As a child I had a fixation with knights. I viewed them as manly, capable, and working for the good; I wanted to do what they did. Also, I loved the uniform and the tools of the trade - armor, swords, and a holy book. They have a mission, and the roles are clear - ally with the good, purge the bad, and do right by the ladies.
At about year seven in my cooking career, I realized that I had arrived, in a roundabout way, at this goal.
I'm wearing a white coat to ward off the flames, using sharp steel to cut huge monsters down to size, and poring over arcane texts to learn the secrets of the holy alchemy we call cooking.
Sure, the flames are gas, and the monsters are Halibuts (which can grow to 400 pounds), and the secrets are "how to use roux" as opposed to "Whom does the Grail serve?" However, you see how the symbols line up. And hey, I'm battling against hunger, and facing my own inner demons in the name of Service to Others.
I have a feeling that there are some of you out there who might have fun looking at your own profession in symbolic terms. Maybe you ARE living some dream of your childhood but don't know it. Or maybe you are doing work that has a great historical legacy you might be interested in aligning with.
Tell me what you see.
And always remember to do right by the ladies (and your other co-workers.)
Subscribe To
Posts
All Comments
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
On the Knife's Edge
Knives are the signature tool of the cook. One uses them to cleave the good from the bad, to sculpt the amorphous, to get to the heart of an ingredient.
In the world of professional cooks there are those who become knife-obsessed and carry around a twenty pound toolbox from station to station, choosing a new knife for each task. Then there are those who have seemed to transcend this attachment, and these cooks work with rented knives that arrive sharp every week, are made of inferior metal and lose their edge no matter what you do. These cooks nevertheless coax excellent work out of these hatchets, because they have a level of skill that surmounts the obstacle.
I work for a cook in the latter category, a thirty-year veteran who was mentored by Hubert Keller and worked in various amazing kitchens with some brilliant and edgy characters. So I have struggled along with his preferred rented hatchets for years, keeping two knives of my own in reserve for special projects and emergencies. And then, after working alongside one of the toolbox-toting nuts for awhile, I began to bring out my own knives more often.
(For those who are curious, my two knives are Wusthof-made, which means German steel from the city of Solingen, where knives have been forged for centuries and the craft is quite elevated. One is a 10 inch extra-wide chef's knife I bought reconditioned years ago, and the other is an 8 inch filet knife I received as a gift from my wife.)
Here's the hatchet and my Wusthof side by side:
Here's what I've been noticing. Hatchets have a LOT of drag, which means they are impeded from cutting smoothly by the coarse texture of the steel and the wide angle of their edge. They are also thick-bladed all the way to the where the edge is ground, to ensure they will have plenty of metal on them after a hundred confrontations with the water-cooled high speed grinding wheel that our knife company uses to sharpen them. (A very cool device that will put a new edge on a knife after one pass in and out of the slot - i.e. two seconds.) By contrast, my chef's knife is tapered as it approaches the edge, so the knife is wedge-shaped and much thinner overall. And the Wusthof steel has a visible grain which runs the width of the blade, and for this reason glides through a potato or beef filet with less drag. That's my theory anyway.
Compare the edges - see where the hatchet has literally "been through the mill."
But the real value in using my own knife is that I have to confront its condition everyday. If you pick up one of the four hatchets we have at work, and the edge has been blunted because of hard use (i.e. can opening) you throw it down and pick another one. If my knife is dullish, I have to steel it, and keep steeling it, or grind a new edge using the medieval technology of the whetstone. The stone takes skill and practice, so it's frustrating the first few times you use it because your technique is lousy and so is the resulting edge. But about six weeks ago I got an edge on with a great "bite"- the kind that will cut ripe tomatoes cleanly, and I'd been keeping it up well, slicing chicken breasts into seven even layers night after night.
Then the lobsters arrived.
Removing the meat from a poached lobster involves a lot of blade abuse. We cut into the claw shell (one of the thickest and hardest parts) with the edge of the knife to create a fracture one can exploit to shatter the rest of the claw and get at that wonderful lobe of muscle inside. We also cut through the tail lengthwise and the knife has to cleave both parts of the shell and be sharp enough to divide the meat inside without tearing it. I almost chickened out and took a hatchet for the project, but then decided to just commit to some quality time with the stone after I got finished with the lobsters.
Eight lobsters - eight tails, sixteen claws, and sixteen sets of knuckles (the upper "arm") which sometimes can't be cut apart with scissors and need to be chopped through. Sure enough, our good set of scissors was AWOL.
Suffice to say the knife did the job with relative grace - the density of that thin blade is handy when chopping down into the claw - you can really feel the momentum build as you swing your wrist. After the cutting board was littered with shell shards and misc goop (albumen) from the project, I had a neat pile of clean lobster meat ready to enjoy, and after cleaning up I put my knife to the steel to see if I could coax it back into form.
Amazingly, it seemed unharmed. I was chopping chives with it a few minutes later and doing a very clean job.
A hatchet would never have done that.
So here's to German steel, which is damn hard stuff.
And I'm starting to see that one arrives at the point of no-attachment to the tool being used after mastering the tool and its care. After building the confidence to handle the consequences, your skills replace the tool, become the tool.
One of the things my boss can do is make a wonderful rolled omelet. One of his long-time customers saw him filling in at a poolside kitchen station at a country club where he was the Executive Chef. They asked if he could make them an omelet and he tried to dissuade them saying "I don't have a burner to use at this station, or of course I would make you one." The customer said: "I know you. You can make an omelet with a cigarette lighter and a pie tin" or something to that effect.
You get the idea.
P.S. I thought sharp was sharp until my wife brought home a Japanese knife that's ground only on one side - so the edge is half as broad as a western knife. People swear these knives greatly improve the cut one can make on delicate things like raw tuna. I've always been skeptical. This summer, I cut up a few dozen peaches with this thing, and it does actually cut more cleanly and straight than I thought possible.
Always learning something. . .
What's your favorite knife?
In the world of professional cooks there are those who become knife-obsessed and carry around a twenty pound toolbox from station to station, choosing a new knife for each task. Then there are those who have seemed to transcend this attachment, and these cooks work with rented knives that arrive sharp every week, are made of inferior metal and lose their edge no matter what you do. These cooks nevertheless coax excellent work out of these hatchets, because they have a level of skill that surmounts the obstacle.
I work for a cook in the latter category, a thirty-year veteran who was mentored by Hubert Keller and worked in various amazing kitchens with some brilliant and edgy characters. So I have struggled along with his preferred rented hatchets for years, keeping two knives of my own in reserve for special projects and emergencies. And then, after working alongside one of the toolbox-toting nuts for awhile, I began to bring out my own knives more often.
(For those who are curious, my two knives are Wusthof-made, which means German steel from the city of Solingen, where knives have been forged for centuries and the craft is quite elevated. One is a 10 inch extra-wide chef's knife I bought reconditioned years ago, and the other is an 8 inch filet knife I received as a gift from my wife.)
Here's the hatchet and my Wusthof side by side:
Here's what I've been noticing. Hatchets have a LOT of drag, which means they are impeded from cutting smoothly by the coarse texture of the steel and the wide angle of their edge. They are also thick-bladed all the way to the where the edge is ground, to ensure they will have plenty of metal on them after a hundred confrontations with the water-cooled high speed grinding wheel that our knife company uses to sharpen them. (A very cool device that will put a new edge on a knife after one pass in and out of the slot - i.e. two seconds.) By contrast, my chef's knife is tapered as it approaches the edge, so the knife is wedge-shaped and much thinner overall. And the Wusthof steel has a visible grain which runs the width of the blade, and for this reason glides through a potato or beef filet with less drag. That's my theory anyway.
Compare the edges - see where the hatchet has literally "been through the mill."
But the real value in using my own knife is that I have to confront its condition everyday. If you pick up one of the four hatchets we have at work, and the edge has been blunted because of hard use (i.e. can opening) you throw it down and pick another one. If my knife is dullish, I have to steel it, and keep steeling it, or grind a new edge using the medieval technology of the whetstone. The stone takes skill and practice, so it's frustrating the first few times you use it because your technique is lousy and so is the resulting edge. But about six weeks ago I got an edge on with a great "bite"- the kind that will cut ripe tomatoes cleanly, and I'd been keeping it up well, slicing chicken breasts into seven even layers night after night.
Then the lobsters arrived.
Removing the meat from a poached lobster involves a lot of blade abuse. We cut into the claw shell (one of the thickest and hardest parts) with the edge of the knife to create a fracture one can exploit to shatter the rest of the claw and get at that wonderful lobe of muscle inside. We also cut through the tail lengthwise and the knife has to cleave both parts of the shell and be sharp enough to divide the meat inside without tearing it. I almost chickened out and took a hatchet for the project, but then decided to just commit to some quality time with the stone after I got finished with the lobsters.
Eight lobsters - eight tails, sixteen claws, and sixteen sets of knuckles (the upper "arm") which sometimes can't be cut apart with scissors and need to be chopped through. Sure enough, our good set of scissors was AWOL.
Suffice to say the knife did the job with relative grace - the density of that thin blade is handy when chopping down into the claw - you can really feel the momentum build as you swing your wrist. After the cutting board was littered with shell shards and misc goop (albumen) from the project, I had a neat pile of clean lobster meat ready to enjoy, and after cleaning up I put my knife to the steel to see if I could coax it back into form.
Amazingly, it seemed unharmed. I was chopping chives with it a few minutes later and doing a very clean job.
A hatchet would never have done that.
So here's to German steel, which is damn hard stuff.
And I'm starting to see that one arrives at the point of no-attachment to the tool being used after mastering the tool and its care. After building the confidence to handle the consequences, your skills replace the tool, become the tool.
One of the things my boss can do is make a wonderful rolled omelet. One of his long-time customers saw him filling in at a poolside kitchen station at a country club where he was the Executive Chef. They asked if he could make them an omelet and he tried to dissuade them saying "I don't have a burner to use at this station, or of course I would make you one." The customer said: "I know you. You can make an omelet with a cigarette lighter and a pie tin" or something to that effect.
You get the idea.
P.S. I thought sharp was sharp until my wife brought home a Japanese knife that's ground only on one side - so the edge is half as broad as a western knife. People swear these knives greatly improve the cut one can make on delicate things like raw tuna. I've always been skeptical. This summer, I cut up a few dozen peaches with this thing, and it does actually cut more cleanly and straight than I thought possible.
Always learning something. . .
What's your favorite knife?
Sunday, September 19, 2010
A Little Gratitude
To the friend who gave me a bottle of Chateau Lalande-Borie from '99: It went down beautifully. I especially liked the ghost of menthol that lingered in the finish.
To the friends who came for dinner and brought dessert.
To the friend with whom I devised the Slinger at Rooster, which has now reached epic status and gained national press. And to the cooks I do not know who continue to make that gravy the right way.
To the cat, for refusing to go to bed, which reminded me to start that critical load of laundry.
To the day, which in wearing me down, has polished some new facets of my self.
Thank you.
Would you tell me one thing you have to be grateful for?
To the friends who came for dinner and brought dessert.
To the friend with whom I devised the Slinger at Rooster, which has now reached epic status and gained national press. And to the cooks I do not know who continue to make that gravy the right way.
To the cat, for refusing to go to bed, which reminded me to start that critical load of laundry.
To the day, which in wearing me down, has polished some new facets of my self.
Thank you.
Would you tell me one thing you have to be grateful for?
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Only Yoga Can Do It
It's the busiest weekend of the year for our restaurants. The Clayton Art Fair brings tens of thousands of people literally to our front doors. The whole team works at War Emergency Power for the 72 hours it lasts, not to speak of the mountain of preparations we do for the weeks leading up to it.
It's Friday the 10th of September, just before midnight. I've been on my feet, working hard, for nearly twelve hours, and the last guests have just departed. What I still must accomplish: write a crucial and clear-headed assessment of Saturday's tasks, finish the daily bookkeeping, help the waiters move most of the tables in the dining room to prepare for an early-morning event, lock up, and then bicycle five miles home.
The problem is that I'm physically and mentally fatigued from cooking dinner for four straight hours, hauling pots of veal stock up and down stairs, and all the other challenging tasks associated with The Best Job in the World. My back, knees, and shoulder muscles can be measured on a continuum between protest and open revolt. I need some help fast. Luckily I am the master of my fate, and I have options.
The delicious array of wines standing in formation on our slate-tiled bar.
The cigarettes in my co-workers pockets.
The cache of Belgian chocolate in the wine room.
The list of cab companies and their phone numbers.
Or I could unpack a little something I brought from home: Asanas. Twisting Triangle for the back and shoulders. Cow Face Pose for the hips and upper back. Reclining Warrior for the knees.
After years of trying EVERYTHING in these common chef-in-real-life situations, I know what works. I spend about five minutes gently breathing and moving though these postures, and suddenly I can actually figure out why the register seems to be short $56.32. I can respond with intelligence to a suggestion that I wait a few more minutes while the servers polish up that last tray of clean silverware (yes of course vs. &#%@?) I can clearly picture the tasks of Saturday and relate them in order of priority. I feel the kind of refreshment that is so comically dramatized by beverage companies, and I got it by bringing out something within my own mind. Yoga isn't just a series of movements, but the body-knowledge of how to heal yourself. It's the kind of knowledge that will serve you and teach you for the rest of your life.
When I do finally get everyone else out of the building and finish my list of closing tasks, I walk out into the peace of 1 a.m. in suburbia. I get on my bicycle, and enjoy my ride home.
Only yoga can do that.
P.S. I also ate a handful of the Belgian chocolate pistoles for good measure.
It's Friday the 10th of September, just before midnight. I've been on my feet, working hard, for nearly twelve hours, and the last guests have just departed. What I still must accomplish: write a crucial and clear-headed assessment of Saturday's tasks, finish the daily bookkeeping, help the waiters move most of the tables in the dining room to prepare for an early-morning event, lock up, and then bicycle five miles home.
The problem is that I'm physically and mentally fatigued from cooking dinner for four straight hours, hauling pots of veal stock up and down stairs, and all the other challenging tasks associated with The Best Job in the World. My back, knees, and shoulder muscles can be measured on a continuum between protest and open revolt. I need some help fast. Luckily I am the master of my fate, and I have options.
The delicious array of wines standing in formation on our slate-tiled bar.
The cigarettes in my co-workers pockets.
The cache of Belgian chocolate in the wine room.
The list of cab companies and their phone numbers.
Or I could unpack a little something I brought from home: Asanas. Twisting Triangle for the back and shoulders. Cow Face Pose for the hips and upper back. Reclining Warrior for the knees.
After years of trying EVERYTHING in these common chef-in-real-life situations, I know what works. I spend about five minutes gently breathing and moving though these postures, and suddenly I can actually figure out why the register seems to be short $56.32. I can respond with intelligence to a suggestion that I wait a few more minutes while the servers polish up that last tray of clean silverware (yes of course vs. &#%@?) I can clearly picture the tasks of Saturday and relate them in order of priority. I feel the kind of refreshment that is so comically dramatized by beverage companies, and I got it by bringing out something within my own mind. Yoga isn't just a series of movements, but the body-knowledge of how to heal yourself. It's the kind of knowledge that will serve you and teach you for the rest of your life.
When I do finally get everyone else out of the building and finish my list of closing tasks, I walk out into the peace of 1 a.m. in suburbia. I get on my bicycle, and enjoy my ride home.
Only yoga can do that.
P.S. I also ate a handful of the Belgian chocolate pistoles for good measure.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Kitchen=Community, Ananda=Bliss
It happened this way: a week or so into my first job in a kitchen, I was assigned to sort and wash beans. Red kidney beans, five pounds worth. I removed all the rocks, poured the hard little beans into a giant colander, and hosed them with cold water. They changed from dull little bricks into brilliant red gems. I put my face closer, so that their pattern filled my vision. Thousands of identical shapes, with a clean white dot in the apex of each curve.
I felt a rush of real pleasure at the beauty of these beans. It took me by surprise. I looked around me at my other co-workers, all bent to their tasks and grooving along with the kitchen stereo playing Yo La Tengo. Who among them understood this feeling? The Shift Leader passed by the sink on her way to the cooler. She was a painter or something, I had heard. "Hey," I said. "Look at this." I was blushing.
"Yeah?"
"Isn't that a beautiful color?"
She looked down at the beans, then looked at me briefly. "Amazing huh? Now get 'em in the pot."
I received something from that experience that built gradually into love for the craft of cooking.
". . . (Our) lives don't add up to a hill of beans in this crazy world," Bogart says in Casablanca.
Well, maybe not, but a hill of beans changed the course of my life.
I felt a rush of real pleasure at the beauty of these beans. It took me by surprise. I looked around me at my other co-workers, all bent to their tasks and grooving along with the kitchen stereo playing Yo La Tengo. Who among them understood this feeling? The Shift Leader passed by the sink on her way to the cooler. She was a painter or something, I had heard. "Hey," I said. "Look at this." I was blushing.
"Yeah?"
"Isn't that a beautiful color?"
She looked down at the beans, then looked at me briefly. "Amazing huh? Now get 'em in the pot."
I received something from that experience that built gradually into love for the craft of cooking.
". . . (Our) lives don't add up to a hill of beans in this crazy world," Bogart says in Casablanca.
Well, maybe not, but a hill of beans changed the course of my life.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)