Summer Spoon

Restaurant Three

2009-12-15T15:37:00.001-08:00

This is just a tease....for fun...to let you know I AM still writing.

I’ve dreading going to Restaurant Three since the owner and I made our deal. Maybe it is because The Sous and Chef M, had been so negative about it, telling me the restaurant is slow now, and a “boys club” because no women work there at all except for the host. Regardless, I didn’t wake up excited to that first Friday in December. Actually, it was more like dread.

Restaurant Three is the restaurant that started it all in the owner's empire. It won his award for best chef in Food and Wine magazine, and it is where all of the chefs in the company, that I admire, got their start. It is more of a fine dining restaurant than any of his other establishments, with dark orange lighting throughout the dining room and linens on every table and an excess amount of plates for every dish. In its prime, there were five cooks on the line: one on protein, one on pasta and warm starters, one of the vegetable station, and two at the garde manger. There were also two dishwashers, two bussers, three waiters, a bartender, and a bar back. Not so much anymore. Seattle doesn't seem to get Restaurant Three anymore.

I walk to the restaurant, like I have with all of them, from my house downtown. I have been to Restaurant Three twice. Once for a work party when it first opened hosted by the owner’s parents, and the other time for a retirement party for the former chef du cuisine who left at the end of the summer.

I walk in to the door that leads in to the bar, praying as I pull that it is not locked, and am relieved when it gently pulls open and I step inside. I peek through the whole in the swinging brown kitchen door and see nobody in site. Male voices can be heard from a distance, and a Kelly Clarkson song is playing on the radio. A little different sound than my first moments at The Restaurant. Chef E, the sous chef at Restaurant Three, looks at me, shocked, and says, “Hi Stage. What are you doing here?” Chef E and I had met at The Restaurant a while back. I cooked a couple of dishes for him. “Didn’t the owner tell you? I am here for December. Actually just six shifts. Friday and Saturday nights. But obviously not Christmas and New Years....” I ramble. All the boys at this point, three to be exact, have their mouths slightly opened, and are staring at me.

Chef E graciously stops what he is doing and tells me to follow him as he gives me a tour of the upstairs where towels, dry storage, aprons, the office, the freezer, and the lockers are. There is no dressing room. There is no women’s bathroom. This is a boys club. For sure.

I come downstairs after finding a white bistro apron, putting on my chefs coat as they all wear to prep in, and folding my seven blue towels: one for underneath my cutting board, another to wet as a “sponge” to clean everything up, another to tie at my right hip, and the other four as extras. I head downstairs, Chef E motions me with his hand to work next to him, and gives me a huge celeriac and three giant carrots and says, “medium dice.” That is it? No question like, “Do you know what a medium dice is?” Even breaking down the vegetable to show me a trophy piece? I am obviously not going to be babied here. It’s about time! I medium dice a celeriac, a carrot, chop a deep 1/9 pan of shallots (which I have gotten down to 25 minutes from my time at Tavolata), a deep 1/9 pan of chives, and juice 15 lemons.

My knife is sharp, because I finally learned how to properly use my steel. My whole time at The Restaurant, I would have The Sous or Chef M steel my knife until Chef M showed me how to do it one afternoon. Then, I learned how to use a wet stone at Restaurant Two, which changed everything. My knife feels brand new each week, like breaking in a brand new pair of pointe shoes. Everyone in the Restaurant Three kitchen is quiet, you can hear the focus, and things seem to be going smoothly. Surprisingly, I am impressed by my work. To be honest, It is some of the best prep I have done. But, then the soup happened. The celeriac soup, to be specific.

“Sweat two white onions. Add three celeriac. Water. Drain. Puree. Cool,” is Chef E's instruction to me. Easy enough, or so I thought. I do as I am told, sweat the onions, and add the celeriac. Chef E tells me that the celeriac is probably shouldn’t get too much darker so I should add the water now. Yet, the celeriac isn’t cooked. My brain starts to malfunction. I remove the pot with the half-cooked celeriac and the translucent onion over to the area where the vita prep is located to, I assume, blend the half-cooked celeriac and onion with water to make the soup. Sometimes, I just don’t use my skills as a cook. I rely way too much on people’s instruction instead of my own natural cooking instinct. Chef E comes over to me, and tells me I need to cook the celeriac and onion with the water, so that it finishes cooking without getting brown. Yuck, I hate the feeling of humiliation. My ego shrinks a bit.

Oh, right. This is when I remember that I am not a professional cook, and just a Stage. I am working with amazing talent, and I have been doing this for, oh, six months. I laugh at myself, to lighten their mood, and mine, and add the water and put the soup back on the stove. Once the celeriac is cooked, I bring the large pot, now much harder to maneuver being filled with gallons and gallons of water, and bring it over to the Vita Prep. I pack the vita prep full with celeriac onion and a little bit of water so that it will blend. Chef E has told me not to use too much liquid because it is easier to add liquid then take it away. I press on the rubber lid, cover the hole with one of my spare blue towels, and turn the machine on. A wretched sound comes from the machine, and I quickly pull the plug from the socket to make it stop. “Can someone teach her how to use a Vita Prep?” the garde manger cook, J, says to nobody. I turn to him, offended, and say sarcastically, “I know how to use a Vita Prep.” “Well, first you need to turn it down to low, and on interval rather than high speed” he says after ignoring what I had just told him. He begins to take over my project, telling me to get the heavy cream from the walk in as the liquid in the soup. Chef E didn’t tell me to add cream during the blending process. I take over what J has started, slowly adding batches of white onion, white celeriac, and white cream to the vita prep, blending, and repeating. After it is all done, I begin to strain the mixture through a chinoise.

J, looks at me and says, “That is not a chinoise. That is a China man’s cap.” I look down, and he is right. I do know the difference, but honestly I couldn’t find a chinoise. I mean, we are talking about a ridiculously pureed soup here that probably doesn’t need to go through a chinoise to purify it further. He finds me a chinoise, dumps the soup into it, and lets me begin pushing it around in a circle to strain any large lumps that have not gotten perfectly blended. It is taking longer than it should. Jim looks over at me, and takes the large metal spoon from my hand and uses the tip of the spoon to chop at the center of the chinoise. The soup gently flows through. I have always swirled my spoon around the chinoise, but his method is much faster. I will be doing it that way from now on, that is for sure. I put the soup in a large metal hotel pan and season it with salt and pepper and more cream. I place it on the speed rack in the walk in and the chefs will serve it in a bowl with a sliced green apple salad and roasted chestnuts.

Again, like every other restaurant, 5:00 rolls around and everyone is frantically trying to gather up the last of their tasks for happy hour that goes from 5-7. I take my place in the back, with J who runs the garde manger. The place I am taking used to be a line cooks spot. I am told that I will toast all the breads for the bruschetta, cheese plates, shuck all the oysters, and plate all the desserts. This sounds manageable.

Mistakenly, I should have read the menu before I started working at this station. I do not know any of the sets, and because I didn’t prep for this station, I don’t even know what most of the ingredients are. I read all the tickets that are printed, but don’t know the difference between a bar bruschetta and a regular brushcetta. I just slice the bread, drizzle it with olive oil, and season it with salt and place it on the panini press. The first bruschetta got topped with a duck liver pate and a watercress and pickled shallot salad. The second bruschetta was topped with meyer lemon ricotta with the same salad set. But, which one was which?

At this point, I still have not seen the owner emerge from the upstairs office. One of the main reasons I was so eager to work here on Friday and Saturday nights was to get to learn from him on the line. Yet, I don’t even know if he is cooking tonight. Just as I am thinking that, he emerges from the upstairs office. Dressed in all white, with a light khaki pant and clear rimmed glasses, I always forget how young he is for having four restaurants. He nods at me, and takes his place in the front of the kitchen at the pasta making station.

That night, I shucked many oysters. Probably one hundred. They were topped with an apple, chili, chive, and olive oil set or a grapefruit, celery, and lemon juice set. And, my elbow did not hurt. Oh yes. I guess my elbow is in shape enough now to not be susceptible to oyster elbow.

I am also supposed to be responsible for the desserts, but there is one problem. I can’t do a quenelle for the ice cream. An order for a pecan tart comes up. J gets the plate out from his side of the station and drizzles dulce de leche in an asymmetrical line across the plate. He tops the round tart in the middle, and asks me to scoop a quenelle of whiskey gelato. I pull the quart container of gelato from the small freezer, and give it to him. “You can’t do a quenelle?” I could have made up an excuse like “I didn’t work this station at Restaurant Two” or “at The Restaurant we used a standard ice cream scoop”, but decided to say, “I’ve never tried.” He quickly pulls his spoon in a J-shape up the side of the frozen container and pulls his spoon to the lip on the side swirling the gelato until it is in a cylindrical egg shape.

He moves on to a meyer lemon mouse with vanilla meringue and pickled huckleberries as I try to experiment with the whiskey gelato to create a quenelle. Being a lot harder than it looks, I make two attempts, and then smash the gelato back into a smooth shape and return it to its freezing home.

The owner only speaks to me once that night. Sort of. As I am brunoising bacon for a duck confit and frisee salad, he says, “What is J making you do? A brunoise of bacon?” And then he walks away, laughing. I put my nose and eyes as close as I can to my brunoise, making sure it is as perfect as I thought it was, and it looks good to me. Phew! I know he looked right at it. Everyone looks at each person’s knife skills and mise en place. It is a resume, of sorts, of your ability and technique.

I toast bread, shuck oysters, and I can’t do a quenelle. Welcome to Restaurant. A boys club where nobody speaks to me.

The next day, I come in at 2:00 again, and who do I see? My friend Chef B, who actually spent Thanksgiving with me that year and seared of a lobe of foie gras and made an amazing stuffing, and the cook who worked with me on the first day at The Restaurant. He tells me he is helping the owner with a catering, which means another day that owner will not be there to teach me anything. Frustration starts to set in. I mean, it is not like I think the owner needs to teach me. He is a busy man. Stressed, I am sure with four restaurants to maintain. A little “stage” is not on the forefront of his mind. But, I have been there for six months. And, I have only worked with him twice!

I get ready for my day, steel my knives, and make my way to the same place I worked the day before. I start with the usual suspects: shallots, carrots, celeriac, chives. But, then I start to help the owner out. I supreme one 1/9 pan of oranges, and a deep 1/3 pan of shaved brussels sprouts. The only thing he says to me is “That’s probably enough” as I get to the top of the 1/3 pan. i almost cut my fingers off twice on the mandonline.

Then I am told to roast chestnuts. Oh wow. I am actually going to learn something today! I have never roasted chestnuts before! Unfortunately, though, I have to admit this to the chefs when they tell me to roast them. Chef E tells me to put them on the grill. Another cook tells me to put them in the oven and cover them with foil. I chose the grill. I enjoy burning my hands and arm hairs off. I am told to score each chestnut at the tip, and drop all of them all over the grill. By the time I am done, the light downy arm hair on my right arm is completely gone and my fingers ache with heat. I even used long tongs to rotate the chestnuts, but it was unsuccessful. The burning is inevitable.

That night, I do the same tasks as the night before. Toast bread. Watch J do quenelles. Shuck oyster after oyster. The only wrench in my boredom is that Chef E makes me cook family meal. At first, it is gonna be sloppy joe's, or meatloaf. But, I settle on spaghetti and meatballs in red sauce. I make my meatballs from prosciutto and beef chuck with fennel, red pepper flakes, parsley, ricotta, egg, and parmigiano reggiano. The sauce is spontaneous with San Marzano tomatoes, a load of garlic, sugar, sherry vinegar, lots of salt, and tons and tons of basil, thyme, and leftover scraps from whatever needs to be re-prepped the next day for service.

I cook five nests of spaghetti and reduce my sauce as much as I can until the spaghetti is cooked. My meatballs are baked in the oven. I toss the pasta with the sauce, that need to still be reduced, and then stir the meatballs in the mixture. I take a very large, almost unmanageable hunk of parmigiano reggiano and grate it on to a plate, struggling from the first grate on the microplane. “Want a bigger hunk of parm, Stage?” one of the cooks says to me. He peels the hunk of cheese from my hands, and shows me a more efficient way to grate the cheese. Regardless, his hands are bigger and he is stronger, so it will always be easier for him.

I plate the pasta on a large platter, and let it to be devoured by the staff. I get insecure, at first, knowing that this is not the best representation of my cooking, but at the same time, what am I supposed to do with the elements I have to work with? I am not going to plate a seared duck breast with fingerling potatoes, salsa verde, and a roasted Brussels sprouts for ten people. Pasta is perfectly suitable for family meal. Right?

After scrubbing almost everyone’s station so I could get the hell out of there, I leave at 11:45pm, fifteen minutes before everyone else. As I exited the building, and felt the crisp air on my face, I decided I would walk home instead of cab it. I needed to cool off at my waste of ten hours away from my husband and my life to toast bread and shuck oysters and make family meal for ten people who don’t say thank you, and scrub the entire kitchen. For everyone’s information, I quit my successful ballet career to learn how to cook, not to be a slave. But, I remind myself, step after step, that I am just at the beginning of my new career and I am not going to get the respect I deserve. Not yet.

My second weekend at Restaurant Three reminded me a lot of the first, except this time I got to work the position that J worked all last weekend. It isn’t intentional at first, the Pacojet is broken and it can’t whip the ice cream. So, I take over the station making salads that have slightly changed from the week before. But, before that I have to run out in the freezing cold Seattle winter and pick up more celeriac and a 1/4 lb. of mint at Frank’s, the local restaurant purveyor. My chefs coat and my clogs are a dead giveaway that I work in a restaurant, but when I tell the man at the counter to put the produce on Restaurant Three's account, the worker looks at me like I am some kind of crazy person. “What do you do at Restaurant Three?” This is my least favorite question. I mean, how do I respond? Well, I work for free so that I do not have to pay for cooking school and can get a job as a chef fifty-five hours a week at next-to-nothing for pay. But, I keep my irritation inside, and tell him politely that I am a “stage” for Restaurant Three today. “He treating you good?” the guy says to me. I smile, “Of course!”

When I come back, J is still working on the Pacojet, and I begin to take over the tickets that come to the station. I ask J questions, and he tells me I need to get in the habit of reading the menu and knowing what is changed. “Didn’t you do that at the other restaurants?”, he says. “Yes,” I say curtly, “But at the other restaurants, I always prepped the station I was working.” The ticket read Endive Salad, and I scanned the menu to find the salad, panicking because my eyes couldn’t scan the paper fast enough. I assembled the salad with chunks of pears, crushed hazelnuts, shallots I had chopped earlier in the day, and a huge handful of freshly washed arugula. I make a dressing in the bowl and toss it with my hands, lightly, as if I am picking up egg shells. I find a stark white square plate, the only plate used for this salad, and place three endive leaves face up and two stacked on top of it, face down. Then the hazelnuts, pears, and arugula are tightly mounded in my hand, and then mounded on top of the endive platform.

J looks over and says to me, “higher and tighter.” I try to manipulate the salad with my hands, which doesn’t really work, and I decide to re-plate the entire salad. “That salad gets arugula now, not watercress, too.” I remake the entire salad, saving the large chunks of pear and the endive. Chef E comes in to help J with the Pacojet, and I continue to plate every dish that comes out of the garde manger, as they curse at the broken machine.

It is definitely more interesting than last week, that is for sure, but the garde manger at Restaurant Three is the rookie spot. I have been lucky enough to cook at both Restaurant Two and The Restaurant on the line. Most chefs at Restaurant Three don’t even get to touch a burner until after a year, or so. At least my arms will have the ability to heal this month.

The next evening is much the same. J steps to the side to let me plate salads. I can’t practice my quenelles because the Pacojet is officially broken, and J has had to whip all the ice creams in the Kitchen-aide mixer with the whisk. I feel like I am living in ground hogs day. Doing the same task, and feeling bored and underwhelmed with this restaurant. To top it all off, the owner is still not at Restaurant Three. He has another catering, which has taken him away from the line this evening as well.

As the evening slows down, my legs start to get tired. Nobody drinks at Restaurant Three, and this is about the time where I would be downing a beer to make the pain in my legs stop. I hoist myself on the mini freezer and let my legs dangle, with my clogs half off the back of my heels. One of the line cooks walks by and says to me, “Counters are for glasses, not asses.” I open up my eyes really wide, and much to my surprise, I back talk him. “He doesn’t plate anything on here,” I say. The line cook comes back around the corner, gives me an evil stare, and walks back to the line. Where did that come from? Why am I back talking chefs that I want to respect me? Stupid and snarky. What am I thinking!

Chef E comes around the corner and says, “Stage. Family meal,” as he points to me. I take it as a punishment for my back-talking explosion. I ghetto gourmet some twice baked potatoes, and again, nobody says a word.

That night, I leave at 11:20 after cleaning everyone’s station. Again. This is the one thing about being a chef. You clean just as much as you cook.

The next day doesn’t get much better. Ice explodes all over the kitchen when the top flew off of a broken food processor as I am grinding it for the oyster platers. I drop a 1/3 pan of watercress all over the ground after I explicitly remember closing the refrigerator door. It must have not closed all the way, and the 1/3 pan slipped out, cascading the frilly lettuces all over the hole marked brown kitchen map. It is almost worst than wearing a blue finger condom after you cut yourself. Almost. We have tons of dishes to go, and I can’t sweep my area. So, I am just stepping on watercress repeatedly, reminding me of my klutziness. But the worst mishap is when I heat up two hot chocolate desserts on two of the burners on the line in two small eight ounce copper All-clad pans. To get them hot enough, you have to turn the flame on high. Well, the flames are not even in heat, I learn. One of the pans starts to bubble over and the smell of burnt chocolate starts to permeate the room. Instinctively I grab it from the flame without a prep towel in my hand. Oh. My. Gosh.

It is as if I had stuffed my hand in a fireplace and closed the latch. It burned and burned and burned. Long past when the server came to pick up the warm hot chocolate with the vanilla bean marshmallows bobbing in the thick chocolate. Long after I scrubbed the burner that night where crusted burnt chocolate lingered from my mistake. That night, after I was home, as I brushed my teeth, my hand still burned from the hot metal handle, reminding me that I should hold on to humility, and be receptive of what Restaurant Three has to teach me, no matter how disappointed I feel that I am not working intimately with the owner and getting to work on the line.

Maybe I should just stick to the cold station for now. It might be safer for me, more at my speed, and can help me heal my poor little arms and hands that are slowly starting to look like my former wounded dancer feet.

The Groove

2009-07-28T08:20:00.000-07:00

I am feeling irresolute as this summer Staging is coming to an end. As I start work today, I feel empty, wishing that I could dance all day and then go to The Restaurant and cook all night. There are just not enough hours in my day. I stop by to pick up my knives that I left at The Restaurant over the weekend, and The Sous asks me if I am going to suit up and help them today, or “am I over it?” Ha! Yeah right. I am so tempted to stay. But, I know that staying up until 12:30 on a “school” night will not serve me well tomorrow at my real job.

My former artistic directors from the ballet came into The Restaurant this weekend to finally watch me in action. Any time someone comes into The Restaurant that I know (which has happened countless times this summer), I have this weird feeling like I am not being the person that they think they know. Sometimes, like I have told you before, I feel like I am living a double life. I am not quite sure how to handle people observing that I have this other love that is not ballet; A love I have only ever felt while cooking. I feel weird as I walk out to greet them from behind the Boos Block in my Chef’s jacket and apron, exposed and uneasy, which, if you know me, is not my personality at all. I feel the most confident when I am in my kitchen cocoon, having my own personal experience as I cook food for married couples, best friends, the uncomfortable diners, and first dates. It is the same feeling I have being on stage with the ballet. I don’t have to talk, but just move my body and produce art for people who are watching me, without interaction.

On Saturday, The Sous calls me to tell me he will be late, and to start a couple of tasks like putting the Russets in the oven for the gnocchi, taking the butter out of the walk-in for the biscotti, and defrosting the prawns that had just been delivered that day from the East Coast. When I get to The Restaurant, there is only one potato so I can’t start the roasting, I cut up the butter to soften it but I am blanking on the amount of sugar that goes into the biscotti recipe itself, and my drip system to defrost the prawns is a little precarious.

So, the only tasks I have left are to just chop, and chop, and chop, and chop. I am horrified and alone with just my knife skills to keep me company. And let me tell you, I don't like their company. This leaves me quiet, and irritated as 5pm rolls around and I begin to cook.

I had been working with Chef M on Thursday and Friday of that week. He works much differently with me than The Sous. He always has a lesson to teach me, and he likes to work with me on many of the projects, rather than letting me fend for myself. The Sous is different. He lets me flounder a bit, and then comes in for the rescue, having probably watched me struggle the entire time. I love these two juxtapositions at The Restaurant. They work together beautifully teaching me how to be independent, but also allowing me to know I have some support when I feel like I am sinking. I am disappointed, though, because Chef M has Saturday nights off, which means because I am working only Saturdays this coming year, this past Friday night was probably the last time I will cook with him. He is a brilliant teacher that will be missed.

Overall, I feel like I really took a huge turn in my cooking this past weekend, though. On Saturday night, after quickly getting out of my quiet mood, I basically ran the whole pasta station by myself. The Sous is observing and coaching, and helping me out by warming my plates in the salamander, or completing a finished plate of pasta with a drizzle of olive oil and pangrattato.

Originally, last week, they told me I would be running the whole station by myself without someone their to assist me. I knew I would not ready for this. At all. It is not the cooking that I have anxiety about, but the Mise en Place that would take me hours and hours. I would probably have to bring my sleeping bag, and sleep on The Restaurant's floor the night before so that I could wake up at the crack of dawn, and start my prep work. I would probably still be prepping at 9pm that evening, thinly slicing garlic and dicing anchovy filets to order.

But, luckily I have had two days of Chef M’s pasta training to prepare me for Saturday. Besides one of my dishes being slightly too lemony, and everything always needing just a pinch more of Kosher salt, I thought I did a pretty good job for my first Saturday night almost alone. At around 10, there is an order for gnocchi, and The Sous asks me if he can cook the dish to see if he “still has it in him.”

Ha! I have this odd feeling that he still does.

Their is this sensation that Chefs get, The Sous calls it The Groove, when you mindlessly, yet passionately, cook and create food for hours and hours. I finally experience this on Saturday night, as sweat pours down my temples and I create dish after dish as if I am dancing choreography that is only known in my muscle memory. It is a rush; An addiction. I have only ever known this feeling while performing on stage.

After this summer, I have decided I am probably not going to go to cooking school. I hear mixed reviews, and I have asked EVERY Chef their opinion that I have met over the summer. But after a conversation late Saturday night, after The Restaurant closes, the Chefs tell me to just work with as many Chefs as I can and learn everything possible from each one. I won’t learn how to butcher a Hamachi at cooking school, or be quizzed on how to wipe cheese off a knife I have borrowed. Yes. I actually forgot to wipe off a Chef’s knife after I cut a soft cheese for a cheese plate, and then they used it to cut into a sashimi grade Ahi Tuna. He was not happy with me.

I won't learn those kinds of lessons in cooking school. I will learn, however, how to perfect my brunoise, and julienne, and know the recipes to hundreds of sauces, stocks, and reductions. But, is this not also something I can learn on the job?

Some Chef’s will teach you to clean your station as you go, while others will want you to clean your station after you finish a dish. Some Chef’s will want you to bring your pot you are cooking with to your 1/9 pans, while other’s will want you to keep the hot pan away from their Mise en Place so that it doesn't get spattered with olive oil and butter. Some Chef’s believe you are the artist, while others want you to do exactly as they tell you, word for word.

The most important part about being a Chef, and learning from a Chef, is humility paired with hard work. All of the Chefs that I have met this summer are the most humble, brilliant men, who work harder than anyone I know. I am honored to have gotten to know them, and watch them get into The Groove.

I want to thank everyone at Anchovies & Olives, "The Restaurant" for the most amazing, life changing summer: Especially Head Chef Charles, The Sous Chef Manu, Chef Matt, Chef Brandin, and Ethan Stowell, The Owner. Thank you for teaching me this foreign language that I now feel like I can communicate with just a little better. I am elated that my stark white Chef's coat now has stains of olive oil, blood, and parsley.

I will be Staging there on Saturday nights throughout the year when I am not performing with Pacific Northwest Ballet.

And Readers, Thank you so much for going on this journey with me of Summer Spoon.

The Chefs Are The Exception, I Am The Rule

2009-07-24T08:58:00.000-07:00

When a night is slow at The Restaurant, I look for odd jobs to fill the time. I change out all of the ice beds for the fish, re-wrap items in clear film until they are airtight, organize the walk-in, condense produce from 1/6 pans to 1/9 pans, or prep extra cauliflower for the next day. But, I got worked last night at my new station at The Restaurant. There was no down time for me.

I know I have worked hard at The Restaurant when I come home and my feet smell like a teenage boy, my skin is sticky from either sweat or olive oil splatter or pasta water evaporation, and my back aches. Last night, I was tempted to have Chef M crack it in the open kitchen, but I thought that was pushing it a bit for being a Stage.

I made gnocchi yesterday for the second time since that first weekend. I work in tandem with Chef M, meditatively rolling the gnocchi out in AP flour into long, snake-like shapes, and creating square pieces with a pastry cutter. I roll the squares down on my wooden gnocchi board, creating little lines for aesthetic. As I look over, I realize that I am half as slow as Chef M and he is diving into my pile of little potato squares. He throws the gnocchi onto the board and rolls them with his palm like a machine. I am slightly more careful (surprise, surprise), which The Chefs would simply call slow.

I chop my daily task of shallots and chives for The Head Chef. I get a compliment on my chive chopping from Chef M as I clip my knife through the little green tubes as if I was mowing grass or cutting someone's hair. But, I still have can't get the hang of those damn shallots. As I hold my knife before I chop them, I feel like I am actually wearing Freddy Krueger's bladed glove in A Nightmare on Elm Street, and I am looking for my next shallot victim to shred and tear apart. And, when I finish chopping the shallots, I am sure they feel like they have been one of Krueger's murder victims.

When the service starts, we are consistent, but slow. But, in the blink of an eye, we have five pots on the stove at once, juggling the timing for each. Chef M teaches me how he would make each of the pasta dishes on the menu by reciting them aloud, usually as I am making another dish. I try to concentrate as he lists the ingredients in their order and how he wants each dish to look. He gives me pointers along the way over my shoulder: add pasta water to the prosciutto and the green beans after the saute for a bit; make sure you use enough white wine to steam the clams and have a sauce remaining; add more green beans than you think for the malloreddus pasta dish; the gnocchi can use a couple of grinds of black pepper; don't put the zucchini pesto in over the heat for too long or it will brown; make sure you add enough pasta water to the compound butter so that it is saucy when it reaches the table.

With five pots on the stove, and tickets coming out of the till in two's and three's, I can not imagine being at this station all alone, yet. I would be drowning in sea of yellow and white tickets, desperately trying to stay afloat, and begging The Chefs's to throw me a life preserver into my ocean of paper. But, I love the adrenaline rush and multi-tasking that this kind of night requires.

I burn garlic. I burn red pepper flakes. I forget to add squash blossoms to one of the dishes. I leave pots in the salamander too long, and they are too hot to handle. I accidentally deep fry a pea. Just one. But, I am not the only one. Even the best Chef's mess up.

Chef M forgets to taste the malloreddus pasta for doneness before he tosses it into his pancetta, green bean, and chard mixture. He has to start again, which I have never seen him do, or any of The Chef's for that matter. But, I have to admit, it makes me feel just a teensy bit better. I have tasted the pasta just seconds before, knowing it isn't ready, but my brain can't trigger to my mouth fast enough as he was pouring the pasta into the sauce that the little shells are not ready to be taken out of the water. Maybe a Peronni would have remedied this? Also, one of the new chefs in training nicks his finger on his knife. This also makes me feel a smidgen better. Sometimes I feel like I am the only one who constantly makes mistakes. Oh, yes. That's right. Because I do constantly make mistakes. The Chefs are the exception, I am the rule.

But, my night is not bad. At all. It is actually probably the best night I have had in a long time at The Restaurant. Thanks to Chef M's coaching, I finally get the hang of flipping the pasta ingredients, with just my left hand, in the All-Clad saucier. This makes everything faster for me because I don't have to reach behind me for a spoon to stir the pasta, or use tongs to toss it around and break up the elements of the dish. I was worried I would never get the hang of flipping. Chef M tells me, admittedly, he was worried too. My hand does get a cramp once, under the blue towel, and I have to pry it open with my other hand. I hope it is going to be in the permanent shape of a fist, like a cast iron sculpture, as a tribute to my success at flipping. No luck.

At the end of the night, I feel like I have just completed a really hard show with the ballet. I have tons of adrenaline, and I am smiling ear to ear. Starved for sustenance, and I can't wait to drink a little (a lot), eat a five dollar happy hour pizza with The Chefs, and go to sleep to wake up and do it all again the next day. And who says these two worlds, ballet and cooking, aren't similar?

The Last Weekend

2009-07-22T17:42:00.000-07:00

This is my official last weekend at The Restaurant. It is bittersweet because although I would love to stay there, my bank account is screaming at me to deposit a paycheck from Pacific Northwest Ballet.

It has been intense these past two weeks, juggling working at The Restaurant with my routine "get your ass in shape" ballet workout: a 1 1/2 hour ballet class, a 45-minute run, and an occasional curl with an oh-so-heavy eight pound dumbbell. Last Thursday, as Chef M hands me my nightly warm vodka shot, I use the excuse that I am not going to drink it because I have to get up early and work out the next day. I must be kidding myself? After working at The Restaurant the normal 12 hour shift, I stay in bed long enough to ignore my phone alarm clock, miss the morning class(es), leisurely take my time getting my tall Americano at the corporate coffee shop, and all of a sudden, poof!, it is 1 p.m. Oops! It is obviously not sustainable to be a Stage and a ballerina.

So, I am wondering to myself, what I am going to do when I work there every Saturday I can when I am not performing this coming ballet season?

Yes. I am staying at The Restaurant. I must be temporarily insane.

Practice Makes Perfect

2009-07-20T08:45:00.000-07:00

The comments have been made, and suggestions have been offered. And, yesterday, on a whim and maybe a homework suggestion from The Sous, I bought $23.46 of produce at Whole Foods, and decide it is about damn time.

I lock myself in my kitchen (even though it is an open kitchen), and for two hours I get to know the characteristics and personalities of the likes of white onions, shallots, fennel bulbs, long bulk carrots, cantaloupes, and navel oranges. I chop, and chop, and chop until my back hurts and my knives are dull. My job is to teach myself, by shear will and practice, how to mince, dice, julienne, and brunoise all of these vegetables. It is time.

My goal is to figure out different approaches, like pulling through the length of my Chef's knife blade when mincing onions, rather than just pushing down on the bulb with my Santoku. Or to finally create a consistent 1/8 inch brunoise out of a carrot, and dice a melon into the same size pieces as The Owner and Chef M did this past weekend for the Escolar crudo.

I became insecure about my knife skills on the first day at The Restaurant, when I butcher a red onion unrecognizable. They are in shapes that not even a Geometry major could attempt to describe. I obviously am also using the wrong technique to cut the onion, as well, hence the abiding scar on the tip of my ring finger from a battle with a peach pit and my paring knife.

You would think after a couple of weeks I would catch on. But even this past weekend, I am mincing chives for The Sous and The Head Chef, and The Sous looks at my knife work and says, "Stage. What are you doing? Is this your first day of school"? I whine, telling him that my fingers are curled, and he retaliates by reminding me that my knuckles are not resting on my blade like he showed me that very first day, and that puts me at risk of cutting myself (which we know I do), even when my fingers are curled. I have to admit, having that security of your knuckles on the blade helps me to guide my knife where it needs to go, with both hands, not just one. I also hate to admit that it helps me with the consistency of the chop because I know exactly where the knife is going. I see that I am not going to win this battle.

He also explains to me that I have to be methodical in my cutting technique. Cutting chives, for example, is a rhythm, like the breaths and strokes of a swimmer. Each time your blade finishes swooshing through the chives you have given it, you then re-adjust your hands, so that you can cut more of those chives in that same rhythm, using that same technique, and having those same knuckles on your left hand gently resting on your blade.

The same goes for a brunoise, or a dice. You square your produce off, be it a melon or a carrot, cut that shape into planks, cut the planks into sticks (julienne), and then rotate the sticks so that you can create a fine dice (brunoise). Just as consistent as those long crawl strokes of a swimmer.

I also learn this past weekend that when you mince parsley, you pick the leaves all off of the hard stems (which I would have never done before). Then, you take a bunch of the large dark green leaves and bunch them up into a small ball in your fingers. Then you chiffonade the parsley so that it creates small, fluffy ribbons. Once you are done chiffonading all of the parsley, then you go back and run your knife over the parsley so that it turns into tiny confetti. It is much easier than just running your knife all over the cutting board trying to find the miscellaneous pieces of parsley that you didn't get the first time around. I have been chasing damn flat-leaf parsley around my freaking cutting board for the majority of my cooking life.

I also have to work on efficiency in my knife work tasks. Last weekend, I was supreming three oranges and two grapefruits for The Owner, yet, I was just working on one piece at a time. The Sous points out that he would take those five pieces of citrus, and cut each of the fruit's tops and bottoms off, all at once, then cut around each one, back to back, and then work on supreming them individually.

So, after being cooped up in my house for two hours on one of the most beautiful Summer days Seattle has given us, and knowing I could have been laying out on Lake Washington listening to the clinking of sailboat masts in the wind, and reading some of my new A-16 cookbook, I felt pleased with my attempt at anal retentive, and methodical chopping skills.

From far away, like an impressionistic Monet painting, the mise en place came together, and I could have been mistaken for Eric Ripert. But up close, there were inconsistencies which I will one day improve. I just have many, many, many more hours of homework ahead of me with those pesky vegetables, and my knives. Sharpened like a razor blade, of course.

The Owner

2009-07-19T16:51:00.000-07:00

Generally, when you are working a shift at The Restaurant, you stroll into the doors around 1:00 depending on how long your prep list is from the night before, and get started on your day. The Owner, who is filling in for one of The Chefs this evening, is coming in at around 3. The night before, Chef M gave me the heads up. The Owner told him to keep his prep list small, and Chef M told me I would probably be doing all of The Owner’s simple tasks on his prep list until he arrived. I have never worked with The Owner before, and have interacted with him fewer times than the fingers on my left hand. But, I have heard story, after story, after story and I have no idea what to expect.

I come in a little late, due to a slight moderate hangover from a shot of something “brown” the night before, the Montlake Bridge being up from Saturday’s recreational boating crowd, and running into Chef B and his woman on my walk from the bus stop to The Restaurant.

I get in and The Sous looks at his watch and shakes his head jokingly, despite sending him a text that I would be late, and asks me if I have looked at my prep list. No because I literally just walked in the door. He tells me to do all the things on the list that I feel comfortable with (which is about two), and don’t even attempt to do any of the intricate chopping because, as he explains to me, “The Owner loves to chop shit”. I start with my daily duty of cutting mini pieces of cauliflower florets. I have gotten it down to a fine science, and although not fast, I can definitely get all the pieces consistent. A huge accomplishment on my part, and a menial task The Owner just doesn’t need to do.

I move on to toasting pine nuts, grilling treviso, and supreming grapefruit. After struggling a bit with the citrus, and realizing I probably should have left this particular task for The Owner, The Sous shows me an easier way to desegment. With his pairing knife, he cuts a significant amount of the peel off of the top and the bottom of the fruit, so that it stands stable and upright on the cutting board. Then he works around the fruit, cutting much deeper than I would to remove all of the pith so that you get rid of any white impurities. Then, he holds in his hand and using a pairing knife, cuts into each side of the membrane, creating juicy half moons, flipping it open like a book, and tossing them into a 1/9 pan. It seems simple enough when he does it.

Right around this time, The Owner saunters in with his Vespa helmet in hand. He socializes a bit, and begins flagrantly sharpening his knifes and butchering a Hamachi. If I wasn’t so distracted with all of my duties, I could have just stared at him for hours. Seeing a new Chef in the kitchen is as exiting as going grocery shopping with some one else's debit card. He makes small talk with The Chefs. The conversation stems around people I do not know the names of, and experiences in which I have no reference point. He addresses me once, wondering what jobs I have completed on his prep list. Then he tells me he doesn’t like the aioli I had made the day before because it is too garlicky and too eggy. What he doesn’t know, and what I fail to tell him, is that I broke the aioli yesterday, and this is my doctored version so that I didn’t waste ingredients. He then tells me he always does one egg yolk to ¾ c. olive oil for his aioli recipe. Noted.

I go to the back kitchen and begin to make a new aioli for him in the food processor, remembering to use less garlic, a splash of water which is the key, and to slowly drizzle in the olive oil. My hands are sweating because I always break aioli. Well, at least the only two times I have ever made it before. As I am slowly drizzling in the olive oil, Chef M, although it is his day off, comes into the back kitchen and the first thing he says to me is, “Hey Stage! How many things have you fucked up today?” At that moment, I am just finishing making my first successful aioli. He looks at it, and says, “Well, it’s about damn time!”.

All of a sudden, it is 5:00. I still have about 45 minutes of tasks left, like shelling and then over-blanching peas, and squeezing lemon juice. The Sous tells me this is because I am not efficient or fast enough in my prep work. I agree with him, knowing that I didn’t map out my duties because I didn’t know what I should do versus what The Owner should do.

Seriously. Why do I always make excuses for myself?

At 5:45, the only thing that is left to make is the Fried Almonds, which I let fall by the wayside, and I finally put on my Chef’s coat and apron, and emerge from my lair, which I call the back kitchen.

Although I prepped all day for the cold station, I am actually going to be working with The Sous on the pasta station. He tells me I am going to do the Gnocchi dish, the Tagliarini, and the Bigoli pasta. He and Chef M always show me the how they would cook the dish first, and my goal is to try to memorize and recreate what they have just done.

Maybe it is because pasta is forgiving in presentation, but I really enjoy working at this station. Or maybe it is because I needed a change of scenery? I still can’t cut fish to save my life for the crudo at the cold station, or shuck oysters fast enough, but I do feel a little more comfortable with being artistic with plating food. I just need a break from lemon juice and finishing oil, and I am eager to get back to sauteing garlic and red pepper flakes, and tossing pasta with tongs, and heating bowls in the salamander.

The Owner, although very chatty during his small amount of prep time, is quiet and focused with his head down at his cold station. He changes many of the recipes on a whim. He leaves items out, like not adding cracked black pepper to a dish that specifically says on the menu: Ahi Tuna, Strawberry, Black Pepper. Or randomly adding ingredients not even listed on the menu to a dish, as if it was an pseudo amuse bouche. But, he is The Owner. I didn't get a chance to see anything that he plated because I was too far away, but he is careful and clean with everything that he does.

As the pasta station gets busier, I get an opportunity to cook more, and more. I probably made 20 or more pasta dishes over the night, and it felt good to be back where I was that first day at The Restaurant.

The Owner looks over when he is not busy and watches me work while making little comments to me like, “Is there chopped parsley in that Bigoli?” or “You don’t need to finish that dish with Marula. There is already ¼ cup of oil in the recipe to begin with.” At one point, while making the Gnocchi, I have to separate an egg yolk to set on top of the dish so that when you stir the gnocchi, the egg yolk makes a carbonara-like sauce. With the side of the small bowl, I pressed down a little bed for the egg yolk, and slid the egg yolk over the Gnocchi. As I went to put the bowl away, the egg yolk slid from the middle of the dish to the side. At first, I thought this was okay, because The Sous had put out a dish earlier in the evening when he was first teaching me the recipe that had the egg yolk on the side. I like how it looks like a sunrise or sunset, off center and kind of mock modern presentation. So, I assumed that if the yolk did slide, It wouldn’t be THAT big of a deal. As I went to reach for the Mohama to finish off the dish, The Owner looks over and says, “I hope you are going to put that egg yolk back in the middle.” I am scared that I will probably break the yolk if I was to move in back in the center, which would mean redoing the whole Gnocchi dish from start to finish. The Sous senses my hesitance, and reaches for the spoon and slides the yolk back in the middle. Crisis averted.

Why do I feel like I am back at ballet, and I am getting auditioned for a part?

At around 10, The Owners station is slow, and he decides he is going to go home. The Restaurant closes at Midnight. Guess who gets to clean his station? The Owner tells me I will be taking over his cleaning duties at his station and tells me what he wants me to get rid of at the end of the night, and what he is going to change for the next day. He also tells me he has changed out all of the 1/9 pans and that all I have to do is cover them with cellophane. Wow. I am surprised because I expected to do more work. I mean, I would have changed out all of his 1/9 pans. That is the least I could do for him.

At the end of the night, after cleaning all of The Owner’s station, taking our nightly warm vodka shot, and chasing it with a cold beer, I realize that this entire organization is doing me such a huge favor. I am out of my league with this caliber of restaurant, and with the people that I work with. The Sous is a prodigy, Chef M is a master, and The Head Chef, well, there are just no words. I constantly mess up, probably make their jobs harder than they have to be, yet, they still seem willing to teach me and help me grow. The Owner doesn’t even know me that well, yet he is allowing me to learn at one of his restaurants, learn from his hand-picked staff, and freely spend his money with all the food that I destroy.

How did I get so lucky?

Biscotti Nightmares

2009-07-17T11:22:00.000-07:00

I went to eat at The Restaurant with my Mom for the second time this week since I have been back from my vacation. I knew I would get shit right as I walked in the door. The Head Chef said smirkingly, “again!?”. I guess they think I am coming here just to eat, and not to work. I assured them I was coming back the next day.

The food was stunning again, of course, but I have to admit that it was even better than last time which was just six days before. Maybe I am biased, because I adore these Chefs and respect their food and palates, but it is quickly becoming one of my favorite places to eat in Seattle.

After the dinner is over, I say goodbye to my Mom, and decide to sit at the bar. I spot one of the Sous Chefs of a sister restaurant, I join him at the bar. We drink an entire bottle of Italian Prosecco as we get into a whirlwind conversation about the similarities between the dance world and the food industry, our love of pickles, running, and the extremely odd professions that we have chosen. I adore Chefs.

Then, The Sous pops his head around to the bar. I assume he is going to ask me to get up and do a task for him. But, it is even better. He asks me if I wanted my prep list for the next day. Ha! I love that I am sitting at the bar drinking, and I am getting my task list for the next day. This is why I love this place. He tells me my job tomorrow will be…..dun dun dunnnnh….

Biscotti.

All of a sudden, I am wishing I didn’t drink a half a bottle of Prosecco.

Ugh. Biscotti seems to be the one thing that is inconsistent EVERY time that I make it: Burnt on the bottom, crumbly, underworked dough, pistachios too big. I am determined to make it good this time.

I arrive the next day after finishing a grueling ballet class and 2 mile run, excited, like it is my first day of school. I plop my polka dot knife bag, and my Kooba purse in the back kitchen, put on my white bistro apron that is too long around the neck, take a deep breath, and get going on the biscotti.

I first take out the butter, which has not been taken out the night before, and stick it on a prep pan over the grill to soften it. When I come back after a few minutes, Chef M has chopped my 1 cup of butter into little pieces. I guess that would make sense. The smaller surface area makes the butter warm faster. I told you I don’t use my brain sometimes.

So, I put the butter in the commercial black standing mixer and start to soften it with the giant steel paddle. I know the recipe by heart, or at least I think I do, and I start adding one egg into the butter.

This is not the recipe.

I realize I forgot to cream the butter with the sugar first. So, to fix my mistake, I just add the 1 cup of sugar into the one egg and butter mixture and continued on my way, hoping that this little error doesn’t mess up the whole recipe. I think I would die of humiliation.

I continue on with the eggs, adding them in one at a time, until the mixture is a frothy yellow sugar. Then, I measure out the flour. As I am doing this, Chef M walks in to the back kitchen and give me one of those looks like, “Stage, what are you doing?”. He tells me I should always spoon my flour into a measuring cup so that it is not packed down. Then he says, technically, I should be weighing the flour, because that is the only way to have an exact flour measurement. He is a fantastic baker.

I obviously start spooning the flour into the measuring cups.

I measure everything out, and slowly add the flour to my egg mixture. The standing mixer, resists the flour at first, but then slowly starts to incorporate it. Dust from flour gets all over me, the standing mixer, and the prep counter. I get a comment about being a messy cook. This is true.

After I have slowly incorporated the flour, I add in the different size chopped and toasted pistachios, and improvement I have made since my last batch. The mixer sounds like it is going to break, and so I decide I am going to work the dough by hand to avoid any accidents. I go to touch it, and it feels really gummy like a bread dough, so I decide to just leave it in the mixer, crossing my fingers as I add the pistachios. The mixer sounds like a old car that doesn’t want to start. It is resisting the pistachios. Why. Why. Why?

Everyone has a comment, which I am now realizing is the life of a line cook. You always have mixed messages coming at you from every Chef who does it their own way. Chef B, looks at the mixer and says, you should have just done the whole recipe by hand like how I taught you. Then, Chef M walks by, tastes the dough, pretends to spit it out, and says,”Stage, there is so much gluten in this thing, it is going to be like a loaf of bread.” I have now over-mixed the dough. I am, as you can imagine, panicked. My first task in two weeks, and I am going to mess this biscotti up, again.

Chef M then rolls out the dough for me into a long thin loaf, presses it with his fingers, and points out how much the dough is bouncing back. Then he says we are just going to bake it anyway, to see how it turns out.

We stick it in the oven for 30 minutes at 325 degrees. I say a little prayer.

As I am separating cauliflower florets on the opposite end of the Boos Block, I hear a ringing from the timer for the Biscotti. Chef M, who is closest to the oven, gets to the biscotti first, and opens the door. I feel like he is breaking into a treasure chest, wondering if there will be gold.

I look at him. He closes the oven, silent, and looks back at me. He says, “I checked on your bread, its not done yet.” Ha! Bread.

I give the bread about 15 more minutes, and I take it out of the oven, just barely browned and looking like all the biscotti that comes out of the oven at The Restaurant. But with all the shit I have been given, I am fully expecting to see a challah loaf, or a french baguette appear after all that gluten I created. But, alas, the biscotti prevailed.

Now the waiting game begins.

The biscotti has to cool before you slice it off, and bake it for the next time. The slicing is the nerve wracking part. Will it crumble and break under your Chef’s knife? When you taste the butts of the biscotti, will the flour and baking powder be properly sifted? Did you add enough leavening and sugar?

When the biscotti has cooled, I bring it to the prep table to start the slicing. I wince, as I make the first incision and my knife runs smoothly through the biscotti like butter. I take the end piece, the butt, and pop it into my mouth. Oh! Buttery, and nutty, with a great texture? I slice off the rest of the bread successfully with no crumbling, and put it back in the oven to bake at 200 degrees for another hour or so. I am feeling slightly more confident.

After flipping them once and testing them for hardness, I take them out of the oven to cool. I taste a small piece again, and I conclude that they are the best biscotti I have made. Extra gluten, my ass.

I tell Chef M that the biscotti turned out, and I think they are the best ones I have made so far. He looks at me, charmingly, and says, “Stage. I was just messing with you this whole time” and gives me a huge wide smile.

Ugh! I am so gullible.

The Banquet Squiggle

2009-07-14T15:16:00.000-07:00

Banquet Squiggle- A short wavy twist or line, similar to a curlicue, that was used at Hotel Banquets starting in the 90’s to garnish a plate

There are many tools used when plating and garnishing a dish. You have your microplane to grate fresh horseradish over Kumamoto oysters, or to grate Mojama over a deconstructed carbonara. You have your ceramic mandoline and your vegetable peeler to cut thin crisp slices of a green apple, or shave a small Persian cucumber. But most importantly, you have your opaque 12 oz. and 6 oz. squeeze bottles for sauces and dressings. Maybe they have a lovage puree, or a creamy anchovy dressing. Or they contain a thick lemony aioli, or a frothy watermelon broth.

There are many options for plating these sauces and dressings: you can spoon the sauce in a corner and run the back of your spoon through it to create a sort of teardrop like arrow, you can drip consecutively bigger dots next to each other down the side of the plate, you can draw a straight line on the edge of your plate, or splatter the sauce, Jackson Pollock style.

But, no matter what is in those squeeze bottles, do not ever, ever, EVER use them to create a banquet squiggle.

I feel uninspired as I begin to plate a crudo dish that I had already finished slicing and prepping on my cutting board. In a loss for creativity and lack of experience, and maybe eating at too many “trendy” restaurants in the 90’s when my influences started to take shape, I start to complete the final element, which is to create a garnish with the mint puree from one of the squeeze bottles.

I am sure you can imagine what happens next.

I create a short wavy twist with that 12 oz. squeeze bottle in the corner of the white square plate, feeling at that exact moment, as I lift the bottle into the air to finish, that it was the lazy way out. Immediately I sense Chef M’s eyes bore into my plating.

He says to me in his slight southern accent, “Oh, Stage. Stage. Be Careful there. We do not want this establishment’s food looking like some kind of hotel banquet, now, do we?” At that, he quickly picks up my plate to show The Sous and The Head Chef across the Boos Block what I have done, laughing hysterically. Then he says, “Stage gave you a little banquet squiggle.”

All I can do is laugh, hard. At myself, and with the other Chefs. I take the plate back and assure him I can fix it. I wonder if anybody has a toothpick lying around? I plan to just create a pattern from the squiggle that I have seen those same Hotel Chefs do with berry coulis.

Can you feel this getting worse?

I pull some lines through the squiggle with the end of my fork, but at this point, the mint puree has settled, and all that is left on my plate is a verdant rectangle of slop. It looks like an ironic grass stain lying there on that white square plate. It reminds me of the grass stain I had in middle school, on the butt of my favorite pair of white Calvin Klein cut-off shorts, that I adamantly wore because I was too prideful to throw them away. He says to me, “Now you are just making a mess.”

Maybe this is my hint to get myself a food plating book. But, I can assure you, It will have the banquet squiggle in there.

It is a classic.

But, regardless, the Chefs are never going to let me live this one down.

In It For The Long Run

2009-07-13T13:59:00.000-07:00

I miss The Restaurant. It has been two weeks since I have worked there and while I have had a fantastic vacation, it is bittersweet to stop in the middle of something you really want to be doing.

It has also made me reflect on my time there, what I am getting out of it, and my food life in general, not to mention the importance of keeping my standards high. Like ballet, at first, nobody ever believed that I would be a dancer. My childhood ballet teacher in my hometown of Virginia gave me the run around, playing with my mind, turning it into egg scramble of verbal abuse and discouragement, and attempting to prevent me from becoming a dancer on a daily basis. But, because of her disbelief in my potential, I basically showed her my really long middle finger by being accepted to the School of American Ballet in New York City at the highly mature and responsible age of fifteen until I was invited to join to this "little" company in Seattle called Pacific Northwest Ballet. Thus becoming the first professional dancer from my childhood school to ever get a job as an honest-to-goodness professional ballerina. The rest is history.

Not an easy history, but a fulfilling one at that.

I don't feel discouraged in the same way at The Restaurant. Well, not yet. But I do feel like people don't believe I am serious about wanting to become a Chef. People ask me, with a subtle laugh that I can see on the inside, if this is really something I want to be doing. Well, yes. I think so? But, like many others, the chef world is largely a male dominated profession, and I am starting at the bottom, naive and ignorant to the amount of work it requires, and talent pool I am joining. I feel like the runt of the puppy litter, hoping that someone will pick me, believe in me, and guide me as I grow.

I learn new things. Daily. Stupid things that The Chef's would assume to be common knowledge, but not so much as a "home cook". I burn my arms while taking giant pans of biscotti out of hot ovens, forget even the most basic recipes (rather, methods) that I thought I had known intimately like my eye color or shoe size, and constantly, constantly, constantly make mistakes. More mistakes than I have ever made before.

The other night The Owner came in to The Restaurant. I am immediately flustered because my station is not busy, and I must look stupid standing there like a wallflower twiddling my thumbs with nothing to do. He says hello to me, and gives me a vigilant look. Maybe he is thinking they are not keeping me busy enough? Is he wondering if I am actually learning anything from The Chefs? He walks away, and sits at the seven person bar with The Reviewer from a magazine that is writing an article about The Restaurant. I immediately ask Chef M what I can do to keep busy. He has me change clean out the ice pans in the fridge, and replace the ice. Relief.

That only took me ten minutes. Now what?

I come back to my station and an order has come up for The Owner and The Reviewer. Chef M starts the order taking careful time to create lines from squeeze bottles filled with herb sauces, slice heirloom cherry tomatoes and Persian cucumbers on the ceramic mandoline, and clearly plate the dish as if he is painting on canvas. I watch, mouth slightly ajar, no drool.

A few minutes go by, and Chef M tells me to take the next order. It is a monochromatic dish I have plated many times: hamachi, prosciutto, and marinated grilled mission figs (which tastes as amazing as it sounds). I start to slice the fish, something I have just started to get a hang of with his long Sashimi knife. I salt it, and start to plate it as I always do. Chef M looks over and tells me we are going to plate this dish differently because he didn't realize it was also for The Owner and The Reviewer (and who wants The Stage cooking for them!). As he goes to rearrange the fish from a fan stack, to individual pieces lined up on the plate, he discovers that I have not sliced the fish all the way through at the very bottom ends. They hold on like a seedling root in a Spring garden. Oops. I guess I knew that this could have been a possibility when I first sliced the fish, because it has happened before. But for some reason I let my standards go, and did not check it to make sure I had sliced it all the way through. What if they had given that to The Reviewer? Would she have noticed?

I am horrified.

Luckily, besides a little well-deserved sarcastic comment, Chef M handles my "mess" up pretty well. He saves me from being the lead in a my own personal horror flick. One in where The Owner yells at me, and tells me to get out of The Restaurant in the middle of service, because quite frankly, I can't even slice a damn piece of fish correctly.

Horrors.

But, when I finally ate at The Restaurant the other night after working there all summer, I realized the importance of every plate looking and being perfect. It was by far one of the most stunning meals I have eaten in a long time. It was odd being in the front of the house, removed from the action and banter in the kitchen, having my friends serve me, and wondering and imagining all the hours of preparation that went into each dish before The Restaurant opened.

My group ordered everything that The Head Chef made. I never get to work with him, so I feel like I know his cooking style, and palate the least out of everyone. I was stunned with every dish that came out; each one different in flavor and style. And, each one cooked to perfection, plated with elegance, yet understated. I told you in was in awe of The Head Chef.

Crazy as I am, this made me want to become a Chef even more. The jubilation that I had, eating the food of The Chefs I think so highly of, made me understand the difference between The Restaurant I "Stage" at, and the plethora of other places who do not have the same standards. I yearn to be able to create the same experience I just had when eating in The Restaurant. It reminds me of the stimulation I get while watching another ballet company, and itching to jump on the stage, and dance with them.

Through these moments of horror and self doubt, though, nothing has changed. I am still in it for the long run, and I am eager to get back to The Restaurant like I am eager to get on that stage while watching a show.

I just need to practice slicing that damn fish.

Rules at The Restaurant

2009-07-09T08:44:00.000-07:00

As I reflected about my first weeks of Staging on my recent vacation in Hawaii, here are some conclusions I have come to my attention that are just known facts about working at The Restaurant.

When asked to organize the "sub-zero-like" refrigerator after a huge delivery of produce from Frank's, do not put any green vegetables, especially celery, under the 1 1/2 foot space where the cold blowing fan dwells above the top shelf. The vegetables will freeze. Then, those vegetables that were just ordered, are ruined for anything other than vegetable stock, and have to be reordered again.

Do not walk in front of the commercial dishwasher on Saturday Nights. The floor is sodden with soapy dishwater. Watching Chef M and The Head Chef reach for you, with panic in their eyes as you are slipping, holding on to the metal sink for dear life, and running on the dishwater like Fred Flintstone in his stone wood car, is slightly humiliating.

Never throw anything away: be it the butts (or in my case, crumbly and burnt pieces) of the pistachio biscotti, the rounded edges of a crisp-green apple that are unsuitable for a bruinoise, the picked stems from Italian flat-leaf parsley, or the unservable pieces of escolar, hamachi, or fluke that are just not quite big enough for a portion of crudo. These items could be a snack for a server (or yourself), part of a family meal, a component of some sort of stock, or the one ingredient that is added to a dish that gives it that extra "oomph!". Oh! And, if they do accidentally end up in the garbage, don't think that you can pull them out.

Thou shall not wipe thy hands on ANY apron that thou is wearing; Not even the white bistro prep apron that gets washed each day. That is what the blue kitchen towel that you tie to on the right side of your apron is for. Even if the blue towel has fallen on the floor, as it frequently does because you have not learned how to adequately tie it to your apron, and you thought it was there when you were wiping, you will still get barked at.

Always, Always, Always use those blue kitchen towels to pick up any pot, or pan. Unless, of course, you want to rock a burnt and swollen left hand all night long. Although it could be sexy, it is not a recommendation of mine.

When slicing a peach (or anything for that matter), at 9pm on a Thursday night for Chef B (in a panic, of course), curl your fingers under your palm while slicing, for goodness sake. You do not want to have a bleed-out all over your Chef's coat, the hostess, the kitchen, and the peach. I am just saying...

As you are cooking a dish with your favorite giant silver spoon, tasting the dish for seasoning, and finding that it needs a touch more Kosher salt (it always needs more salt), do not stir it, again, with that same giant silver spoon you just had in your mouth, and re-taste the dish, again with the same spoon. The food will be contaminated, and is supposedly called double-dipping.

After drinking until 2:30 in the morning on your first day, do not, under any circumstances, use the tall garbage can in the kitchen to prop your weary body up the next day while you are observing. Although your brain is convinced it is the latest version of a La-Z-Boy chair, and you can hardly stand on your gold Adidas sneakers, The Sous will admonish you, tell you to wash your hands, and say it is unsanitary. The embarrassment is not worth the minimal appeasement between you, and your hangover.

And lastly, wear pants that are high enough to cover your butt-crack when you reach down to get cold ingredients from the lower fridge at the crudo station. The Restaurant customers (and staff) do not need to see your hot-pink-cheetah-print thong hanging out of the back of your low-rise True Religion Jeans right before your shuck four Kushi oysters. This is NOT sexy.

As Simple as a Shallot

2009-06-30T12:35:00.001-07:00

The Head Chef, quiet and innovative, finally taught me something at The Restaurant over the weekend. Usually, I don't ever get to work with him. His skills are far beyond anything I am able to do right now, or ever, and I know I would just get in his way. I watch him often though, desperate to see his artistic statements on stark white plates. He is always relaxed, and subtle, yet produces the most immaculate dishes. I know that in years to come, I will wish I knew how talented he really is right now. I don't even have the knowledge base to admire all of his gifts, and I am unaware that I am taking him for granted.

But, on Saturday, he asked me if I would help him out, for the first time. His task for me: finely mince shallots. My eyes grew wide.

Although a simple task for most cooks, mincing a shallot is rather difficult if you do not know the correct technique. And, I am just assuming that I don't. He asked me if I knew how to do it, and I said, I know how I would do it, but teach me how you would do it.

He says that everyone knows how to cut a shallot, but he has a slightly different technique. He peels the shallot and slices it in half so that it is more sturdy. (Never done that before). Then, like he was swooshing a wand, he slices the shallots horizontally upwards, making the cuts as close together as possible. (Hmm. Never thought about making them smaller or bigger that way). Then, he does the same vertically, rotates the shallot 45 degrees, then again vertically. Off of his shallot comes the smallest pieces of onion I have ever seen, all consistently minced. I could have stacked them one on top of each other, and it would have created a consistent tower of purple squares.

Then, he tells me not to run my knife back over the shallot because they get watery and don't last as long. (Oh...I always do that. Eek!) I nod my head at him, ears and eyes wide open to his lesson, and he leaves me be.

I leave his half cut shallot on the right hand corner of board, like a trophy, and begin to delve into my task for The Head Chef. I am nervous, and want to do it right. I can't go back, and rock my knife all over the shallots like I would at home to make them smaller. He will know, because by the end of his night, they will be watery.

So, slowly, I begin to recreate the example he just showed me. I swipe my pairing knife down the length of the shallot five times horizontally, as close as I can get the knife, and eight times vertically. Then I rotate the purple bulb and with a bigger knife, begin pulling it down the shallot. A confetti of onion begins to fall off of my knife. While not as consistent, it looks similar to The Head Chefs, which is far better than I thought for my first time trying his technique.

After about 4 shallots, and lots of onion tears, I have aquired a massive pile of minced purple and white confetti. I notice that some are bigger and some are smaller, but over all, the cuts are much more consistent that I have ever chopped a shallot before, and I didn't have to rock my knife back over it!

The Sous walks by, looks over at my cutting board, and says excitedly, "That's what I am talking about!" He obviously wasn't looking too closely, but I will take the compliment.

I put the shallots in 1/9 pans, sifting through the shallots with my finger tips to discover any long pieces I need to remove, and I quietly place them at The Head Chef's station.

I can't wait for the next lesson.

When The Doors Close

2009-06-29T10:11:00.000-07:00

I have always wondered why I have never met a Chef before working at The Restaurant. When most people are wrapping up their nights of debauchery at around midnight, The Chefs are just taking off their coats and aprons and starting their wind down from the past 12 hours of intense work.

At The Restaurant, closing servers, the hostess, and The Chefs all convene around the seven person bar. The bartender pours me a glass of an opened bottle of Prosecco that will not keep, or a well vodka shot from a bottle that is about to be done. The Sous and The Head Chef don't come right away. They stand, hunched and motionless over the giant Boos Block, intently fixing their eyes on the puzzle called the menu; deciding what to change and what to keep depending what produce Frank will bring in tomorrow.

The music at the bar gets turned up a couple of notches. Last Thursday, it was Michael Jackson tunes over and over again, that turned into a rather mild dance party with some of the staff from a restaurant down the street. We all proceed to fill our empty bellies with distilled liquor, and laugh, or bitch, about the day, and get to know each other a little better than during the 12 hours that we just worked together. Some people subtly dance in their chairs, some go for a smoke, others are pensive and observe the room, The Head Chef crunches numbers from the day while drinking a Perroni, and I just soak it all up.

I can't get enough.

On Friday nights we get a pizza (that is not on the menu) from one of Chef M's best friends, or we meet with some other Chefs and continue drinking at their restaurants, depending on the amount we drank the night before. On Saturday, if you were awake, you would have found us at IHOP on Capitol Hill at 3:30am.

We sat around the table- two Sous Chefs, a lead server, a hostess, and a Stage- at the chaotically busy restaurant, inhaling Sausage Gravy covered Chicken Fried Steaks and Strawberry Jam filled Crepes thinking how amazing it all tastes. The Sous convinces me to get the appetizer sampler. My stomach lining is screaming from the inside, asking me what the heck I am thinking mixing Dark and Stormy's, Vodka Gimlets, and Prosecco, and then eating processed ConAgra food. But, I was hungry.

This is a huge lifestyle adjustment. I am a morning person who likes to go to bed early and get my solid 9 hours of sleep. I generally never eat late, unless I am performing, and certainly don't drink on a daily basis. Well, actually, the drinking part is a lie.

Yet, for some reason, I yearn for this lifestyle and for these people.

It's another family. One that understands your schedule, your mood, and your passion. It is a familiar feeling only known by people who are in intimate environments for many hours at a time. It is just another confirmation for me that ballet and Chefdom are similar worlds; A feeling that I am obviously attracted to, and seek out.

I now sleep in past 10:00am, don't drink enough water for my kidneys, eat dinner at around 1:00am, and don't want to cook on my days off. I am a changed person.

I adore all of the people I work with, and all the new people I meet through them, I am so glad that I have finally stayed up late enough so we could finally meet.

A Mood

2009-06-27T10:29:00.000-07:00

I knew when I got only 5 1/2 hours of sleep that today would be an off day. I can' t go back to sleep, but the exhaustion is overwhelming.

I realize I have forgotten my makeup at The Restaurant, so I am basically going to look haggard and lackluster when I first get there. I go to get on the Seattle Metro bus that I normally take, and it is 15 minutes late. Of course. Now, instead of being eagerly early, I look inconsiderately late. I run, up a huge hill, to The Restaurant, to be turned right back around to get sage leaves at the Trader Joe's for The Sous: Halfway to wear I just came from.

I get back to The Restaurant and start working with Chef M. He, in his usual way, gives me my tasks back to back: pick parsley, pick basil, pick mint, make biscotti, make lemon juice, make a pickling juice, chop horseradish....

I am tired. My oyster elbow hurts. And, I am in a mood.

It starts with the biscotti. Chef M tells me that I need to put three times the amount of pistachios in the recipe than I did last time. I start mixing the biscotti by hand in the back kitchen, where I prefer to be when I am moody, and finally add in the pistachios: Three times the amount. I shape the pistachio-filled dough into two loaves, and put it in the 350 degree oven, and set my iPhone to check it after 35 minutes. When the timer starts buzzing in my back pocket, I look in the oven, expecting to see what I saw the last time I made biscotti.

Gross. It is crackly, and baking in a weird shape. Shit.

So, I take it, stick it on the speed-rack, and wait for it to cool, hoping that maybe it will tighten up in the cooling process. I am in for a challenge. It is already crumbling around the edges. I can't IMAGINE how it will be when actually have to cut it.

As I start the arduous task of cutting the biscotti into 1-inch slices, I am getting about a 70 percent return on my investment. Some are breaking in half, and some are cracking just at the tips. Why is this happening? I did the exact same recipe as last time? At least I will have lots of snacks for the emotional eating I predict is going to happen tonight.

One of the owners of The Restaurant comes in. He was a pastry chef for many years, and I ask him what has happened with my biscotti. He tells me my first problem is that with big quantity recipes, I always should use a Kitchen-aid mixer. Ugh, okay. Then, he tells me that unlike other "doughs", biscotti needs to be worked, for a long time. That is how it gets hard and crispy, and not crumbly.

This is my mistake! Last time I made the biscotti, I almost left out the pistachios. So, I had to work the pistachios back into the dough, which created more gluten, which made them harder. This makes total sense. This time, I just added the pistachios once the dough came together, and didn't really work the mixture as much as I had before.

First flub.

Then, Chef M gives me chopping tasks which I hate. I just have horrible knife skills. I mean, I can chop just fine, that is not the problem, but not into even pieces the size of sesame seeds.

Chef M is a virtuoso with a knife. He is beyond consistent, and makes a fine dice look elementary. My task: chop horseradish into a fine, fine dice to be pickled. And the most important part? He stresses to me that they all have to be even and homogenous, because they were going to be sitting on top of a Kushi oyster, standing alone as the only ingredient.

I already feel pressure.

It just starts out defectively. I can't cut that first dice of the horseradish consistently, which botches the other steps of the dicing. I go to slice the horseradish, and the pieces I am cutting are thinner on top than on the bottom. Again, knife skills. Frustration, and second flub.

After about 15 minutes of struggle, Chef M comes back, needing the product to be pickled for service, and I have not even gotten half-way. He just takes what I have done, not commenting on the apparent inconsistency, and tells me I know must chop smoked tuna for the soft-cooked eggs.

Of course, tuna is a flaky fish, especially when cooked, and a fine dice just doesn't work for this. I do the best I can, but it is crumbling in front of my eyes. Just like my psyche.

After all of my chopping tasks are complete, I go to juice lemons for all of The Chefs for their stations. At my last lemon, the bartender comes in and asks if there are anymore lemons left. Usually, I leave one lemon just in case. But, like I said, my brain is off today. The bartender has no lemons for his drinks tonight. Not only am I holding people up, but I am preventing customers from getting lemons in their drinks. Good one, Stage. Third flub.

Service starts, and of course, my first task is to shuck Twelve oysters: Six Kushi and Six Kumamoto. My elbow feels like it is going to shatter just like my oyster shells. The Sous helps me out, saying he doesn't want the customers to have to wait forever to get their oysters (because I am slow) and the order goes out. I have shooting pain down my arm and into my chess.

Am I having a stress induced heart attack? Chef M just laughs at me.

The shift goes on, I am getting by, but I just don't feel like myself tonight. It is not all bad, though. I finally figure out how to scoop Gelato and Sorbet! Thank goodness. I get an opportunity to slice some yellow-fin tuna for a Crudo dish because Chef M is busy. I also plate a few dishes that I usually wouldn't get to touch, which is exciting.

But, at the end of the night, when we all usually get our Friday-night pizza at 1:00 in the morning, I take my routine celebratorial vodka shot with The Chefs, clean my station, apologize for my "off-day" and head home to dog puke on my white rug and an incredibly exhausted husband who is sounds asleep.

Nobody but my pillow needs to be dealing with this mood.

Tomorrow I start a new station, and I get to work with The Sous. I need a fresh start, and some new tasks to botch.

At The End of The Night

2009-06-26T09:51:00.000-07:00

I make a prep list on the back of an old menu from the previous day. Items like aioli, blanched cauliflower, and avocado puree frequent the list, and comfort me. The Chefs trusts me enough to not be babysat, but don’t worry, I am still on a constant running video surveillance, as I should be.

I start the day by making aioli which I know is egg yolks, lemon juice, a garlic clove, a splash of water, and finished by a constant stream of vegetable oil. I am planning to use three egg yolks, cracking each yolk in my prep bowl, and straining the white protein through my hands. The Sous enters the walk-in, looks over at me, and says, “Whoa, Stage. Easy on the egg yolks.” I take the one I am presently perfectly straining in my hand, dump it in my prep bowl and begin making the aioli with two egg yolks.

The aioli breaks.

The Sous smirks, and gets me another egg from the fridge. I pour the broken mixture back into the empty oil pitcher, add the yolk he gets for me into the empty Robot Coupe, pour the broken mixture back as if it were the vegetable oil, and it forms into a fluffy cream mixture. First task complete.

Tonight, I am working with Chef B, The Thursday Chef, at the same station I was working at last Thursday: The day I cut myself. My goal today is NOT to repeat the mistakes of seven days ago. He asks me to cut a peach for the same recipe, in the same way. That dreaded peach. I figure, hell, why not? At least I can redeem to myself, and to others, that I am not always full of blunders. I learn from my mistakes this time, square off the peach for stability, REMOVE the pit, make sure my hands are curled and protected, and slice thinly. Success.

After all of those improved knife skills, that peach ends up becoming a puree.

Chef B and I are working in tandem, like a dance, sharing a cutting board and knives, and as always at this station, fighting for ineffectual light and limited square footage. He lets me slice some fish with his beautiful Japanese sushi knife. As I am salting the fish after my mediocre attempts at cutting, he stops me, and tells me that I ALWAYS have to put His knives back to where I got them from, on a blue prep towel folded to the right of the cutting board. Chef B, tongue in cheek, says that when the knife is not in its place, It will either cut me because it is not in a safe place just laying on the cutting board, or He will “cut me” (if his knife happens to drop on the ground). That knife goes back to its place the entire night, as if a magnet is pulling it there.

I do my best cooking on a stomach full of Fried almonds, sips of Kombucha, and Peronis. But at 6:00p.m., I have none of these in my belly. The Restaurant is still kind of dead and the sound of the ticket printing out to my right can only mean one thing: an order for Gelato or Sorbet. Hmm. Did I mention I need a beer?

I know it sounds trivial, yes. But I can’t scoop freaking ice cream to save my life. It either ends up consistent to a "7-11" Slurpee, or in the Gelato’s case, a minefield after it has been detonated. Tonight, there is a brand new Hazelnut Gelato, just delivered, and never been scooped. The perfect victim. As I am creating my first curls into the Gelato, it is crumbling into my scoop like sand. The spoon is not hot enough, and the Gelato is too hard. I know. Excuses, excuses. The Gelato should scoop smooth, like a long river, and look even and calm, when you are finished with it.

By the end of my torturous experience, I have The Sous and The Head Chef watching me, as they sometimes do when The Restaurant is not busy. This flusters me even more. They observe as I butcher out ridges in the Gelato like I am some force of nature. The Sous looks over and says, “Wow, Stage. Are you trying to go for the Grand Canyon?” I respond, “Well, I was thinking more of the Sierra Nevada Range.” Chef B gives me a tip after I completely destroy the untainted Gelato: Use steaming water from the espresso machine to heat the scoop. This man is brilliant.

The funny thing is they want me to be able to run this station by myself someday. I would get stuck at the first Gelato order, every time. By 6:00 p.m., I would probably have a toddler's temper tantrum, stomp out of The Restaurant, and throw my apron down on the pavement.

This damn Gelato is not getting the best of me.

I love that The Chefs don’t let me get away with anything. Well, almost anything. The Sous and Chef B keep testing my food every forty-five minutes, or so, like a required emissions test; Only letting me serve the food if I "pass". I get a correction from Chef B to not put a small mixing bowl, filled with Kumamotos, on the ground by the mini- fridge. The bottom of the bowl sits on the floor, and the dirt from the floor gets on the cutting board. Oh, yes. Common sense would benefit me in this profession.

Later, The Sous looks over from his station and asks me if I salted the soft-cooked eggs? Have I put aioli individually on each one?

I show him how I am salting the eggs, delicate and snug, so that the salt only touches the top of the egg. He shows me that I need to salt from ABOVE, and on the cutting board, not on my plate. He takes his hand, filled with Kosher salt, and puts it almost even with his ear, and in a circular motion, salts a prep plate to show me the technique. I look over and there is a perfect coating of salt all over the silver disk. “Even, Stage. Even.”, he repeats.

At the end of the night, Peroni in hand, I begin wrapping the stations 1/9 pans and changing deli-containers filled with pickled radishes and mint puree. I have already overturned a 1/9 pan of toasted pistachios all inside the mini fridge, and I accidentally break 3 out of 10 grissini Chef M made yesterday. (His were better, by the way. He ends up using more yeast, and rolling them smaller and shorter.) They are obviously more delicate than mine were. Shut!

I see The Sous efficient method for wrapping his 1/9 pans. He rolls out the plastic wrap still in the box, covers the container airtight, and then with a swift movement with the side of his right wrist and forearm, he swipes to loosen the plastic. He quickly seals the the edges, and moves on to the next. I would say it takes three seconds, maximum, and as he says, with pride: “airtight and stackable”. Easy enough. I try to attempt this technique with a small bowl of ground black pepper. I take the plastic out, and wrap one side of the small bowl. As I go to loosen it from the container with “my version” of the swipe, the small container of black pepper tips and spills all over my clean cutting board and the floor. Classic. I look around, subtly, nobody sees, and I laugh: OUT LOUD. I will be putting that item on my prep list tomorrow. And, while I am at it, I’ll add the grissini, too.

At the end of the night, while listening to P.Y.T and Billie Jean to honor the late M.J., I have a conversation with another intern at another reputable restaurant down the street. He is fresh out of culinary school, and in the same position as I am; Just a Stage. I realize, right then and there, I am one lucky Bitch. I have been working at The Restaurant for six and a half days (remember, cut finger). I get to watch, and learn, from one of the most talented, and humble, Head Chefs in Seattle, and work with his amazing team of Chefs who are willing to teach me. I have worked two stations, not gone to culinary school, and the best part: I am not auditioning for the job like the other Stage.

I’m just here to learn.

Eating The Cake

2009-06-24T17:08:00.000-07:00

I feel like I am living a secret double life. It vaguely resembles Jennifer Garner in Alias, except without all the CIA drama.

I am a professional ballet dancer by day who is posing as a wannabe Chef by night. I haven't been able to articulate this double-life concept to myself, but I am realizing I have always had a hard time describing myself the past few years after my new-found love of everything cooking. I am torn between two passionate worlds: One that I have been encompassed in for the past twenty-three years, and the other, which I have barely touched the surface of after a couple of weeks. I feel like I am on a glacier, and it is breaking in half, and I have to chose one side or the other. But, I just can't.

I am enveloped by both.

Living my life without each of them seems beyond the bounds of possibility. But, I also realize I am not willing to fully commit myself to one, or the other.

Life seems scary without both.

I took ballet class today, and I realize that I just adore dancing. It welcomes me like a familiar foreign country where I am fluent in the language: talking, shopping, joking, and blending into to their world. But, in the kitchen, I am visiting a land I have never been to before. I have read about it, in books maybe, and I know the basic history of the community. I can intelligibly make out what The Chefs are saying in their foreign language, but I can't always communicate back. I fit in, mostly, but it is obvious that I am an alien.

Recently, my own comfortable domain has been turned upside-down. I have decided that eventually I do want to be a Chef. I want to study that language, become fluent, and live like I have with that familiar world of ballet. I want to step over to the cooking portion of the glacier. I know the dialect of ballet, and I am ready to learn another language. As hard, and uncomfortable, as it will be. I mean, you shouldn't always live in the same place your whole life.

I can't have my cake, and eat it too. I guess I just want to eat the cake.

All in due time.

Mise en Place and The Spoon

2009-06-23T18:08:00.000-07:00

Today is the first day I am cooking since I have been working at The Restaurant. I think cooking will forever be changed for me. For the better.

The first course of action today is that I have to buy a mandoline at a cooking store so I can thinly slice my garlic and shallots like The Chefs do at The Restaurant. I, of course, come out with not just a mandoline, but with a new All-Clad saucier that The Chefs cook with, beautiful white pasta plates that are similar to what they use for serving the gnocchi at The Restaurant, and miniature ramekins for my mise en place.

And a big metal spoon.

The Chefs only cook with metal serving spoons.

For me (and Anthony Bourdain) mise en place is like a religion. It is a way to meditate through my dish(es), and make sure I have everything perfectly prepared and settled: measuring, washing, mincing, and chopping. It also gives a Chef (or a Stage like me) a lot of self-satisfaction in each of the dishes they create. It is a completely different cooking experience when you handle, and prepare, every aspect of a dish. Having all of your ingredients be prepared ahead of time helps with cleanliness of your station, and of your mind, and makes for a faster and more efficient Chef.

I now understand that pride.

Today, I roast potatoes for the gnocchi. Make the gnocchi dough. Roll it out on a gnocchi board. Blanche the gnocchis. Blanche fava beans. Peel the fava beans. Slice garlic and shallots on my new mandoline. Place red pepper flakes and salt in my new mini ramekins. Wash and chop dinosaur kale, and squeeze and strain fresh lemon juice. I also boycott, my safeguard, Whole Foods' previously frozen scallops, and actually shop for fresh scallops at a specialty seafood store.

All for just ONE pasta dish for two.

Another change for me is with The Spoon and cooking. The Spoon is used to taste, to stir, to toss, to scoop, and to plate. Maybe once or twice at The Restaurant, I have seen The Chefs use a spatula to flip a scallop, or a pair of metal tongs to pull treviso off of the grill, but The Spoon is the preferred tool for cooking.

If I take my new All-Clad saucier pan with my towel-wrapped hand and tilt it at a 45 degree angle, The Spoon can accumulate the maximum amount of sauce in the pan to pour over the gnocchi. It's as if The Spoon and the pan are dancing seamlessly into the curves of each others stainless steel.

Cooking tonight should be a new experience. I will only touch my pan with a towel wrapped hand. I will start with olive oil and pancetta in a cold pan so that I can render the maximum amount of fat without burning the pancetta. I will toss the gnocchi into the pancetta-laden oil and let it stay there until it gets crispy and golden on each side. Then, I will add sliced garlic (stored in olive oil), my blanched favas, and a generous amount of red pepper flakes, for just a minute so that the garlic just begins to jump a little in the pan. Then, to bring everything together, I will give the pan a splash of vegetable stock (from the box) and a handful of kale. I will season everything with kosher salt and maybe, if I feel like it, add a small nub of Plugra to finish off the sauce.

Meanwhile, I will sear off my scallop in olive oil AND vegetable oil, not touching it, so that it will get the most perfect "toasted pine-nut" color on each side. Then, I will warm my plate in a 200 degree oven, tilt my pan at a 45 degree angle and spoon the dish onto the plate. At the end, I will top the dish with the perfectly cooked scallop, and drizzle it with a little bit of olive oil for a shimmer, and a little more kosher salt.

I might be yelling "Corner!" and "Behind!" to nobody but me, my husband, and a dog, but I will enjoy it just the same.

I told you I have changed.

Oyster Elbow

2009-06-22T13:24:00.000-07:00

I think I have oyster elbow.

I am at the ballet today, (trying to get in shape) and getting ready to do pushups, and my left elbow is terribly achey and sore. It takes me a while to figure out what I would have possibly done to myself, and then I realize: I bet I hurt myself shucking oysters all weekend.

I have probably shucked more than 100 Oysters in the past two weeks. And, I have never shucked an oyster before working at The Restaurant.

Each chef has their own unique way of shucking. Chef B, and The Sous like to hold a kitchen towel in their hand, and shuck the oyster that way. Chef M likes to put the kitchen towel on his working surface and wrap the towel around the shell to stabilize it. Some Chefs wear fancy gloves, and some Chefs use different kinds of oyster knives.

And me? Well, I am not a Chef, so I like to just get the little sucker open in less than five minutes, however I can. Yes. Five minutes. For ONE oyster. I was really bad at shucking them in the beginning.

Oh, and not breaking the shell all over the place is another goal.

For my first oyster, I wrap the towel in my hand and nestle the shell in my palm like The Sous has taught me. I get out my oyster knife, and try to wedge it into the hinge. Not only did I not pop open the oyster, but I break the first layer of shell and get my oyster knife stuck. Eh. Not good.

So, to remedy this mistake, I just decide to push the knife through the oyster. This, of course, severs and slashes open the oyster meat. Then, I scrape around with the oyster knife, like I am digging for buried treasure, and I finally pop open the top shell, and try to abrade the muscle from its home. This breaks the oyster meat in half.

Oops.

Debris, mud, and the bits of shell look like a brunoise all over my demolished oyster. And the coveted brine? All over the cutting board, my kitchen towel, and my apron.

I show The Sous. He laughs at the wreckage, and gives me another one, and we start the learning process again. He can shuck an oyster in about ten seconds with finesse. After watching him do this about four times, I am finally starting to get the hang of it. It is more of a slight twist and pop, instead of a jab and slash. More technique, less brawn.

When I have done four Kumamoto oysters without turning them into hamburger, in less than five minutes, I finally get to top them with the beautiful finishing oil, finely minced apple, and freshly grated horseradish. I pack a mini All-Clad pan with ice and arrange them so that their hinges all face in towards the center.

The order only took fifteen minutes or so, when it could have taken three, but I did it.

When the night is over, my shoulder is aching, and my left elbow feels like I have torn something.

But, I can shuck an oyster. In less than 5 minutes.

Now on to the Cherry Clams. Wish me luck on those. I feel they will be even more difficult. I will probably title that post Clam palm.

The Methods

2009-06-21T21:13:00.000-07:00

The minute I step in the door, Chef M has a laundry list of things I need to accomplish before 5:00. It made me regret getting here at 1:20.

But there is a problem; all of the items have to do with baking. And, I am just not a confident baker.

Chef M whips out The Restaurants culinary bible: the giant Giorgio Locatelli cookbook, slaps it on a giant Boos Block, and turns to a page in the middle that has been bookmarked with a ribbon.

The recipe is for grissini. Ugh. I hate working with dough. And, I have never made grissini.

He spouts off some changes that he wants, like using active dry yeast instead of fresh, and substituting out Pecorino Romano instead of Parmigianno Reggiano. He tells me I have to weigh all of the ingredients, and preheat the oven in advance, and read through the whole recipe, and learn Locatelli's techniques and methods for working dough. It was an earful, but all important, I assure you.

Then, as I begin reading the recipe, he puts another smaller book on top of the Locatelli book. It is The Restaurant's master recipe list. He flips it open to the "recipe" for biscotti. He tells me I will use toasted pistachios as the filling, and double the "recipe". I look down at the book. It is a long list of ingredients, and at the bottom the directions say: Use the cream method.

Descriptive.

I guess I will just be add-libbing this one, too. Great way to start a shift.

As I am walking back to the kitchen, Chef M also tells me that I will be making a lemon mostarda using the triple-blanch method. I look at him. Smile. And, wonder when I will get a chance to google on my iPhone the terms mostarda, and triple-blanch. It is only 1:25.

I find a scale, and start to measure my ingredients for the grissini. I am having to do math in my head while I weigh the flour because the scale does not have a reset button to start at zero. I find a cup, and place it on the scale: 5.8 ounces. A nice, even number to subtract everything from.

(Sigh) Lovely.

I weigh the flour. The recipe says I need 13 1/2 ounces. I am sorry, but there are not 1/2 ounces on this scale. I eyeball it because, frankly, nobody is looking over my shoulder. It seems to be a little over 1 1/2 cups. That sounds good enough.

Then I melt butter, and milk, and add in the active dry yeast. I add that mixture, slowly and in a steady golden stream, to the flour and begin to form a dough with my hands. You have to understand, I really have no experience with dough. I am slightly shaking, and I am nervous that this is not going to turn out. With dough on my hands, palms, finger condom, and apron, I wrap the hard (should it be hard?!) dough ball in a wet, blue towel. Now, I wait for it to rest. Maybe it will soften up with time?

Chef M comes to the back, and asks me if the dough feels "right" in my hands. I laugh.

Sure.

Then, I move on to the lemon mostarda, which I have no IDEA how to do. I would have done the biscotti, but the butter needed to get to room temperature so that I could properly use the cream method. Honestly, I am really screwed with either recipe that I chose. Chef M told me earlier that the mostarda should contain lemon zest, sugar, white balsamic, dijon mustard, horseradish. No amounts, of course, or directions of order, but just enough to make about 2 cups. I get out a zest tool, and create beautiful pale yellow curls all over my cutting board. I ask The Head Chef to tell me what the triple-blanch method is (it is not google-able), it seems easy enough, and I get started on that. Meanwhile, my timer is buzzing because my hard dough now needs to get the Locatelli press and flip method, and then go under the blue towel again. My head is spinning.

When my grissini dough is finally ready, I roll it out through a pasta wheel, and begin to form it into long sticks. I can't make them even, of course, and I put them on a Silpat to cook for 15 minutes. During their time in the oven, which actually ends up being more like 30 minutes because I make them too thick, I whip of a quick double-batch of biscotti. Using the ever-so-descriptive "cream method", I start them like I am making cookies, toss in the pistachios (that I almost forget) and put the loaves in another oven to bake as well. Phew! Two down.

I pull the grissini out of the oven, crispy and brown. Chef M takes an ugly one (one of my first rolling attempts), tastes it, tells me this recipe is an experiment, and informs me that we may or may not serve them.

What? All of that stress for an experiment? I need a cocktail.

I finish up the lemon mostarda, golden and sweet, that will be served on the cheese plate, with the "may or may not" grissini, and a huge hunk of aged Pecorino. I put in into a small white bowl.

The only thing left to do is cut my biscotti, and bake them for a second time. It is 4:45 and I need to get on my Chef's coat and my apron. Chef M, walking by quickly, grabs one of the "butts" from the end of a loaf, tastes it, slaps me on the back, and says, "That's the best shit you have ever made!"

I smile ear to ear, on this inside, of course.

Just a Stage

2009-06-20T11:00:00.000-07:00

Last night was the first time that I really felt like a rookie at The Restaurant. I have always known I was under experienced, but I didn't realize this: I can't cook quickly. Well (smirk), I can, but it is not going to be beautiful, and it may or may not be tasty.

Everything is fine when The Restaurant isn't busy. I can keep my station clean, organize my ingredients and restock them in their proper 1/9 pans, and taste my food for proper seasoning and plate it like a piece of art. But, when there are three tickets, all with 4 orders each at our small station, efficiency, timing, and preciseness is key.

I am floundering. I have an order for soft-cooked eggs. I try to be efficient and do one task at a time. I start by getting out my plate. Then, I start cutting the small ends off each of the sides of the three eggs so they will not wobble when they are cut open. Then, I cut each of the eggs in half to put on the plate. But, because they are soft-cooked, the yolks have a tendency to run. Chef M, not even the chef at my station, looks over at what I am doing, and tells me that my yolks are running out onto the cutting board. He goes on to say that The Restaurant charges the customers a lot of money for that plate, and I shouldn't cheat them of all of their yolks.

Damn.

So, flustered, I immediately flip the egg over, and he is right, the yolk has dripped out. I pat it, evening it out with my fingertip and try to cover my mistake. I go to put the soft-cooked eggs on the long white plate they call their home, but realize I have forgotten the aioli line that I am supposed to draw down the center to make the eggs stick to the plate. I remove them all, draw the line (which was more like a squiggle) down the center of the plate, and then season them with Kosher salt and cayenne.

What is next? I was missing something.

Oh yes! They are supposed to be topped with smoked tuna! The problem is, I have never learned how to make the tuna. The Sous is to my right, sweating because he is doing the other 11 orders that I am not helping him out with, and I timidly ask him the recipe for the smoked tuna salad.

He stops what he is doing, shows me without talking and speaking to me through “big” eyes, and goes back to his 11 dishes. I am humiliated. If I paid attention before, I would have known the recipe. I need to WATCH.

WATCH, WATCH, WATCH. Maybe I need glasses?

As the night goes on, I probably made about 10 more of those egg dishes, along with shucking 40 plus Kumamoto Oysters (and almost dislocating my shoulder), attempting 1 Cherry Clam and failing, and tossing and plating 13 (or so) different salads. I am sure there are victims along the way: A small piece of shell in an oyster here, a caper-heavy tuna salad over there, and maybe too much citrus in the dressing of one of the salads. But, I am doing my best. I taste, even when it is busy, and try to plate everything carefully and beautifully.

The Sous still thinks I am holding him up.

As things are getting a little slower, one of the servers comes up to The Sous. He whispers in his ear, and then leaves. It is very James-Bond. I think nothing of it. But then, The Sous turns to me to tell me what the server has said. He gives me a correction about something the server has noticed that I was doing. It is a mistake that I have never been told about, and I have continued to do because I don’t know any better. Completely taken aback, I take the correction, and then stay silent for about a minute facing my cutting board, head down. I am angry, and hurt, because I like to be talked to directly if there is a problem. I ask The Sous why the server didn't just come up to me and tell ME the correction?

He says to me, in his suave Sous way, "At the end of the day Stage, you are just a Stage."

Point taken.

Blood Spatter Specialist

2009-06-19T08:26:00.000-07:00

When we woke up this morning, after the night we had last night, Erik told me he had a dream that I cut all of my fingertips off. They were pouring blood, so I decided to be an artist and paint with the color and spatter from the cuts. Luckily, what I did to myself was NOT that dramatic.

I knew yesterday was going to be an off day when arrived at 1:00 to The Restaurant and nobody was there. The lights were off and the door was locked. After about 20 minutes, The Head Chef arrived having just left just hours ago from the night before, and asked me what I was doing there so early. Um, if I am not mistaken, this is when I got there last week? But, I guess on Thursdays, when it is slow on Wednesdays, it is an unwritten rule that you get to The Restaurant later.

Thanks for the memo.

So, I kill about an hour at a local coffee shop (slickly dodging a person I recognized via Twitter) and read "Tender at the Bone" ( this will be ironic later). I stayed a little after 2:00, slowly walked back, as to not look to eager, and put on my apron.

I was working with Chef B, the Thursday chef, at a new station. Not much needed to be prepped, but he taught me how to make Biscotti, and we filled our 1/9 pans with items that needed to be restocked. I made an aoili, soft boiled some eggs, took on my daily task of blanching cauliflower and pea vines, and learned how to break down a Geoduck.

Service started. We were steady. Chef B let me plate many dishes, and I was generally pleased with how the evening was going.

Then, Chef B asked me to cut more peaches for a dish that we hadn't prepped well for because it wasn't selling. Well, it was selling last night.

I went to the back, found my peach, and began peeling the skin with my Wustof pairing knife. I was told to slice each piece thin, and then into mini triangles. Let me first say that EVERYONE in The Restaurant talks to me about having better knife skills. I remember about half the time. And the other half? Well, I will just blame my Kitchen Retardedness.

I skinned the peach without a care in the world. I begin to slice each light pink section from the pit. They were all uniform, which is an improvement, and I go to start the other half. As I am trying to wedge my knife above the pit to slice, my hand slips from the skinned peach and my Wustoff slices right into my ring finger.

It took the finger print off. I looked for a second, shocked at my stupidity, and watched as the pink fruit began to have a more ruby tone.

I had a bleeder.

I immediately went to the First Aid Kit, which I have become very familiar with these past two weeks, and got out a finger bandaid. Before I could even get it on, it was soaked with my blood. Then, I reached for a wet paper towel, and put pressure on it.

This is the best part, I am such a compulsive do-gooder that I continued to cut the peach into triangles! While bleeding!

As it got worse, I stopped, and luckily at this point, the hostess ( who is going to nursing school) assisted me with bandaging my wound. She gave me some gauze while she got all of her supplies ready, and then asked me to take off the gauze so she could bandage me. As I slowly peeled the gauze away from the cut, it ripped the small clot and my blood spattered all over my "not-so-white-anymore" Chef's coat, along with my face. I looked like Dexter after he has killed one of his victims. The Hostess was wearing a white dress. Thank God it did not get on her!

Prepare yourself for the dramatics: I started to feel faint. I am sorry, but I wasn't losing THAT much blood? I think I was in shock, disappointed, embarrased, humiliated, (insert other dramatic feelings here)...

She said she thought I should leave, I took my coat off in a cold sweat, said goodbye to The Chefs and got into a yellow cab.

I raced to the drugstore and purchased forty bucks worth of finger bandaids, finger condoms, gauze, tape, Neosporin, and Shout! (which doesn't work BTW). I came home, chugged two glasses of wine, and waiting for Erik to arrive.

At this point, my finger felt like it was going to fall off. It had already done the whole "heart-beat in the finger" bit, and now it was going numb down to my knuckle and into the palm of my hand. I had dramatic illusions of grandeur where I was losing my whole ring finger and having to wear my wedding ring on a stump.

When Erik got home, I told him I needed him to help me change my bandages. I know he has a queesy stomach around blood, but desperate times call for desperate measures. The blood had clotted on the gauze, but I had to get it off because it was too damn tight. I cut away the huge bandage that made me look like a cartoon character with hair cutting shears, and pulled away the guaze.

HUGE mistake. The blood poured out like a chocolate fondue fountain; cascading down my knuckles and the back of my left hand. Erik lost it.

I am freaking out, he is getting nauseous, I am about to faint, he starts gagging. We were a mess. The dog just laid there. He is used to all of this back and forth drama.

I got another bandage on, Erik went to the bathroom to calm down, and I drank about a liter of water in one sitting.

As we woke up this morning, and he told me of his dream where I was creating art with my blood, I decided that I AM going to take a knife skills class. I owe it to myself, and everyone that ever has to work with me in a kitchen.

And I should probably get up to date on my tetnis shots if I am going to cut myself on a weekly basis. Will this be a tradition? I am two for two right now.

Kitchen Retard #1

2009-06-18T06:33:00.000-07:00

I have one piece of advice for all you crab cleaning novices, like myself: when you lose your virginity to the cleaning of your very first crab, point the crab AWAY from you.

You can only imagine what happened next.

This was one of many new things I learned yesterday with The Teacher. Boy, she is a patient woman.

The first item on my prep list yesterday was to make a curd to go with her homemade ricotta. So, I hear curd and think of Little Miss Muffit, a spider, and her curds and whey. I thought to myself, Why don't you just get them at Beecher's like you always do?

But, no, she meant lemon curd. Ohhhhhhhhh. I could definitely do that. IF I knew how. Or, if I wasn't so dense!

So, I have concluded that I am a not only a Kitchen Bitch (#2, of course), but I have also have earned the extra (self) title of Kitchen Retard (#1).

I begin to zest the fresh lemons on a microplane for the curd, and stir in my "pretend" superfine sugar that I pulsed in a food processor to make smaller. Then I juiced the lemons, whisked in the farm-fresh brown eggs, and put three ounces (6 tbsp.) of unsalted butter into the mixture. I placed it over my makeshift double boiler to be babysat by my wooden spoon until thickened, for about 20 minutes. Easy.

I only say easy because it turned out, okay.

This is another detail that enlightened me yesterday: 1 ounce= 2 tbsp.

I know what you are thinking. You didn't know that?

No, math nerds. I did not. I am a Kitchen Retard, and on top of that, not really the measuring type.

Remember?

The Teacher probably spent 5 minutes trying to explain this concept of ounces to tablespoons to cups, until I finally got the very simple concept. Like I said, she is a extremely patient woman.

I think I need to go back to school.

One redeaming part of yesterday was that I got to recreate my Dungeness crab and local asparagus brown butter pasta. I actually got to cook, serve, taste AND season the dish this time. I learned from my mistakes from yesterday, and was elated with the turnout. Too bad it was the most boring, and basic, course of six. A slight embarrasment, and a 1st place trophy to my lack of skills. I mean, how hard is it to make brown butter, squeeze lemon and season it with Kosher salt?

People. This is Cooking 101. Maybe cooking 110.

I watched as The Teacher made a Salmon Rouillade from an old Julia Child cookbook. She skinned, deboned, and butterflied a Copper River Sockeye, stuffed it with braised leeks, patted it with cracked black pepper, and wrapped foil around it as she rolled the fillet. Then! Then! She cooked it, wrapped in the foil cylinder in peanut oil turning, a 1/4 of a turn clockwise every couple of minutes, until it was perfectly medium-rare. She cooled it, removed the foil, and sliced it thin into little rounds. It was topped with a cucumber and tomato creme fraiche sauce and a garnish of finely minced gazpacho-like vegetables.

This was a sexy dish!

And, I can make brown butter.

I think I am in over my head here.

Lemon Curd

Serves 24

3 large lemons, zest and juice

9 oz. superfine sugar

6 large eggs

6 oz. unsalted butter

Mix the lemon zest and sugar in a metal bowl. In another bowl, whisk the lemon juice together with the eggs. Pour this mixture over the sugar. Cut butter into small pieces and add this combination to the mixture. Place in a metal bowl over a pan of barely simmering water. Stir until thickened, about 20 minutes, until it coats the back of a spoon. Cool and refrigerate for up to a week.

The Mistakes

2009-06-17T07:45:00.000-07:00

"Stage! You on vacation?"

I was in hysterics as I got this text message right when I was coming home after working with The Teacher for 8 hours. The Sous thought I had "chickened out" of The Restaurant and wrote me a message making sure I was coming back.

Do I really seem like that type of girl that would give up that fast? The Sous has no idea.

But, I do have to say, the work with The Teacher and the work at The Restaurant could not be different. The Teacher gets frantic at times, having to plate meals for 12 all at once, timing large quanitites of food, and having to manage most food related problems all by herself. However, at The Restaurant, it is a well-oiled machine, and everyone has their specific task and nothing faulters from that. The Teacher basically is working a miniature restaurant all by herself. And, boy, does she do it well.

Yesterday, my first task for The Teacher was to bake a flourless cake.

I am thinking, oh great, all I have gotten to actually cook for this woman is a gazpacho that I messed up and now a baking item, which I will surely mess up. This is a great way to start the day.

Let me first just tell you, I dislike baking more than anything. I have a sweet tooth, don't get me wrong, but I just hate the process of having to be so exact and reading a recipe over and over and over again making sure that you are doing the right thing. Although I enjoy specific direction, there is a little more room to fudge when you cook.

The Teacher and I were talking as I made the cake. My first mistake. This made me nervous because I had to multi-task in my mind as I separated eggs, zested oranges, chopped Callebaut chocolate, and perfectly toasted blanched almonds and pine nuts. I kept re-reading the same lines again and again: unable to move forward, even though I already knew what it said.

I was obviously distracted.

She taught me how to heat eggs, gently, over a pot of shallow simmering water to bring the cold ones to room temperature. I whisked them with a mixer that sounded like a 747 was taking off in her kitchen, and then folded the Callebaut chocolate batter inside. Then, I also heated the cold egg whites over the simmering water, forming them into stiff peaks with sugar. Then, slowly folding each half separately into the dark brown batter.

She had buttered and parchmented a round cake pan, she preheated the oven to 350 degrees for me because I forgot to do that (second mistake), and we stuck the cake inside.

That was the last time I thought about it (third mistake).

All of a sudden, The Teacher realized that she had not set the timer, and to be quite honest, I didn't even remember that I MADE the cake.

She took the cake out, and luckily it was not yet burnt, but it was definitely dry and not as appealing as it had the potential to be.

Right after she had originally put the cake in the oven, just seconds before I would forget that I have created it, she had told me that she would be telling her clients that I made the cake (her 1st mistake).

Well, shit. Now, because I am not an intuitive baker, and we forgot to set the timer, my cake was going to taste like a piece of construction paper with whipped cream on top. I had to think fast.

Really fast.

I decided that ~~just in case~~ because it was really dry, we should poke holes in it with a toothpick, make a simple syrup and gradually drizzle the syrup over it for the next couple of hours. That would salvage it. She like that idea, and let me do it.

I made a simple syrup, equal porportions sugar to water, and slowly drizzled the syrup over the cake. I would have to wait hours at this point to see if this solution would actually salvage my cake.

The rest of the night seemed to also be filled with faux pas. She let me make a brown butter (which I have now perfected because of The Restaurant) that she wanted it tossed with her homemade angel hair pasta, Dungeness crab that was just cracked by one of her diners, and blanched local asparagus. I took the lead on the dish.

I knew if was not a good sign when the angel hair was looking sloppy as I was tossed all of the ingredients together in the giant All Clad. Normally, I would have tasted the pasta like I learned at The Restaurant, but I had to plate it as quickly as possible with the biggest tongs that I had ever seen. I am talking GRILLING TONGS. Not condusive to methodical plating.

The angel hair slipped multiple times from the tongs as I tried to swirl the pasta precisely onto the plates. The crab and the asparagus were difficult to pick up with the giant tongs, and so some plates had more and some had less.

As the plates were given to the diners, I just thought to myself: that needed more lemon, I should have tasted it for salt, why did I not have a wet rag to clean the sides of the plates? The Restaurant has ruined me.

Later that evening, after washing way too many dishes, and listening to her diners get louder as they filled their glasses with perfectly balanced Cabernet, it was finally time for the flourless chocolate cake.

She cut the cake, and slyly gave me a small taste. I anticipated tasting a cotton ball like substance in my mouth that I would probably have to spit out on my kitchen towel, but somehow the cake was moist. She smiled at me, and said, that it was definitely going to be good!

I felt a sense of pride, and let out a huge sigh of relief. She let me plate the dish on little white plates. We cut the cake in half, and set them on top of each other to make a bow, and topped it with whipped cream and first of the season strawberries. The diners had no idea the cake was an overbaked-disaster salvaged by a simple syrup. All they could think about was the chocolate and orange combination.

I think I am finally earning The Teacher's trust. This might be her mistake.

The Pine Nut Dressing Project

2009-06-16T12:10:00.000-07:00

"Hey Stage", Said The Sous. "In about a minute here, I am going to need you to make a pine nut dressing for me". Dumbfounded, I couldn't believe that he actually wanted me to make something for a dish he was serving. I was wondering what this dressing entailed. Did I get to be creative? Or, did he want specific, as The Sous always does. After I finished my present task of finely, (beyond finely) chopping chives, I asked him for more detail.

He told me to make the exact recipe that I made the other day for the anchovy dressing with Chef B, but to substitute pine nuts for the anchovies, sherry vinegar for the lemon juice, and make it more watery. So, basically I needed to change the whole recipe except for the canola oil. Creative or Specific? It was obviously the latter.

It was coming time to open the restaurant. I still had my black tank top on without being suited up in my "Chef whites". The staff was frantic tonight. There seemed not enough time to get everything done that needed to be done. The waiters were quickly folding napkins, the dishwasher seemed to have more dishes than usual, and all of The Chefs were finishing up on their final details of their dishes.

And, of course,there was no station for me to do my project. Except for The Head Chef's station, which had already been cleaned and organized for the evening.

I was frantic, slightly shaking, and trying as quickly as I could to create the perfect pine nut dressing for The Sous.

I didn't think to ask him if he wanted the dressing thick enough to hold it's own on a plate, or thin enough to drizzle. So, I had to go back multiple times and ask him to taste it, look at the consistency, and give me corrections on the porportions. All the while, I was hogging The Head Chef's station. At this point, He was anxiously hovering, waiting to set up for the evening.

At The Sous last taste, he said it was perfect (but could always use more salt) and told me to put it in squirt bottles and set it by his station. I got two bottles (forgetting the lids) and made my way back to The Head Chef's station. As I began to fill the squeeze bottles with the dressing from the food processor, Chef M told me I needed to "wrap" up this project so The Head Chef could get to his station. Nervously, I scraped the dressing out, smoothly, still shaking, and moving as fast as I could. I went to quickly gather up the remains of the project: the large can of Dijon mustard, the egg shell and shallot peels in a small work bowl, and the dirty food processor canister. I was moving rapidly, and once I had gathered everything into my hands, I made a quick manuever with my left elbow to clear the meat slicing machine that was in my way.

At that moment, my longer than usual appendages, filled with the remaining ingredients from the dressing, hit one of the uncapped squeeze bottles of pine nut dressing.

As if the world had been in super-slow motion, the dressing flew all over the meat slicer, the floor, the till, and of course all over The Head Chef's pristine station. I mean: ALL OVER. It covered his cutting board I watched him sanitize, his knives that he sharpened and buffed, and all over his clean kitchen towels. And, as all this was happening, customers were coming in the door.

The one good thing was that all of The Chefs were in the back, wrapping up the last of their prep work. I screamed profanities in my head as I cleaned as much pine nut dressing as I possibly could from The Head Chef's station, changing out towels and wiping down his knives. I perused his station, hoping it looked how he left it, and brought the dirty containers to the dishwasher.

I got TWO lids, as I should have done originally, carefully placed them on top of the dressing containers, wiped them clean and stored them at The Sous station. Phew!

Much later that evening, as The Head Chef was slicing prosciutto for a dish, I saw a beige glimmer on the side of the meat slicer. I surreptitiously decided to clean the spot as he turned his back to plate the dish. I wiped the final remains of MY disaster from everyones knowledge.

Maybe they knew, maybe they didn't but, either way, they never said a word.

My hunch is that I will continue to see the remains of my disaster, and I will continue to slyly cover my tracks.

From Beginning To End

2009-06-14T17:47:00.000-07:00

When I woke up this morning at 9:30, I already wanted to go back to bed. The exhaustion was unparalleled and I couldn't imagine have to get up and cook for another 12 hours again today. But, all The Chefs do it. Five days a week.

Today has been spent reliving all of the amazing memories I have had over the weekend. I can't get them out of my head. They replay like a broken record, skipping to the same places over and over again. Some are funny, like watching a really drunk woman stumble out of The Restaurant with her boyfriend in tow. Some are humiliating, like when one gnocchi dish that I made was sent back about a minute after I had said, "Service, please. Table 10." Their scallop had been under-cooked.

It was cooked to me.

I met Chef M for the first time on Friday. I was appointed to work with him because he was going to be at the same station that I had worked at the night before with The Sous. He made the same dishes, but in a different way than The Sous. He didn't care about the order of things, he just wanted the dish to have all of the components that made it what it was. He told me everything else was just artistry. The Sous is more exact. He taught me the way he made the dish, and wanted me to replicate EXACTLY what he had done. I definitely feel more comfortable having exact directions, but the fun part of cooking, I have now learned, is mastering the method, and refining it, to create the best dish possible.

Last night I was given two dishes to focus on, one was the gnocchi I had been making for the past two nights. Chef M asked me right before service which dishes I felt the most comfortable with. I told him the two I thought I was the "best" (haha!) at, and he told me that those were mine the whole evening. No matter what. If an order for gnocchi came in, he wasn't even going to look at it. It was my responsibility. From beginning to end.

How often do you make a dish about 15 times IN A ROW? Never. Well, at least I haven't. I now know the two recipes I made last night like the back of my hand. Each time, I would refine my method more, and more. I was learning what I didn't know the time before. I am sure there were victims along the way. A couple of pieces of burnt garlic. Maybe a scallop that was ~~slightly cold in the middle~~ undercooked. But, I didn't hear any customers complaining.

Well, except for that one table.

I found that for the gnocchi, the front left burner worked the best. That burner heated the olive oil and the finely diced pancetta to the perfect temperature right before I would throw in the blanched potato gnocchi. The little gnocchis seared brown on one side, and right when the oil started to bubble, I would add in the mandoline-sliced garlic and bright green favas. I would cook those for almost a minute, and when the garlic started dance inside the pan, and then I would ladle in the homemade vegetable stock to cool down the garlic. A trick The Sous taught me. I would add a handful of kale and a little square of butter to finish off the sauce.

The butter had not always been a part of the recipe. It came from refinement process. I hadn't always done that, but I found it made the sauce have more beautiful sheen, and well, it just made the dish taste better. I would frequently see Chef M put in a little nub of butter.

That was his secret.

To finish the gnocchi, I would season the sauce with a decent amount of kosher salt and add just a splash of freshly squeezed lemon juice. The lemon juice, I discovered, made all of the flavors pop.

Meanwhile, while all of this was cooking, I was searing a scallop that I had rubbed with olive oil and seasoned with salt. Putting it presentation side down, I would put it on the grill, and squeeze a little vegetable oil to sear it. The olive oil was just for flavor. Once I flipped the scallop over, I would put my plate in the oven to warm it. It was the perfect amount of time to not get the plate too hot, but also warm enough to keep the gnocchi at a good temperature as it went to the customer. Then, I would take the scallop off of the grill, slice it in half and take the plate out of the oven. I would tilt the pan and spoon, (not dump from the pan, as I WAS doing) the gnocchi onto the warmed plate, ladle any extra sauce around the gnocchi, top with the sliced scallop, drizzle with finishing oil, season with more kosher salt and call for service. I would quickly take a damp towel, and clean the sides of the plate in case I had gotten a small drip of sauce on the side.

Repeat.

Sometimes it would be 4 orders of gnocchi in a row. So, I would cook two orders of gnocchi each in dueling pans. It was beyond exciting. The rush is similar to dancing on stage. No wonder I like this profession.

It was fun to watch the recipe come to life from beginning to end. Earlier in the day, Chef M had taught me how to blanch the favas and pop them out of the tough membrane that they come in. He taught me how to make the gnocchi I would be using from a heavily-salted baked russet potato, combining it with one egg yolk, and a handful of flour. I squeezed lemon after lemon to fill squeeze bottle with fresh juice. I watched as they made vegetable stock out of scraps of vegetables like parsley, a bit of celery, carrots, onions, peppercorns, and dried chickpeas. I chopped kale, removed the little foot from each scallop, and refilled small bowls with kosher salt.

Ocassionally I would watch my dish go to a customer. I loved watching their face light up as it was presented in front of them. At the end of the night, by the dishwasher, I would see the gnocchi bowls licked clean, with maybe just a few pieces of pancetta that couldn't be picked up with the tines of a fork. I assume that means people liked their meal.

I didn't hear otherwise, except for that damn scallop.

At the end of last night, I decided I would make the gnocchi dish for Erik. It is the first recipe I have learned from The Restaurant that I can see myself creating at home. Making the gnocchi, blanching the favas, freshly squeezing the lemon juice, finely dicing the pancetta, and making homemade vegetable stock.

From Beginning to End.

The Exhaustion

2009-06-13T11:48:00.000-07:00

I have limited time right now, because I am headed to The Restaurant at 1:00. I have decided to get the full experience, and instead of my hours being the whimpy 2:00pm-10:00pm, I am keeping the hours that the other chefs keep. They work from 1:00pm-1:00am.

Yes. That is 12 hours. Prepping, chopping, creating, cooking, cleaning, and planning the menu for the next day. Repeat.

And the other 12 hours away from the kitchen? They are spent eating, socializing, drinking, and sleeping.

You literally live and breathe cooking. I am exhausted, and I love it.

I have so many more stories. Some good, some bad. I was definitely not on my game yesterday. I had stayed out too late the night before, and the adrenaline high I was riding on ran out of gas. I struggled yesterday to keep up the energy and enthusiasm.

I also cut my left thumb. Really bad. Which was not only embarrassing, but painful. It was bound to happen, I just didn't realize it would be so soon.

I had to wear a little blue condom-like cover over my thumb the whole night. It was a proclamation of my worthlessness that said, "Look at me! Look at me! I am the doofus that cut my thumb!" It was also a reminder that I am in a world that I totally do not feel comfortable in.

But, today is a new day. After my amazing 10 hours of sleep, I feel refreshed and ready to learn.

Now, off to The Restaurant. On the agenda today: knife skills, braising the "right" way, and handmade tortellini pasta.

Mrs. Staaaauge

2009-06-12T09:18:00.000-07:00

I don't even know how to describe the day that I had yesterday. I am blown away. My mind is racing. I need to take notes of my notes. I learned more in one day than the five years I have been teaching myself to cook. All morning, I have been kicking myself thinking, "Why have I not done this sooner?"

I have been holding my pan with the wrong hand, chopping my chives (and red onions, apparently) the wrong way, not salting my food from above so that it gets evenly coated, scooping sorbet poorly, and don't even get me started on my mise en place.

At around 1:45, I sauntered into the restaurant after getting off of Seattle Metro bus number 1420. I first see a rather attractive, young looking guy in the kitchen and I introduce myself. He hears me say my name is Kelly, I don't correct him, and he shows to me to The Chef.

The Chef, quiet and burly, says a quick hello, and shows me right back to the guy who I first met who I find out is actually the Sous Chef.

The cute one.

Flustered, I quickly get out my polka dot knife bag, which all the guys laughed at hysterically, and found my place at a rather large station to begin the tasks for the day. Already, I was embarrased.

The Sous asked me if I could cut cauliflower. Well, yeah. So, my first task was cutting and blanching cauliflower. What I didn't realize was how specific cutting cauliflower could be. The Sous kept showing me the first piece that he cut for me as my guide, and watched me at a distance, as he also completed his tasks of creating handmade pasta, making a parsley pesto sauce, and mincing anchovies. To name a few.

I blanched the chopped cauliflower and plunged them into an ice bath with a large metal spider. I did the same for the fresh shelled peas. These tasks, although seemingly easy, are harder in mass quantities. I assure you. I burnt my left hand picking up a boiling pot of water. It was a smart choice at the beginning of the shift. Geez, Kari.

Then, I was told to chop chives, finely. After about three swishes of my knife on the cutting board, The Sous stopped me, gave me a quick knife lesson, and told me I was doing it all wrong; I would cut myself; And, it wasn't as efficient. He taught me how to curl my fingers underneath, tuck my thumb in, and rest my knife on my hand so that it gently touched my knuckles. That way, I would never cut myself.

After filling a 1/9 pan with chopped chives, I was then given the task of slicing calamari, scraping the slimy stuff out the center, and cutting them into triangles so that they curl when they are coated in olive oil, and hit the saute pan. This I could do.

Then I was naturally migrated to work with Chef B. Also cute. Also young. Is this like a requirement of being a chef at The Restaurant?

He made a Caesar like dressing, sweated the red onions that I so poorly butchered, and tossed them with a white balsamic, rosemary, and freshly roasted red peppers. He showed me the vacuum sealer for future reference, taught me how to finely mince ice in a food processor, and advised me on how to keep my station clean.

All chefs, I have noticed, are the cleanest cooks I know. It helps them keep order in a world that can so quickly become chaotic.

Chef B and I made small talk. We joked around a bit, and overall, I was feeling incredibly comfortable with him. I listened to him tell me about his history in "the business", what restaurants he liked to eat at, and where he lives.

At around 4:45, The Sous told me to get my Chef's coat on (which was basically still stark white at this point) and get ready for service.

It was slow at first. People popping in and out. Perusing the menu, or getting a drink. I watched Chef B at his station for about an hour. He plated his orders beautifully like an artist, tasting everything in between to make sure it was perfect, and taking his time. When he didn't have an order, he was cleaning his station, saying hello to customers that recognized him, or looking for work in the back kitchen. There is never a boring moment, even when The Restaurant is slow. Chef B is amazing.

Things started to pick up around the normal dinner time, and The Sous looked over at me, and said, "Hey Chef, wanna cook?" He was looking at me! What? I actually get to cook? Not just and chop and watch? Elation aside, the "calling me chef" part had to be taken care of VERY quickly. I told him I was not a chef, so calling me "Chef" had to go. He said, "Okay. I'll call you Staaaauge." It stuck.

This is now my name.

(A stage, pronounced staaaauge with a thick french accent, is basically a kitchen bitch/apprentice).

As I walked to his station, He told me that he is much more strict than Chef B. He expected perfection every time. He mentioned the red onion that I butchered earlier. I blushed.

He taught me one of the recipes on the menu. He talked me through, and gave me pointers along the way: get the oil hot enough so it smokes, then the food won't stick; when browning the butter, lemon juice will stop the browning; always taste the food before you send it out to the customer, etc.

I watched him as he took over the recipe, because I was "too slow", and as he cleaned the plate at the end with his damp rag. He asked me, "Did you get that?"

Shit. I didn't know it was a test?

The next order of that dish came in. The Sous said, "Okay Stage. It is all you". Gosh. I really hoped I was paying attention.

It started well. I added in the olive oil until smoking, tossed in the first ingredient making sure it did not stick, and went to go add what I thought was the next ingredient. The Sous was watching me like a hawk. As I went into the 1/9 pan for the Favas, he told me to stop. I looked at him, doe eyed, and he asked me what I was forgetting. Crap. The garlic and the shallots.

I finished the dish. He told me to plate it, and gave me pointers about tilting my pan, spooning the juice with an angled spoon, and using finishing oil to glaze the protein. I said, "Service, Table 4" and I cleaned my station. I had just cooked for the first time at The Restaurant. He took a picture on his iPhone to document.

Then he told me I had to pay attention, and WATCH. He should only have to teach me a recipe once, and I should get it, and be able to cook it. He is much stricter than Chef B.

I need to practice. Big Time.

But, he kept giving me chances to cook. Teaching me little tidbits of information on the fly. The chances didn't all go so smoothly. I burnt one customer's dish right at the beginning of the recipe. The oil I was working with was not hot enough, I turned it up to speed up the process, it quickly went from brown to char. I had to start again, fast this time, because a customer was waiting for his food. The Sous rolled his eyes with a smile.

After making many more dishes throughout the evening, The Sous as my teacher, Tecate in my belly, I started to feel more at home. When there was a slow moment, I would go over the directions of each dish in my head, like studying for an exam. The Head Chef was alone at his station, quiet and brilliant. When I got the chance, I would peek at what he was doing. I am fully intimidated by his presence.

As the crowd died down, I was taught how to clean up for the night, and told I could leave if I wanted to. It was 10:00 p.m., which was when I was scheduled to leave.

I stayed.

I wanted the FULL experience.

The talented men: The Chef, Chef B, and The Sous gathered in the kitchen and toasted my first day of work. They were astounded that I had never worked in a restaurant kitchen before. They told me I was welcome to come back.

They decided to call me Mrs. Stage. I can't wait to go back today.

And, my coat? Well, it is no longer stark white.

The Restaurant

2009-06-11T11:57:00.000-07:00

My wedding rings are off, my short brown hair is tied back from my face, my small Chef's coat is partially soiled, and my designer knife bag is purchased.

I am officially off to The Restaurant.

Wish me luck! I have no idea what to expect. I fear being on my feet all day.

Or, getting a back spasm. Yeah, I get those pretty frequently when I am cooking all day. It is mostly the upper back, requiring a big back crack and an hour to let it calm down.

I have a feeling The Chef would not want me laying down on his kitchen floor after he has cracked my back.

Just a hunch.

Now, only time will tell. I will keep you all posted. I am on the edge of my seat as much as you are.

Therapy and A Saffron Lesson

2009-06-10T18:53:00.000-07:00

Today started out like any other day. I woke up tired, I ~~drank~~ chugged my grande Americano from a corporate coffee shop, and drove Erik to work. I had no idea it would end with such a sense of satisfaction, inspiration, and accomplishment.

I walked 2 miles down to Internship #2 early this AM, not knowing what to expect. The Teacher immediately greeted me, picked up her reusable shopping bag, and walked me to Pike Place Market. Her other kitchen.

She was like a honey-bee, buzzing around the shops and stands, saying hello to everyone by first name, and picking up ingredients as she went. She knows the best places for each item she needed: DeLaurenti's for pine nuts and pancetta, Market Spice for Spanish Saffron, Frank's for a giant beefsteak tomato and lemons, and The Spanish Table for Jamon, 3-month old Manchego, and a Paella pan.

I am in awe.

While in Market Spice, she explained to me the intricate process of how saffron is harvested. A person, single-handedly picks each stigma from a saffron crocus. It takes about 225,000 single stigmas to make a pound. She also told me to buy ALL of my spices for Market Spice because they turn over their entire product weekly.

Now hold onto your keyboard for this one:
Disturbingly, grocery stores generally have their spices on the shelf for 15 years. And, to boot, they are filled with preservatives to make them last longer. Gross.

Actually, Disgusting. Buy local, and in bulk. I am.

On her menu today was a Spanish theme inspired from The Spanish Table Cookbook. Her simple masterpiece included: Portugese limonade made with piri piri peppers, lemons, San Pelligrino and local orange-blossom honey; Summer gazpacho with beefsteak tomatoes, English cucumber, red pepper, and stale bread; the simple but satisfying snack of jamon y melon; and lastly, my absolute favorite, an orange chocolate torta with a saffron simple syrup and saffron whipped cream.

Today, she taught a cooking class for twelve. And, as usual, her brilliance was captivating. After giving them a one-hour tour of the Market, she came back to teach them (and me!) about the menu, and how to cook all of her dishes.

After filling water glasses with Portugese limonade, doing dishes to keep up with the mess, and cutting Macrina potato bread to dip in olive oil, I got my second "chance" to cook. I got to make the second, unplanned, batch of the gazpacho!

Of course, mine was not as good as hers. But, I followed her recipe. I promise.

To a tee.

I let her taste my creation out of a small metal ramekin with a sterile spoon. She let the flavors hit her palate. Made an "mmm" sound, and promptly told me to add more Walla Walla's for bite and to use less bread next time because of color. I agreed with her.

I am learning.

I learned a little more about her kitchen, too. It is like a mantra for me. I whisper her directions in my head so that I do not forget them: Metal nesting bowls under the counter, short glasses double-stacked in dishwasher on the right.

When the class left, she smirkingly said, "I know you want to try that torta."

We stood at the counter: The Teacher and Kitchen Bitch #2. We ate with our fingers, sharing the last slice of chocolate deliciousness, while licking Saffron whipped cream from our upper lips. We cleaned up, making small talk, and hashing out the vibe of the cooking class. Then, as the cleaning was coming to an end, we started talking about jobs, passions, energies, and the universe. A normal Wednesday conversation at 1:00 in the afternoon. Don't ya think?

The Teacher explained to me that the best way to be happy and fulfilled in life is to always be doing what is your greatest love and passion. She said that what I put out into the world, will eventually come back to me, good or bad. And, she emphasized the importance of having a quiet place to go to. When I need to think.

Especially when you are an artist, as she is.

How did I find this woman? A cooking teacher and a therapist?!

Now, I sit at the end of this fulfilling Wednesday, belly full of brown-rice sushi, a green garden salad, ~~a half-glass~~ two glasses of Gruner Veltliner, and one-bite of (by mistake) raw carrot cake from PCC.

I have passed my Food Handler's test with a 100 percent score, I have the sharpest knives a girl could hope for, I have a newly purchased brown and blue polka-dot knife bag (that I was so trying to avoid getting), and I am anxiously awaiting a date with my pillow as I read "Tender at the Bone".

Life is truly good.

I am excited for what tomorrow will bring. The Teacher wants to me call her, as soon as I can, and give her the run-down of my first evening at The Restaurant.

I will definitely be taking her up on that, and maybe begging for some more "couch time".

Saffron Whipped Cream

1 c. heavy cream

2 tbsp. sifted confectioner's sugar

1/8 tsp. crumbled Spanish Saffron

1/2 tsp. vanilla extract

Whip the heavy cream together in a cool metal bowl with a hand mixer or a standing mixer until it forms soft peaks.

Makes 1 cup

Butterflies and The Chef

2009-06-09T13:25:00.001-07:00

Although the conversation I had with him was brief (and over the phone), I just talked to The Chef de cuisine at The Restaurant. He seems incredibly laid back, and excited to work with me. (Phew!) After Googling his picture, I wasn't quite sure. People can look different in pictures than in person.

People. I have done my research, and this is a serious matter.

The Chef is the REAL DEAL, and his resume runs deep in the food world. The intimidation factor is beyond high. I think I am up for the challenge, though. I am anxiously ready to learn something new.

But, I have to say that the curiosity of Thursday is killing me. I have myself wondering how much should I eat before I go to my first shift? How many knives should I bring? How comfortable do my shoes really have to be?

I have the nervousness I get before a really hard ballet. Anxiety. Excitement. Trepidation.

The butterflies have flooded my stomach, and at any time could come out of my mouth, eyes, ears, or nose.

I guess I will find out on Thursday, when the unknowns will be made clear, and I will be either regretting my decision to take on this project, or giving my self a big pat-on-the-back for making such a good use of my time off this summer.

Either way....

Can Thursday come already?!

My Weaponry

2009-06-08T13:17:00.000-07:00

I decided to get my larger-than-normal ballerina butt out of the house today to get my knives sharpened before I start my internship at The Restaurant on Thursday. I packed them: the Santoku, the paring, and the 10-inch serrated, with their knife guards on, safely in my purse, put the leash on the dog, and started my 30 minute trek to the store. The walk I go on takes me through a verdant park in Seattle that I feel is my little hidden urban oasis. And it seems other peoples as well....

The sketchy part of this adventure, was of course, that you have the recluse teenage boys hiding out from high school who cattle call you, gothic girls smoking cigarettes on tree stumps while playing hooky and gossiping, and the occasional homeless person with their obedient stray dogs who love to sniff at Cashew's privates.

I was glad I had my three semi-sharp knives to ward off any predators. How often does a twenty-something woman have three forms of weaponry in her designer handbag?

Never.

Well, maybe mace.

This could also help me at The Restaurant kitchen, as well. Who knows what kind of predators I will have to deal with there!

On the way to the "knife-sharpening store" (it has a name, but it wasn't memorable enough to remember), I avoided Anthropolgie like a glazed donut, and stopped at this small, quaint bookstore to see if I could find another book (that was not Julie and Julia) to read. I picked up "Tender at the Bone" by Ms. Reichl and "Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant". This should keep me busy until my weapons are sharp enough to be life-threatening.

At least to parsley.

About Salad

2009-06-07T23:28:00.001-07:00

As I was laying in bed, drudgingly trying to get through page 81 of the Julie & Julia, I remembered that I promised you a blog post today.

Yes. I promised I would blog here EVERY DAY.

But, the thing is, besides eating brunch (and peeking at the open kitchen) of the ever so elegant restaurant The Corson Building, I didn't do much in "internship-kitchen-bitch" department.

But, what I did do was remember some things that The Teacher had said to me about salad last week.

So, I thought it was appropriate to share a couple of tips with you:

Numero Uno: When using shallots in a salad, there is no need to season the salad with pepper. The shallots are the substitute for that peppery bite, and pepper just makes that taste become redundant. Who wants to be redundant. NOT I.

B: You know that dressing that is left in the bottom of your salad bowl when you are done tossing your greens? That is what you use to toss the nuts, dried cherries, and cheese in. Then you put all of those little elements ON TOP of the salad. Genius.

And trois: Always use the best quality of each ingredient that you use. Then, at least you know you are starting at a good place. And, if you can, buy LOCAL.

Taste of Washington Salad

Recipe courtesy of *The Teacher

Serves 4

4 c. organic baby greens, cleaned and dried

2 tbsp. Pipitone Farms organic shallots, finely minced

3 tbsp. Napolean Brand White Balsamic Vinegar

3 tbsp. Apres Vin Lime Riesling Grapeseed Oil

3 tbsp. Holmquist Orchards Dry Roasted Hazelnuts

3 tbsp. Chukar Dried Tart Cherries

In the bottom of a large bowl, combine the shallots and the vinegar and let sit for 10 minutes. Whisking constantly, slowly add the grapeseed oil. Emulsify completely. Season to taste with salt, if needed. Add the greens and toss. Plate the salad in a big mound on a chilled plate. Dress the hazelnuts and the cherries with the dressing left in the bottom of the bowl and place on top of the greens.

This salad is simple, and clean. Just the right way to end a week, or start a new one.

Déjà Vu

2009-06-06T14:57:00.000-07:00

Déjà vu set in today as I bought my first Chef's coat at a restaurant supply store. It was this compelling sense of familiarity. It reminded me of 15(+) years ago when I was the naive little ballerina, back in southern Virginia. I got to buy my first pair of pink pointe shoes in a ballet store off of E. Virginia Avenue on a sunny Spring weekend. This is when ballet was not hard, or painful, or draining.

Ever.

It also wasn't a passion, so I guess that makes it all worth it now. But, I do fear that I may be getting myself into some recognizable territory here. Should I be worried about my patterns and career choices? Starting out fun and adventurous, and ending with tears, pain, callouses, and passion?

As a little dancer, getting to go "en pointe" is this giant accomplishment because it means you have actually reached a certain level of your dancing. Today, as I clutched my chef's coat at the checkout stand, I was reminded of that little ballet dancer coming out of the ballet store, clutching her shiny new pointe shoes.

I had no idea HOW to dance on those pointe shoes, I just knew I wanted them. The ribbons had not even been sewn, but having them meant there were so many more possibilities for me.

Same with cooking. I have the Chef's coat now, but too bad it isn't that simple. I have to learn how to cook. For real.

Now I know to expect the tears, the pain, the callouses. Like I said. I have done this before. But, the best part, is I also get to expect the passion.

And the coat. Well it is definitely shiny and new. Which means, this week I will be living in that thing. I am certainly not showing up on my first day (Thursday) at The Restaurant with a stark white chef's coat that has so much starch that you could make a coconut cream pie with it.

How freaking embarrassing.

Kitchen Bitch #2

2009-06-05T09:56:00.000-07:00

Although it may seem untrue, this was not a "Devil Wears Prada" kind of experience, I assure you. But, within the first five minutes, I was rapidly told that my job title was Kitchen Bitch #2. Not even #1, but #2. I was the Kitchen Bitch to the Kitchen Bitch. The girl who was #1 had been through the ropes many times before, and taught me quietly along the way (as to not disturb the flow of the evening). I watched, learned as I went, and received all the information I could. I was losing my virginity to my first restaurant.

While watching The Teacher prep her 5-course dinner for 12, I swept, cleaned counters, and filled votives, realizing that cooking for people every night is really what I am meant to do. Like me (before ALL of my dinner parties), The Teacher was frazzled, and frantically preparing for her performance later that evening. Going through her mental check list out loud. Though, once she got in front of her audience, she stole the show. I envied her.

I watched her seamlessly remove the skin from a 5-lb. Halibut fillet and pair it with a rhubarb compote, and steamed asparagus. She handmade Creme Fraiche and created a cold potato salad with pancetta and ramps. She sauteed domestic lamb loin chops and composed an artichoke, caper, lemon and parsley "salsa" to garnish it. She made her "Taste of Washington" salad with the Apres Vin lime riesling grapeseed oil. Next came the cheese course of artisan cheeses she had picked up from the market, and to finish, she created a lavender short cake with homemade honey ricotta and fresh blackberries. All local. All right in front of my eyes. I knew I adored her.

I was not allowed to touch or help with the food, and for the most part, not even addressed by name. I was the second in command to Kitchen Bitch #1, but suprisingly this did not bother me. I do know what it is like to be the "lowest man" on the totem pole. I enjoyed the feeling of starting again from the ground up. Proving my worth to someone new. Being humbled.

The only time I was addressed was once, when Kitchen Bitch #1 was not around. She called me by Kitchen Bitch #1's name, and I was asked to slice the lavendar short cakes in half. I was elated! Of course, I was secretly hoping and praying that I wouldn't mess up and crack and crumble the delicate cakes in my hands. This could be my one and only chance.

I made sure I kept my cool, not to showing any sign of weakness or of pride. As my hands shook, I took the first shortcake in my hand (about the size of a half golf-ball) and cut it with her Wustoff serated knife. Phew. It didn't crumble. I was a kitchen genius! Then I took the next one, and sliced it a little more rapidly. Shit! Part of it crumbled in my palm. I cleverly pressed it back together, and plated it so it didn't show my mistake. Then, slower this time, I finished the rest of the shortcakes, plating each one as the one before.

I prayed to the gods of butter and flour that they would not break in my shaky hands. When I was done, I inconspicuously crept away, keeping my low-profile. This was my moment.

At the end of the night, when all the guests had gone on their way, she thanked her two Bitches for all of our hard work, and we sat around chatting and having a glass of a 2004 Cedergreen Thuje. I was in a blissful state after The Teacher let me observe her doing what she does best, for a few hours.

I absolutely adore The Teacher. Miss Anna Wintour could learn a thing (or two) from her.

The Teacher

2009-06-03T15:29:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I met someone who I can already predict is going to inspire me right out of my comfort zone in cooking. Who knew this would happen before I even started at The Restaurant?

Right when I wasn't expecting it, I think I found The Teacher.

It started first when she taught me that to sweat vegetables for a soup, it should take 40 minutes. 40 minutes! I have NEVER taken that much time. Then, she introduced me to flavored Grapeseed oils from this company. I have a new love affair with the Lime Riesling!

She educated me on what local companies to look for when I go to Pike Place Market: sprouted almonds from Stackhouse Orchards for snacking, Chukar dried tart cherries, Holmquist orchards dry roasted hazelnuts, and Pipitone Farms Organic Shallots (that are so sweet, and have no bite what-so-ever!)

I learned that Napoleon Vinegars have been based in Seattle since 1903, and soaking Radicchio in a bowl of cold ice water for an hour to remove its bitterness. She also taught me that instead of flour and buttering a pan before baking, you should butter and sugar it.

People. This was all in 2 hours.

I can't wait for what comes next.

The fun part? More is already planned.

The Beginning

2009-06-03T10:40:00.000-07:00

I never thought I would start another blog. I mean, why would I? My food blog Anticiplate, keeps me busy writing about my life, creating and trying new recipes, and an occasional sentence on ballet. But, I have exciting news planned for this summer which warrants even more of this thing I call a "blogging time suck": I am actually going to work in a professional restaurant kitchen, and learn the tricks of the trade of being a restaurant cook.

Yes. I told you I would do it.

I mean, how else am I supposed to figure out if I want to open a restaurant in the future? Or cater private dinner parties? Or teach cooking classes?

On my to do list:

1. Buy a chefs coat, a knife bag, and maybe even some orange Crocs like Mario Batali wears.

2. Get my food handler's license. Yuck.

3. Get my knives sharpened (and maybe buy a new one, don't tell Erik)

And, I was kidding about the orange Crocs. I promise you. I will NEVER do this.

Don't judge. But, I might get black.

I am excited for you to go on this journey with me. I will be posting daily, and to be honest, I am scared shitless. I know this is going to push me past my comfort zone, and hopefully teach me more than I ever knew about a whole new art form. One in which I am so eager to discover, yet will be sure to have my heart broken by at some time or another.