchen job, I had the supreme luck and honor of being able to cook for President Obama. I didn't get to meet him or even see him since security was so tight, and "cooking" for him is more of an overstatement, since I worked the cold station where hardly any cooking is involved. Nonetheless, I did get to help assemble some of his dishes. And also, when the evening was over, I took some sugar packets off of his table to add to my Presidential M&Ms souvenir. How's that for being a recent culinary grad? Not to mention six months pregnant!

While working at said restaurant- which, for the sake of preserving my job there(should I choose to go back), I won't name here- I learned an invaluable amount of things, which I'll share here. And, in addition to the prez, I got to cook for lot's of well-known folks.

I can cross cooking for Martha Stewart off my bucket list. As well as cooking for a handful of my culinary idols: David Chang, Eric Ripert, Daniel Boulud, and Wolfgang Puck.

I have seen what it's like to be in a kitchen where getting a New York Times rating means life or death. I never knew or guessed how much pressure there was. Food critics were treated like Gods. In the restaurant's early days, before the coveted review was published by the NYT, a cook was fired for serving undercooked chicken to a critic. The cooks were then given the mantra "check every chicken."

After we were accepted by the food world, it seemed like every night there were more than a few "VIP" tables, so the pressure began to wane.

Level 3: Discipline: Skills For Consistency and Their Refinement

It was tough heading into a new level with a completely different instructor, Chef Nic. We had gotten used to the friendly camaraderie enjoyed with Chef Phil, who believed it wasn't necessary to beat down on the students who were paying his salary. Chef Nic, from the Eukraine, has a different approach.

And the Level 3 kitchen was not the bright shiny, stainless steel happy kitchen we were used to. The kitchen was one of the oldest, and notoriously the hottest in school. In Level 3, downstairs from our previous kitchens, there were no automatic toilet flushers, or automatic sinks. We had to remind ourselves to flush and turn the little knobs on the sink. There was no fancy filtered water cooler, like upstairs. We had one of those old school, straight from the tap, kindergarten water fountains. This would not be a part of the school toured by potential students. This was like a dungeon.

Level 3 would be all about making the same dishes over and over and over and over until we perfected them. Each dish had essential skills we needed to master, like searing a chicken, tourning cocottes, rolling perfect tart doughs, and turning out the classic bouef bourgignon.

After our first day in Level 3, Chef Nic really handed our rear ends to us, scoffing at the grades we had been given in our previous evaluations.
"I feel sorry for some of you because you will be really surprised when you're not receiving a 97 or a 98 anymore. Hah! A 97? I cannot believe this."

By the end of our first week, some of us questioned whether we belonged there. What the heck were we thinking, coming to this school with the idea that we might magically become expert chefs? I felt sorry for the wide-eyed kids I saw touring the library, and the beautiful student lounge. They had looks of wonder and awe, with their tour guide dropping names like, "Bourdain" and "Bouley". They had no idea it wouldn't be all rainbows and butterflies.

My grades dropped dramatically in Level 3, just like Chef Nic had warned. And he was right- I was surprised. I had no idea why it had happened because I continued to work harder than ever. He was trying to teach us a lesson. As much as I hated Level 3 and resented Chef Nic for treating us like idiots, I can look back now and be truly grateful for everything I learned. He was the only Chef who, on more than one occasion, handed out carrots and potatoes for us to take home to work on our knife skills. He was tough, and it was just what we needed.