The Mistakes

"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.

Mrs. Staaaauge

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.

Kitchen Bitch #2

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.