The Groove

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

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

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. 

The Owner

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?

The Banquet Squiggle

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. 

Rules at The Restaurant

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. 

Mise en Place and The Spoon

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.

Just a Stage

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.

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.