Tonight I went and saw the movie Super Bad, or as the French version is called, Super Grave. "Grave" translates roughly to unfortunate, as in the expression, "C'est pas grave" or "Its not unfortunate (that you just did that)." So, the French version of Super Bad is actually called, "It is super unfortunate that you just did that."
Super unfortunate, wow, that's pretty freaking unfortunate.
***
I am watching this boxing match right now between a French man and an American. The French guy doesnt stand a chance. I think this country's national sport is neither football, nor rugby, nor petanque, but rather complaining about the constant state of failure its athletes seem determined to live in.
***
I am sitting by the Seine right now, and I am close enough to jump in, maybe about four feet. It amazes me how beautiful this city can be, how seductive and glorious even though it is totally fricking filthy.
***
I was in this bar recently. The song "La Bamba" came on, and some drunk English people started hooting and dancing. It really makes you wonder: which came first- the booze, or the total lack of self respect?
I mean, La Bamba?
Pretty super unfortunate.
***
I had a staff a while back, two guys, Alexi and Salem. Alexi was ok, but Salem was not so bright. I would like to say that he worked his ass off, but that is not the case. Mostly, he just complained and burned himself. The chef fired him eventually. He really was slow, and I think he did his best. I think everyone is always doing their best. I just dont know how many disappointments from others I am supposed to let go, because they are doing their best. I am doing my best, and I dont get any slack, even from myself.
***
I was wandering Bordeaux and was sitting outside the cathedral to take a rest. The cathedral there is hundreds of years old. In the country side, I visited a castle from the 11th century. In the States, something is "old" if it was built 100 years ago. I wonder what the hell these people would do if there was a tsunami or an earthquake and all their old buildings were destroyed. I mean, they are so tied to their places and history. I guess they would rebuild, but I dont know who they would be if they didnt have these places to call home. The French hated, absolutely hated, the Eiffel Tower when it was new; now it is part of their culture and one of their greatest symbols, but that took a while. If there was some disaster, and they did rebuild, would the rebuilt places look just like the old ones? Or, do they rebuild in a more modern way, and everyone just hates everything for the next fifty years? Is France in the architecture? Is there any such place?
***
The song, "How Bizarre" just came on the radio again. I have heard this song so many times that I feel like the band who wrote it owes me a full week of my life back. If I ever meet them I will play my song, entitled, "Shut the fuck up for Christ's sake" over and over until they promise never to write music again.
***
My dad always tells me my hands are like bear paws; I guess I have pretty big hands (either that, or he's flirting, but I dont think so).
So while at Chateau Reverdri in the Medoc wine region, I noticed the head of the vineyard's hands. They were weathered and worn, and had soil permanently ground into them, even after he washed his hands for a wine tasting he hosted for us. They reminded me of my dad's hands. He is a printer, and when I was a kid, he always had ink in the little cracks around his fingers, just like this guy had soil in his.
I thought about my grandfathers. My dad's dad was a carpenter, and my mom's dad was a barber and worked in tool and dye making. These three men all used their hands in their crafts.
I have always been a pretty academic guy. I really liked school, and the jobs I have held before learning culinary have all consisted of pushing paper around a desk. I never really loved any job I had, until I started working with my hands. They are my main tools now, and I come home with my hands a little more weathered and worn everyday. I dont mind. I think I am in good company.
31 October 2007
25 October 2007
The Talkies!
Ok, so I am a little behind the times. It took me about two months to figure out how to do this. But finally, I have had the courage to jump in and get down to brass tacks (what does that expression even mean?). If you scroll down, you will witness Kiss My France's first two videos! Yes, that's right, I have uploaded video from my camera to the web and linked it to this site Huzzah! So this first video is a short one I took a while back of a guy doing some hip hop dancing in the coolest spot I can think of on Earth. Check it out. I was just wanering Paris one day with my camera hanging out, and I happened to grab this clip because I just thought it was great how this kid and his friends make money after school. Take a look (sorry that it is sideways):
Oh, and here's another one that you might enjoy. Seems a while back I posted a little entry called "Vignettes" about three epxeriences in one night: a church, a bar and a train ride (not in that order). On the train, a man came on who I thought had dastardly intent, but instead he just sang Besame Mucho. I thought it was an odd experience and wrote about it in my blog. I got a whole slew of, "Did that really happen?"'s. So here, have a side of proof with your humble pie.
Cheers!
Oh, and here's another one that you might enjoy. Seems a while back I posted a little entry called "Vignettes" about three epxeriences in one night: a church, a bar and a train ride (not in that order). On the train, a man came on who I thought had dastardly intent, but instead he just sang Besame Mucho. I thought it was an odd experience and wrote about it in my blog. I got a whole slew of, "Did that really happen?"'s. So here, have a side of proof with your humble pie.
Cheers!
24 October 2007
entre-deux-mares
It is Wednesday here in France, as I am sure it is in most other parts of the world by now.
Since my last post, things have been pretty fricking good, I must say. I got a ton of support from people all over the world, so a big "thank you" goes out to Planet Earth.
You know, a lot of times in my life, just when things seem like they are at their worst, suddenly, things get better.
Thats how things have been this week.
On Monday, I went in to work with Benoit on the dinner shift. The hotel was 75% full, so we were expecting a heavy day. I came into that kitchen with my game face on and was ready to take whatever came my way.
What came my way was the chef. He said to me, "Mark, I want you to learn cheeses. I need you on cold prep for breakfast starting tomorrow at 5:30am." He left abruptly after that, presumable so I wouldn't have time to argue with him about what hour I was to arrive.
Pish Posh!
Three good things about breakfast cold-prep: no fire, change of staff, and cheese, glorious cheese.
So, the no fire thing is awesome. Actually, I dont want to give the wrong impression here; I am pretty good with the grill and really good with an easy bake oven. Its just that fire gets so darn hot! Oh well, no matter.
The change of staff is a big plus. Marc is the guy who heads up breakfast team, and he is totally nice and respectful of other cultures. He also is a great teacher, and about my age, so he's A OK in my book.
Finally, I have full and total access to the holiest of holies: The Cheese Locker.
Daily, new cheeses are shipped to us for me to store, cut for cheese plates, taste and adore. We recieved nine different kinds of cheese today. Nine. They ranged from the awesome to the darn tootin' sublime. I tasted them all, twice (just to be sure). I love this job sometimes.
Oh, and one other thing that is so great about breakfast: hundreds of hot, fresh croissants and chocolate croissants just waiting to be pilfered. I am gonna get so damned fat. I cant wait.
I'll just tell people I'm starting to show, even though I'm in the "fun" trimester.
Anyway, I was thinking today at breakfast (whilst munching on some emmental, a regional form of frommage swisse, or better known in the States as Swiss Cheese) about how lucky I am.
I mean, I have grown up travelling. My parents saw to it that my sister and I travelled early and often. It is because of them that I have seen so much of the American south and the west and Disney (two out of three aint bad. I cant fault them for taking us to Disney, even though it is of the devil). I can't imagine what this experience would be like if I had never travelled before.
Growing up, all I knew about France was: 1. that it was far away 2. that it had it's butt saved by our boys in dubya dubya two, and 3. that there was a place there where the naked ladies danced, and there was also a hole in the wall, where the men could see it all (but the men didn't care 'cause they wore no underwear). It was this last bit of cross cultural data that birthed the obsession in my nascent brain, "There is a hole through which I can watch naked ladies dance? I must go to this country."
Now, I have been to said hole, and I have seen said dancers, and I am here to testify (TESTIFY!!) that although it has been nearly 25 years since I first heard about the mystic hole in France, it was well worth the wait.
What I am trying to say is that, now, more than ever, I love it here. I dont think I would have been open to leaving my home country for almost five months (again) if I had not travlled as a kid. Ruta knows what I mean. She is going to Brazil on Wednesday for the fourth time in her life. And her sister lives there! People who travel, man, they're a special breed.
You know, I start to wonder about where "home" is after a life spent travelling. I hadn't told anyone this (other than the wife), but when I got off the plane my first day here, I had a thought. It was not one of those thoughts where you sit and contemplate or really mull something over. It was one of those thoughts that just pop into your head. I got off the plane, had a snoot full of fresh air, and thought, "Geez, it is good to be home."
I have no idea why I thought that. I'm not French. I don't come from France ("We come from France!" pardon the Coneheads reference), but I feel totally at home here sometimes.
I had dinner tonight with some friends from the hotel, and the conversation flowed freely. When I stop to think about things, they get really hard, but when I just let them happen, I have a blast. For example, tonight I didn't worry about the language barrier at all, and my French came much more easily. I connected with people. We had actual discussions instead of my just trying to ask questions.
It was great.
And you know my first clue that I am starting to become a little French? I woke up the other morning before I was ready to. I looked at my alarm, and said, without thinking, "Five AM? Oh, la la!" I dont know what got into me.
Anyway, this weekend I am going to Bordeaux, in the south west of France. It should be warmer there, and the wine will be magnificent.
There is a vineyard there called Entre-Deux-Mares, and that pretty much sums up how I am feeling these days. It means, "Between two seas," and I think that is a perfect expression of where I am at.
My French is moving beyond basic conversational now. I am getting totally challenged at work, but I am up for it. I am living in my beloved France and eating it up. And this all comes at the half way point. I feel like I am in the middle of crossing the ocean to get here, and starting to prepare to cross the ocean to go home. Time goes so much faster now than when I first got here.
I am at the point now, where I thought I would be when I was leaving, so I dont know what the future holds.
Pastry maybe. I am supposed to work with the pastry department in the next month, and I cannot tell you how excited I am about that. Today we had a group of VIP's in from AirFrance.
In the kitchen, the chef has his own little restaurant to recieve his own guests or guests from the hotel. It is really nicely decorated, and the real food get made there. We call it le bistro de chef, and you can figure out what that means for yourself. After a five course meal, the dessert was brought in.
This was so cool. It was a sabayon (cream and egg yolks cooked over high heat, while stirring very quickly so it becomes a kind of mousse almost) flavored like champagne, and served with rasberries. That was served in a little bowl that was suspended over a single votive candle, which kept the sabayon hot. On top of the sabayon was a small scoop of gelato (spiced red fruit flavor) with a long crisp bar of paper thin dark chocolate on top of the gelato. The chocolate had been sprayd with a gold dust, for a dark chocolate/gold effect. Everyone got one of these things.
It was so cool, and definately something that I need to try. It was beautiful and eyes definatley lit up for it.
I was asking all kinds of questions about it. Why the hot and cold combination? Why those flavors? Where does the chocolate come from? That was when the chef turned to me and said with a smile, "Mark, I am very pleased. You are a good man and we can all count on you." It was a little out of context, but I think he likes my curiosity. And it was my first confirmation from this guy that I am doing well there.
It was a breath of fresh air, and it totally reinvigorated me.
I feel like I have been through a war, but I am feeling so much better now that I am fighting it.
I cant imagine what my life would be like if I didnt travel. It makes me sad for people who dont. I mean, my whole life has changed in two months. I know, for sure, that who I would have been had I done my internship in Chicago, is not the person I am now, and I would not have been half the cook I am now either.
Why would you ever stay home when the whole world is waiting outside your door? I dont understand that. Like my friend MB says, getting your ass kicked in France is "f*&!ing nurturing."
I only wish everyone would make the time in their lives for this. I am glad I did. I am having the time of my life right now.
Since my last post, things have been pretty fricking good, I must say. I got a ton of support from people all over the world, so a big "thank you" goes out to Planet Earth.
You know, a lot of times in my life, just when things seem like they are at their worst, suddenly, things get better.
Thats how things have been this week.
On Monday, I went in to work with Benoit on the dinner shift. The hotel was 75% full, so we were expecting a heavy day. I came into that kitchen with my game face on and was ready to take whatever came my way.
What came my way was the chef. He said to me, "Mark, I want you to learn cheeses. I need you on cold prep for breakfast starting tomorrow at 5:30am." He left abruptly after that, presumable so I wouldn't have time to argue with him about what hour I was to arrive.
Pish Posh!
Three good things about breakfast cold-prep: no fire, change of staff, and cheese, glorious cheese.
So, the no fire thing is awesome. Actually, I dont want to give the wrong impression here; I am pretty good with the grill and really good with an easy bake oven. Its just that fire gets so darn hot! Oh well, no matter.
The change of staff is a big plus. Marc is the guy who heads up breakfast team, and he is totally nice and respectful of other cultures. He also is a great teacher, and about my age, so he's A OK in my book.
Finally, I have full and total access to the holiest of holies: The Cheese Locker.
Daily, new cheeses are shipped to us for me to store, cut for cheese plates, taste and adore. We recieved nine different kinds of cheese today. Nine. They ranged from the awesome to the darn tootin' sublime. I tasted them all, twice (just to be sure). I love this job sometimes.
Oh, and one other thing that is so great about breakfast: hundreds of hot, fresh croissants and chocolate croissants just waiting to be pilfered. I am gonna get so damned fat. I cant wait.
I'll just tell people I'm starting to show, even though I'm in the "fun" trimester.
Anyway, I was thinking today at breakfast (whilst munching on some emmental, a regional form of frommage swisse, or better known in the States as Swiss Cheese) about how lucky I am.
I mean, I have grown up travelling. My parents saw to it that my sister and I travelled early and often. It is because of them that I have seen so much of the American south and the west and Disney (two out of three aint bad. I cant fault them for taking us to Disney, even though it is of the devil). I can't imagine what this experience would be like if I had never travelled before.
Growing up, all I knew about France was: 1. that it was far away 2. that it had it's butt saved by our boys in dubya dubya two, and 3. that there was a place there where the naked ladies danced, and there was also a hole in the wall, where the men could see it all (but the men didn't care 'cause they wore no underwear). It was this last bit of cross cultural data that birthed the obsession in my nascent brain, "There is a hole through which I can watch naked ladies dance? I must go to this country."
Now, I have been to said hole, and I have seen said dancers, and I am here to testify (TESTIFY!!) that although it has been nearly 25 years since I first heard about the mystic hole in France, it was well worth the wait.
What I am trying to say is that, now, more than ever, I love it here. I dont think I would have been open to leaving my home country for almost five months (again) if I had not travlled as a kid. Ruta knows what I mean. She is going to Brazil on Wednesday for the fourth time in her life. And her sister lives there! People who travel, man, they're a special breed.
You know, I start to wonder about where "home" is after a life spent travelling. I hadn't told anyone this (other than the wife), but when I got off the plane my first day here, I had a thought. It was not one of those thoughts where you sit and contemplate or really mull something over. It was one of those thoughts that just pop into your head. I got off the plane, had a snoot full of fresh air, and thought, "Geez, it is good to be home."
I have no idea why I thought that. I'm not French. I don't come from France ("We come from France!" pardon the Coneheads reference), but I feel totally at home here sometimes.
I had dinner tonight with some friends from the hotel, and the conversation flowed freely. When I stop to think about things, they get really hard, but when I just let them happen, I have a blast. For example, tonight I didn't worry about the language barrier at all, and my French came much more easily. I connected with people. We had actual discussions instead of my just trying to ask questions.
It was great.
And you know my first clue that I am starting to become a little French? I woke up the other morning before I was ready to. I looked at my alarm, and said, without thinking, "Five AM? Oh, la la!" I dont know what got into me.
Anyway, this weekend I am going to Bordeaux, in the south west of France. It should be warmer there, and the wine will be magnificent.
There is a vineyard there called Entre-Deux-Mares, and that pretty much sums up how I am feeling these days. It means, "Between two seas," and I think that is a perfect expression of where I am at.
My French is moving beyond basic conversational now. I am getting totally challenged at work, but I am up for it. I am living in my beloved France and eating it up. And this all comes at the half way point. I feel like I am in the middle of crossing the ocean to get here, and starting to prepare to cross the ocean to go home. Time goes so much faster now than when I first got here.
I am at the point now, where I thought I would be when I was leaving, so I dont know what the future holds.
Pastry maybe. I am supposed to work with the pastry department in the next month, and I cannot tell you how excited I am about that. Today we had a group of VIP's in from AirFrance.
In the kitchen, the chef has his own little restaurant to recieve his own guests or guests from the hotel. It is really nicely decorated, and the real food get made there. We call it le bistro de chef, and you can figure out what that means for yourself. After a five course meal, the dessert was brought in.
This was so cool. It was a sabayon (cream and egg yolks cooked over high heat, while stirring very quickly so it becomes a kind of mousse almost) flavored like champagne, and served with rasberries. That was served in a little bowl that was suspended over a single votive candle, which kept the sabayon hot. On top of the sabayon was a small scoop of gelato (spiced red fruit flavor) with a long crisp bar of paper thin dark chocolate on top of the gelato. The chocolate had been sprayd with a gold dust, for a dark chocolate/gold effect. Everyone got one of these things.
It was so cool, and definately something that I need to try. It was beautiful and eyes definatley lit up for it.
I was asking all kinds of questions about it. Why the hot and cold combination? Why those flavors? Where does the chocolate come from? That was when the chef turned to me and said with a smile, "Mark, I am very pleased. You are a good man and we can all count on you." It was a little out of context, but I think he likes my curiosity. And it was my first confirmation from this guy that I am doing well there.
It was a breath of fresh air, and it totally reinvigorated me.
I feel like I have been through a war, but I am feeling so much better now that I am fighting it.
I cant imagine what my life would be like if I didnt travel. It makes me sad for people who dont. I mean, my whole life has changed in two months. I know, for sure, that who I would have been had I done my internship in Chicago, is not the person I am now, and I would not have been half the cook I am now either.
Why would you ever stay home when the whole world is waiting outside your door? I dont understand that. Like my friend MB says, getting your ass kicked in France is "f*&!ing nurturing."
I only wish everyone would make the time in their lives for this. I am glad I did. I am having the time of my life right now.
20 October 2007
A Prayer
The artist Paul Klee said that an artist starts out knowing nothing, and as he or she matures, he or she learns his or her craft, until it is so firmly embedded in their heads, that they forget the craft and just do their art. In this way, they come full circle: starting out with no craft, focusing on craft very hard for a long time, and eventually becoming the craft and not thinking about the process anymore.
I think it is the same thing with cooks. There is this debate in the culinary world as to whether chefs are artists or not. For me, the jury is still out on it. I used to think, "Wow, art you can eat!" I didn't want to think of chefs as anything less than artists. To be "just" a craftsman, well, that was lowering one's self, wasn't it? I think my mind is changing.
More on all that later....
I had written the whole thing.
A whole blog dedicated to how hard things are here, and how crazy last night was at the restaurant. I had written that I wanted to come home now, please, and that last night was horribly busy, so much so that I was ready to give up.
But to quote the good Lord, from Leviticus 2:14, "Save the drama for your mama, y'all."
Last night was super difficult. All the regional train drivers are on strike, so you cant get into or out of or around Paris, at all. So everyone who is staying in the hotel is stuck in the hotel. So what do you do when you have money to burn (basic rooms in the hotel are up to 550 euros per night, that's close to 800 American) and no place to go? You barrage the restaurant, of course.
The woman who works lunch finishes her shift as I start, so it is her job to tell me what things I need to make so the restaurant can be ready for service that night. She told me we had all kinds of things that we didn't really have, just so she could get out of work earlier. So, again, we were totally swamped and under prepared.
It was a really tough night. At 10:30pm, we are usually slowing down, but at midnight, last night, we were still going full tilt. We ran out of all kinds of things that had to be made on the spot. This is not an easy thing to do.
And something in me broke. I think the glamour of being here is gone. I don't look out anymore and think, "Wow, I'm in Paris." This has become my life, and so, in that, I can really start to learn.
So back to Klee. I think the guy was pretty spot on. The longer you study something, the more you become that thing. Take riding a bike for example: at first, you don't know how to ride one at all. Then you spend a long time focusing on how to break, how to turn, how to speed up, how to stop, how to fall without smearing your face all over the street, etc. But after a while, you forget all of that, and you kind of merge with the bike. You don't think, "Gee, I'd like to go over by those trees, so first I will pump the peddles, and now I will turn these handlebars to the right..." You just go over to those trees without a thought as to how to make the bike do it, but all the while you are manipulating the bike in ways that you never could have done when you first started to ride.
Its like that with cooking too. I got here and thought, "OK, I am going to make some onion frizzles. So first I will peel the onions, and now I will dredge them in flour, and now..." But now, I am at a point where things are starting to click into place. I don't think about the process of making the Norwegian salmon plate; I just make it. I don't think about how to correctly prepare a tartare; I just do it.
There are men here who have been doing this for so long that it is as though their knives are in their arms. It is hard to watch them work and make a distinction where their hands end and the knives begin. I am learning that process.
And that sounds like a really happy thing. "Awwww, Mark is learning his trade. I promised myself I wouldn't cry...."
Let me say this here: this is the hardest thing I have ever done in my life.
The glamour is gone from living in Paris.
When Ruta left, I said, "OK, I am ready to get my ass kicked", and so it has been everyday.
The language barrier is one of the things that is most difficult.
I feel as though I am in a glass box in the middle of a crowded room. I am seen and can see everything perfectly clearly, but I have to struggle to understand what is said to me. I have to struggle to make myself understood.
I am learning, but painfully slowly. At least it feels that way. And it is pretty lonely.
Everyday that the restaurant is busy, which is every day now, I am cut and burned and bruised. Last night, in the heat of it all, I re-twisted my ankle. It was an intensity of pain that I cannot describe, but to say that I had to lay against the closest wall, face first, waiting for the pain to diminish so I could get back to work.
I am mocked for being an American; I am laughed at for not speaking perfectly, and I am looked at as the new guy who doesn't know what he is doing.
And still, I have to carry on, burns and bruises and all.
This is the part where I am learning to pump the peddles.
This is how it is done in Europe. Nobody will hold your hand at all.
I can sit here and cry about it, or I can decide that this is how it is and how it is going to be.
So, that's that. This is the hardest thing I have ever done, and it is kicking my ass, just like I asked for.
People tell me often, "Oh, you're learning to be a chef? I love to cook! Last night I made..."
So, in all of this, I have learned a distinction: loving to cook, and being a cook are about two different things. The first is about loving to eat; the second is about loving to serve.
I am serving the guest, true, but before that, I am serving myself and the skills I have learned. I am serving the history and culture of my cuisine. I am serving the art of the craft.
And what a craft! You know, a piece of music is recorded; a movie is filmed; a house if built. But a finely crafted meal, it is eaten and it is gone. A dish is created by someone, just like with music or film or anything, and like those other arts, the next generation refines that craft, and so on and again, so that when you have, say, pasta with pesto, you are eating the refinement of that dish from many years before. Add to that, that the ingredients take months to grow, and the chef who receives them has taken years honing his skills so to best serve those ingredients. I don't mean just "serve", as in "to bring to the guest," but I mean "serve" as in "to do justice to" or "to do right by" those ingredients. In every dish you eat that has been prepared by someone who loves food and has been trained well and knows the value of his or her ingredients, you are eating decades, sometimes centuries, of human craftsmanship. But unlike music or film, when you have finished eating, the meal, the art, the creation is gone.
How zen! All that work to go into a moment of pleasure, and then it is over. And tomorrow night I will come back to the kitchen to create it again, because my knives are in my arms, because I have been broken down, piece by piece, to learn the craft of creating a cuisine, so even though the bread is eaten and the wine is drunk- tonight, the table is set again, and the bread is served and the wine is served, and the guest is served.
This is the hardest thing I have ever done. I thought I was coming here to refine my skills, but I have come here to learn to be a man about the kitchen and in my life, and that means willingly submitting myself to flame and ridicule, every day, until I do not think, I just do.
So, I am cut.
So, I am burned.
So, I am lonely.
So, I am discouraged.
That is what I came here for.
This is the hardest thing I have ever done.
I think it is the same thing with cooks. There is this debate in the culinary world as to whether chefs are artists or not. For me, the jury is still out on it. I used to think, "Wow, art you can eat!" I didn't want to think of chefs as anything less than artists. To be "just" a craftsman, well, that was lowering one's self, wasn't it? I think my mind is changing.
More on all that later....
I had written the whole thing.
A whole blog dedicated to how hard things are here, and how crazy last night was at the restaurant. I had written that I wanted to come home now, please, and that last night was horribly busy, so much so that I was ready to give up.
But to quote the good Lord, from Leviticus 2:14, "Save the drama for your mama, y'all."
Last night was super difficult. All the regional train drivers are on strike, so you cant get into or out of or around Paris, at all. So everyone who is staying in the hotel is stuck in the hotel. So what do you do when you have money to burn (basic rooms in the hotel are up to 550 euros per night, that's close to 800 American) and no place to go? You barrage the restaurant, of course.
The woman who works lunch finishes her shift as I start, so it is her job to tell me what things I need to make so the restaurant can be ready for service that night. She told me we had all kinds of things that we didn't really have, just so she could get out of work earlier. So, again, we were totally swamped and under prepared.
It was a really tough night. At 10:30pm, we are usually slowing down, but at midnight, last night, we were still going full tilt. We ran out of all kinds of things that had to be made on the spot. This is not an easy thing to do.
And something in me broke. I think the glamour of being here is gone. I don't look out anymore and think, "Wow, I'm in Paris." This has become my life, and so, in that, I can really start to learn.
So back to Klee. I think the guy was pretty spot on. The longer you study something, the more you become that thing. Take riding a bike for example: at first, you don't know how to ride one at all. Then you spend a long time focusing on how to break, how to turn, how to speed up, how to stop, how to fall without smearing your face all over the street, etc. But after a while, you forget all of that, and you kind of merge with the bike. You don't think, "Gee, I'd like to go over by those trees, so first I will pump the peddles, and now I will turn these handlebars to the right..." You just go over to those trees without a thought as to how to make the bike do it, but all the while you are manipulating the bike in ways that you never could have done when you first started to ride.
Its like that with cooking too. I got here and thought, "OK, I am going to make some onion frizzles. So first I will peel the onions, and now I will dredge them in flour, and now..." But now, I am at a point where things are starting to click into place. I don't think about the process of making the Norwegian salmon plate; I just make it. I don't think about how to correctly prepare a tartare; I just do it.
There are men here who have been doing this for so long that it is as though their knives are in their arms. It is hard to watch them work and make a distinction where their hands end and the knives begin. I am learning that process.
And that sounds like a really happy thing. "Awwww, Mark is learning his trade. I promised myself I wouldn't cry...."
Let me say this here: this is the hardest thing I have ever done in my life.
The glamour is gone from living in Paris.
When Ruta left, I said, "OK, I am ready to get my ass kicked", and so it has been everyday.
The language barrier is one of the things that is most difficult.
I feel as though I am in a glass box in the middle of a crowded room. I am seen and can see everything perfectly clearly, but I have to struggle to understand what is said to me. I have to struggle to make myself understood.
I am learning, but painfully slowly. At least it feels that way. And it is pretty lonely.
Everyday that the restaurant is busy, which is every day now, I am cut and burned and bruised. Last night, in the heat of it all, I re-twisted my ankle. It was an intensity of pain that I cannot describe, but to say that I had to lay against the closest wall, face first, waiting for the pain to diminish so I could get back to work.
I am mocked for being an American; I am laughed at for not speaking perfectly, and I am looked at as the new guy who doesn't know what he is doing.
And still, I have to carry on, burns and bruises and all.
This is the part where I am learning to pump the peddles.
This is how it is done in Europe. Nobody will hold your hand at all.
I can sit here and cry about it, or I can decide that this is how it is and how it is going to be.
So, that's that. This is the hardest thing I have ever done, and it is kicking my ass, just like I asked for.
People tell me often, "Oh, you're learning to be a chef? I love to cook! Last night I made..."
So, in all of this, I have learned a distinction: loving to cook, and being a cook are about two different things. The first is about loving to eat; the second is about loving to serve.
I am serving the guest, true, but before that, I am serving myself and the skills I have learned. I am serving the history and culture of my cuisine. I am serving the art of the craft.
And what a craft! You know, a piece of music is recorded; a movie is filmed; a house if built. But a finely crafted meal, it is eaten and it is gone. A dish is created by someone, just like with music or film or anything, and like those other arts, the next generation refines that craft, and so on and again, so that when you have, say, pasta with pesto, you are eating the refinement of that dish from many years before. Add to that, that the ingredients take months to grow, and the chef who receives them has taken years honing his skills so to best serve those ingredients. I don't mean just "serve", as in "to bring to the guest," but I mean "serve" as in "to do justice to" or "to do right by" those ingredients. In every dish you eat that has been prepared by someone who loves food and has been trained well and knows the value of his or her ingredients, you are eating decades, sometimes centuries, of human craftsmanship. But unlike music or film, when you have finished eating, the meal, the art, the creation is gone.
How zen! All that work to go into a moment of pleasure, and then it is over. And tomorrow night I will come back to the kitchen to create it again, because my knives are in my arms, because I have been broken down, piece by piece, to learn the craft of creating a cuisine, so even though the bread is eaten and the wine is drunk- tonight, the table is set again, and the bread is served and the wine is served, and the guest is served.
This is the hardest thing I have ever done. I thought I was coming here to refine my skills, but I have come here to learn to be a man about the kitchen and in my life, and that means willingly submitting myself to flame and ridicule, every day, until I do not think, I just do.
So, I am cut.
So, I am burned.
So, I am lonely.
So, I am discouraged.
That is what I came here for.
This is the hardest thing I have ever done.
16 October 2007
I get no kick from champagne.... yeah, right
It is Tuesday, and I am back in Paris now. The weekend was great. I had a blast, and it was totally what I needed to relax after twelve days in a row of work.
I am feeling much better physically now, thank you very much. My shoulder and allergies are no longer problems. My foot is much better, but after I sit for a while, or when I just get up, I have this limp that goes away after a little while. No big deal. I am sure it will heal in time, or I'll just buy a cane.
Champagne was fantastic. I got to a little town in the Champagne region called Reims on Saturday morning. I got into the hotel and almost immediately turned around to get out and see some of the maisons de champagne (champagne houses). The first one I got to was Taittenger. I hadn't heard of this house until last year. Ruta and I were staying at the Chambers Hotel in NYC, and when they found out that it was our honeymoon, they sent up a bottle of Taittenger. I thought it was nice of them, but I didn't really appreciate the significance. I do now.
Taittenger uses ancient Roman tunnels, dug about 60 feet below ground, to store their champagne. I got to take a walking tour of these tunnels; there are over two million bottles of champagne just lying around for anyone to touch and trip over (as I did).
I just think that champagne is amazing. The stuff is about 300 years old, and the process to make it is pretty difficult. I mean, letting grape juice ferment is tough enough, but then they add more yeast and sugar to the bottle (once the grape juice is fermented). The yeast eats the sugar, and the by products are alcohol and CO2, which is what gives it its bubbles. That's the simple version; there is so much else that goes into making this stuff, and the French are nutso about it. There are actual laws in this country governing how you can or cannot make champagne. There are only three types of grapes that you can use to make champagne (chardonnay, pinot noir, pinot meunier), and champagne must be rested or aged for at least 15 months. If you don't follow these rules, or any of the many others, you cant sell your swill under the name champagne, or if you do, you can be heavily fined. Oh, and all of your grapes must come from this area of the world, this little region. If they don't, you can call whatever you are making what ever you like, but you cant call it champagne.
I mean, these people are a little anal about this stuff.
Anyway, Taittenger is the only major house that still does almost all of this stuff by hand. They have these guys called "riddlers" who come into the cellars to turn the bottles three times a week, when the bottles are resting. There are all kinds of technical reasons for this, but in the end, its about quality. My point is that the riddlers only job, all day long, is to turn champagne bottles a quarter of a turn to the left on Monday, and a quarter of a turn to the right on Wednesday, and so on. That's it. That's what these people are paid to do. Now, they will turn about 40,000 bottles a day, so it takes a while, but still, that's not a bad job. I mean, you cant really complain about "on the job stress" or lack of training when all you do is turn a bottle about three inches to the right or left all day.
At the end of the tour, Taittenger sits you down with a nice glass of their vintage champagne. That's the other thing about champagne. It is so hard to make, and the grapes are so sensitive, that you cant make good champagne from the grapes of just one year, usually. It usually takes a mix of grape juice from several years to get a good consistent product. When you do have a really exceptional year, and can make champagne from the grapes of just that year, that is called a vintage year. These come along about every two to three years, usually. I asked when the last vintage year was and was told 2000. I said, "But that is seven years ago? I thought you said every two to three years?" To this, I was told, "Well, the planet is warming up, and weather patterns are changing. It rained all summer this year. Our grapes were very bad."
No such thing as global warming? Sure.
Anyway, next I went to G.H. Martel. It is a nice little, family run champagne house. The tour was cool, and afterwards, the five of us on the tour just sat around in this very Napoleonic room, sipping champagne and talking rugby (more on that later). It was a real pleasure. Good champagne too; I bought a bottle for myself.
I tried to get into Veuve Cliquot, but they were too snobby to let me in. Veuve is French for widow, so this is the champagne of the Widow Cliquot (klee-co). They are the first champagne house to market to the younger crowd, and they also refer to their champagne as "le grande dame de champagne" (basically, champagne's main squeeze). They are known for better than average champagne (but not great) and for their-cut throat business practices. Long story short, when the actual widow Cliquot found herself single again, she took over the company. When she was about to die, she bequeathed the whole company (which was doing very well) to her business partner, and left nothing at all to her sons. Yikes. So not only would Veuve Cliquot not let me in, they also have a history of being royal jerks.
Screw off, hosers!
That night, I got myself all dressed up and out dinner at a restaurant called Chevre et Menthe (goat cheese and mint). I only really tried the place because the guide book I have recommended it for vegetarians. Let me tell you, while the idea of goat cheese and mint doesn't sound appealing, it is one hell of a pairing.
I treated myself to a full on three course meal. I had an appetizer of fried bread with cheese and a kir (champagne and blackberry liquor, I hear these were real popular in the 70's, they taste like something you would drink to cool your Saturday night fever). Next came the salad- fresh tomato, avocado, cucumber, bib lettuce, cold potatoes and goat cheese, with olive oil and white pepper. It was super fresh and delicious. Finally, they brought out the goat cheese and mint tarte. It was hot and creamy and soooooooooooo good. I will have to make it for you all when I get home. The waitress suggested a rosé with this, so I had a little bottle. It was a good pairing. I would definitely go back. It was great. And, just to show you the difference between Reims and Paris, this whole dinner cost me 25 euros. That's about 35 dollars. In Paris, it would have been an easy fifty euros or more.
After that, I took off my sport coat and vest and rolled up my sleeves for some good, old fashioned rugby.
People were everywhere for this game. I am glad that I was not in Paris for it, as SkyNews was predicting that between 30 and 60 thousand of the English were coming into Paris for the game. Tickets for this match were going for about 1000 dollars a piece, so you can imagine how crazed people were. I mean, there were really people standing in the streets, watching the game through the windows of stores that sold TV's. I got into a pub early enough, but the pub owner was sending an employee in and out every once in a while to tell the crowd outside the pub what the score was.
Well, Reims is a small town, so the fact that an American was in their little bar, rooting for France, well, that was almost too much for them to handle. A group of French guys my age took me in, and we watched the game together. The bar was so jam packed, that I had to sit on the railing of the bar to see anything. Really, I had to rest my feet on the top of the chair of the guy sitting below me. We were literally on top of each other. You couldn't move.
In the end, the French played a great game, but the English played better. France lost by a small margin, and so, they are out of the running for the cup.
Everyone was so upset, that the drinking just continued. This bar had so many beers that I had never heard of, and these French guys just kept passing them to me. I don't know how long after the game ended that I left the bar, but when I did, I do know that I was thoroughly intoxicated. I wandered around for a good 40 minutes looking for a hotel that was about a ten minute walk from the bar. I even tried to call Ruta, but didn't get through, thank God. I don't know what I would have said.
The next morning was bright and sunny and warm, except that I felt like death. I got up at noon, bought three bottles of water, drank them all, had an eclair and a quiche from the local boulangerie, and headed to Epernay for some more champagne. In retrospect, this might not have been the greatest idea, what with my body still detoxing and all, but I was feeling pretty good after that eclair, so I figured, what they hell.
Epernay is much smaller than Reims, and about 20 minutes away on the TGV (high speed train). The only champagne house I toured was Moet et Chandon. It was exceptional. Their champagne is known to be some of the best in the world, so I treated myself to the Imperial tasting. I got two full glasses of their champagne (the brut and a rosé), while everyone else got a little half glass of Lord knows what. I definitely got glares from the crowd.
Screw off, hosers!
Moet et Chandon are the makers of Dom Perignon, by the way. I was able to ask what was so special about that wine and was told that Dom is aged for a minimum of six years, instead of the legal minimum of a year and three months, so it is a much fuller wine. Also, Dom Perignon is only made in vintage years, so they don't make one every year, which is why there is less of it, and why it is so much more expensive. I did not get to dry it, though. However, Moet et Chandon are happy to sell you a bottle in their gift store for the reduced price of 120 euros. Sure, I'll take three.
After that, I thought it would be nice to get out into the country on a bike ride, but the lady at the tourist office told me that, "We are Sunday; we have no bicycles- Sunday." I took that to mean, "Bike rental closed on Sunday, jerk face." I asked if I could walk to any of the surrounding villages and was told "No. Much far for walking."
Well, much far or not, I walked anyway (let's see who's a jerk face now). I got to a little town called Pierry, that is supposedly home to the largest champagne glass and cork in the world. Wow! Who cares!
So I just took off down this dirt road and headed into the hills. It was perfect. There was no one around. It was high sixties, and not a cloud in the sky. Below me was this little French village; above me was a thick forest, and all around me were rolling hills, full of grape vines. Most of the grapes had been picked, already, but I found a few bunches and ate them off the vine. They were juicy and sweet, delicious.
I just walked in the hills and sat and read, for about two hours. It was the most at peace I have been in a long time. I loved it there.
That night, back in Reims, I ordered a pizza and went to bed early.
The next day, I got up and saw the cathedral of Reims, where all the French kings were crowned. It was very nice. I am trying to think of something to say about it that was really deep and made a lasting impression, but really, I think the place had a strange odor and needed a face lift.
I got back into the Hyatt at about 2:30pm and got ready for work.
It was one hell of a weekend, and after all that champagne, I am still a little dizzy.
I am feeling much better physically now, thank you very much. My shoulder and allergies are no longer problems. My foot is much better, but after I sit for a while, or when I just get up, I have this limp that goes away after a little while. No big deal. I am sure it will heal in time, or I'll just buy a cane.
Champagne was fantastic. I got to a little town in the Champagne region called Reims on Saturday morning. I got into the hotel and almost immediately turned around to get out and see some of the maisons de champagne (champagne houses). The first one I got to was Taittenger. I hadn't heard of this house until last year. Ruta and I were staying at the Chambers Hotel in NYC, and when they found out that it was our honeymoon, they sent up a bottle of Taittenger. I thought it was nice of them, but I didn't really appreciate the significance. I do now.
Taittenger uses ancient Roman tunnels, dug about 60 feet below ground, to store their champagne. I got to take a walking tour of these tunnels; there are over two million bottles of champagne just lying around for anyone to touch and trip over (as I did).
I just think that champagne is amazing. The stuff is about 300 years old, and the process to make it is pretty difficult. I mean, letting grape juice ferment is tough enough, but then they add more yeast and sugar to the bottle (once the grape juice is fermented). The yeast eats the sugar, and the by products are alcohol and CO2, which is what gives it its bubbles. That's the simple version; there is so much else that goes into making this stuff, and the French are nutso about it. There are actual laws in this country governing how you can or cannot make champagne. There are only three types of grapes that you can use to make champagne (chardonnay, pinot noir, pinot meunier), and champagne must be rested or aged for at least 15 months. If you don't follow these rules, or any of the many others, you cant sell your swill under the name champagne, or if you do, you can be heavily fined. Oh, and all of your grapes must come from this area of the world, this little region. If they don't, you can call whatever you are making what ever you like, but you cant call it champagne.
I mean, these people are a little anal about this stuff.
Anyway, Taittenger is the only major house that still does almost all of this stuff by hand. They have these guys called "riddlers" who come into the cellars to turn the bottles three times a week, when the bottles are resting. There are all kinds of technical reasons for this, but in the end, its about quality. My point is that the riddlers only job, all day long, is to turn champagne bottles a quarter of a turn to the left on Monday, and a quarter of a turn to the right on Wednesday, and so on. That's it. That's what these people are paid to do. Now, they will turn about 40,000 bottles a day, so it takes a while, but still, that's not a bad job. I mean, you cant really complain about "on the job stress" or lack of training when all you do is turn a bottle about three inches to the right or left all day.
At the end of the tour, Taittenger sits you down with a nice glass of their vintage champagne. That's the other thing about champagne. It is so hard to make, and the grapes are so sensitive, that you cant make good champagne from the grapes of just one year, usually. It usually takes a mix of grape juice from several years to get a good consistent product. When you do have a really exceptional year, and can make champagne from the grapes of just that year, that is called a vintage year. These come along about every two to three years, usually. I asked when the last vintage year was and was told 2000. I said, "But that is seven years ago? I thought you said every two to three years?" To this, I was told, "Well, the planet is warming up, and weather patterns are changing. It rained all summer this year. Our grapes were very bad."
No such thing as global warming? Sure.
Anyway, next I went to G.H. Martel. It is a nice little, family run champagne house. The tour was cool, and afterwards, the five of us on the tour just sat around in this very Napoleonic room, sipping champagne and talking rugby (more on that later). It was a real pleasure. Good champagne too; I bought a bottle for myself.
I tried to get into Veuve Cliquot, but they were too snobby to let me in. Veuve is French for widow, so this is the champagne of the Widow Cliquot (klee-co). They are the first champagne house to market to the younger crowd, and they also refer to their champagne as "le grande dame de champagne" (basically, champagne's main squeeze). They are known for better than average champagne (but not great) and for their-cut throat business practices. Long story short, when the actual widow Cliquot found herself single again, she took over the company. When she was about to die, she bequeathed the whole company (which was doing very well) to her business partner, and left nothing at all to her sons. Yikes. So not only would Veuve Cliquot not let me in, they also have a history of being royal jerks.
Screw off, hosers!
That night, I got myself all dressed up and out dinner at a restaurant called Chevre et Menthe (goat cheese and mint). I only really tried the place because the guide book I have recommended it for vegetarians. Let me tell you, while the idea of goat cheese and mint doesn't sound appealing, it is one hell of a pairing.
I treated myself to a full on three course meal. I had an appetizer of fried bread with cheese and a kir (champagne and blackberry liquor, I hear these were real popular in the 70's, they taste like something you would drink to cool your Saturday night fever). Next came the salad- fresh tomato, avocado, cucumber, bib lettuce, cold potatoes and goat cheese, with olive oil and white pepper. It was super fresh and delicious. Finally, they brought out the goat cheese and mint tarte. It was hot and creamy and soooooooooooo good. I will have to make it for you all when I get home. The waitress suggested a rosé with this, so I had a little bottle. It was a good pairing. I would definitely go back. It was great. And, just to show you the difference between Reims and Paris, this whole dinner cost me 25 euros. That's about 35 dollars. In Paris, it would have been an easy fifty euros or more.
After that, I took off my sport coat and vest and rolled up my sleeves for some good, old fashioned rugby.
People were everywhere for this game. I am glad that I was not in Paris for it, as SkyNews was predicting that between 30 and 60 thousand of the English were coming into Paris for the game. Tickets for this match were going for about 1000 dollars a piece, so you can imagine how crazed people were. I mean, there were really people standing in the streets, watching the game through the windows of stores that sold TV's. I got into a pub early enough, but the pub owner was sending an employee in and out every once in a while to tell the crowd outside the pub what the score was.
Well, Reims is a small town, so the fact that an American was in their little bar, rooting for France, well, that was almost too much for them to handle. A group of French guys my age took me in, and we watched the game together. The bar was so jam packed, that I had to sit on the railing of the bar to see anything. Really, I had to rest my feet on the top of the chair of the guy sitting below me. We were literally on top of each other. You couldn't move.
In the end, the French played a great game, but the English played better. France lost by a small margin, and so, they are out of the running for the cup.
Everyone was so upset, that the drinking just continued. This bar had so many beers that I had never heard of, and these French guys just kept passing them to me. I don't know how long after the game ended that I left the bar, but when I did, I do know that I was thoroughly intoxicated. I wandered around for a good 40 minutes looking for a hotel that was about a ten minute walk from the bar. I even tried to call Ruta, but didn't get through, thank God. I don't know what I would have said.
The next morning was bright and sunny and warm, except that I felt like death. I got up at noon, bought three bottles of water, drank them all, had an eclair and a quiche from the local boulangerie, and headed to Epernay for some more champagne. In retrospect, this might not have been the greatest idea, what with my body still detoxing and all, but I was feeling pretty good after that eclair, so I figured, what they hell.
Epernay is much smaller than Reims, and about 20 minutes away on the TGV (high speed train). The only champagne house I toured was Moet et Chandon. It was exceptional. Their champagne is known to be some of the best in the world, so I treated myself to the Imperial tasting. I got two full glasses of their champagne (the brut and a rosé), while everyone else got a little half glass of Lord knows what. I definitely got glares from the crowd.
Screw off, hosers!
Moet et Chandon are the makers of Dom Perignon, by the way. I was able to ask what was so special about that wine and was told that Dom is aged for a minimum of six years, instead of the legal minimum of a year and three months, so it is a much fuller wine. Also, Dom Perignon is only made in vintage years, so they don't make one every year, which is why there is less of it, and why it is so much more expensive. I did not get to dry it, though. However, Moet et Chandon are happy to sell you a bottle in their gift store for the reduced price of 120 euros. Sure, I'll take three.
After that, I thought it would be nice to get out into the country on a bike ride, but the lady at the tourist office told me that, "We are Sunday; we have no bicycles- Sunday." I took that to mean, "Bike rental closed on Sunday, jerk face." I asked if I could walk to any of the surrounding villages and was told "No. Much far for walking."
Well, much far or not, I walked anyway (let's see who's a jerk face now). I got to a little town called Pierry, that is supposedly home to the largest champagne glass and cork in the world. Wow! Who cares!
So I just took off down this dirt road and headed into the hills. It was perfect. There was no one around. It was high sixties, and not a cloud in the sky. Below me was this little French village; above me was a thick forest, and all around me were rolling hills, full of grape vines. Most of the grapes had been picked, already, but I found a few bunches and ate them off the vine. They were juicy and sweet, delicious.
I just walked in the hills and sat and read, for about two hours. It was the most at peace I have been in a long time. I loved it there.
That night, back in Reims, I ordered a pizza and went to bed early.
The next day, I got up and saw the cathedral of Reims, where all the French kings were crowned. It was very nice. I am trying to think of something to say about it that was really deep and made a lasting impression, but really, I think the place had a strange odor and needed a face lift.
I got back into the Hyatt at about 2:30pm and got ready for work.
It was one hell of a weekend, and after all that champagne, I am still a little dizzy.
12 October 2007
Thursday night, 11 October
Normally I don't have so much to say about one night's worth of work, but last night held a couple of experiences that I would like to relate to you.
First of all, it was a slower night, but steady. We were never swamped, but we had enough orders to be working steadily. The hotel, by the way, as two restaurants: Apollo and Mirage. Mirage is more of a high end pub, which a great buffet and a bar and TVs, but a lot of people go there because it is cheaper and more relaxed.
Apollo gets the "proper" dinner crowd, and that is better for me anyway. There is more to learn there.
The night started off with the chef calling me over to him. He was shucking some oysters. He told me that these were especially good ones, from off the coast of Normandy. Cool water oysters, and fish in general are almost always better. They have to develop more fat to stay warm, and fat is flavor, yo. Also, you could tell how good these oysters were because they came in a really nice box. You know, when you go Jewel or Aldi or someplace like that, you know you're not getting the good stuff because the bags are plastic and cheap, and you can get deals like, "Buy ten oysters, and get the next forty five hundred free!"
But this place, I mean, you had to buy oysters by the count. Like you have to say, "Yeah, I would like twelve oysters." Who sells seafood that way? Only the really good places do. The box these came in, by the way, is sanded blond wood, and inside there is tissue paper wrapping each oyster. It is like the underwater Santa came early this year.
Anyway, I have mentioned already that I am a vegetarian, and that veggie or no, I don't have a real liking for seafood. So the chef was like, "Look at these oysters. They are delicious. You must try one." I balked at the thought. I wanted to say, "Um, hi? I'm a vegetarian. This isn't a plant, dude. Plus it looks like somebody blew their nose in this shell." But instead I just said, "Well, I.... uhhhh...." To which the chef responded, "Eat it. It is a must."
So I did.
It tasted like the cool and fresh waters of the Atlantic. Cold and crisp and salty. It was like I had a New England morning in my mouth.
Until I got to the part where I actually had to chew the oyster.
Mmmmmmmm, phlegmy. Salty and phlegmy.
Why do people eat these things? Who was the guy who first pried open one of these things, and said, "Hey guys, this looks like something that I coughed up yesterday morning! Lets eat it!" Grossville.
Later, the chef asked me to go make some copeaux de Parmesan. You know when you order a salad and you get really thin shavings of cheese on top? Those are copeaux. I don't know what the word actually means. I am guessing "shavings" but Lord knows with these people. I mean, I would have thought that crotan de chevre would have meant goat cheese cake, but you all remember how that turned out.
So, I had to go shave some Parmesan. No problem. I have done it a thousand times. Problem was we didn't have any wedges of Parmesan around. I looked in all the walk in coolers (there are eight), and in the cheese locker. Nothing.
I told the chef about it, and he gave me a knife that was, no joke, about four inches thick, and just shy of two feet long. It wasn't a knife, it was a fricking sword, y'all. Then he took me to a counter, and showed it to me....
Have you ever felt like you were in a waking dream? Like you were in a haze, and the world is just spinning around you, and out of your control? That is what I felt like when he showed me to the table.
It is a simple table with a large cutting board.
The chef said to me, "Here, cut this. We got it from Les Halles-Rungis."
And there she was, on that very table, on top of that very cutting board. My love. My two hundred pound wheel of organic Parmesan cheese.
And in my right hand was the sword I would have to kill her with.
I felt like I was in the middle of a bad Broadway musical.
I just stared at her. How could I cut her up, but how could I not?
The chef looked from the cheese to me, and said, "Just push the knife into the center of the wheel, and pull it down towards you. Then do that again to form the wedge." He might as well have said, "Now just plunge the dagger into your wife's heart like this... There you go, very good. Now, twist it until she screams bloody murder... yes, like that, you're a real natural at this!"
Anyway, I did it. I killed her, but it wasn't easy. I mean, not emotionally difficult. She just happens to weigh a ton. I pushed that knife into the center of the wheel with all of my strength (which is considerable, you know) and then pulled it down towards me. At a certain point, it just wouldn't move anymore. I hung on it, with all of my weight (which is considerable, you know), and still the knife wouldn't move. The chef came by and saw that I was sweating and red in the face. He said, "Here. Like this" and with grace and ease, he pulled the knife right down. I guess there is some technique I have yet to learn. He pushed the tip of the knife into the wedge and lifted it right out. It figures that the French version of The Sword in the Stone should be The Big Ass Knife in the Cheese.
The chef handed me a bit and asked me to taste. After all of that, how was she?
Really? A bit dry.
Later, I was asked to take part in a wine tasting.
This is a real highlight for me. We were to compare a new wine that had come in from the Rhone with a bottle of 1995 Chateau Neuve de Pape (New Chateau of the Pope). If you dont know, Chateau Neuve de Pape is reputed to be one of the best vineyards. Anywhere.
So it was a real treat to taste a wine like that from what was a great year in France. It is also from the Rhone Valley, and the same kind of grape as the new wine, so it would be an interesting comparison.
I tasted and compared. The Pope wine was smooth and elegant. It felt thick in my mouth, and you could really tastes strawberries and white pepper. It took a long time for the wine's taste to leave my mouth, and when I did, I felt a total sense of satisfaction.
The second wine was swill. Straight up swill.
It tasted like bad grapes mixed with disappointment for paying so much for bad grapes. So there is a good lesson: just because a bottle of wine is from a great area and has a fancy name, doesnt mean jack. I mean, I knew that already, but who I am to turn down two glasses of wine in the middle of my shift?
So the night finished off with me working with this guy Benoit (boon-wah). There is a great American film that this person reminds me of. In this film, there are two characters whom I relate myself and Benoit to. Benoit is the seemingly evil robot man, out for destruction. I take the part of the ninja/sorcerer who is only out to see the good in everyone. Anyway, as the movie moves along, you eventually find out that ninja/sorcerer is actually the son of robot man (heaven forbid!). In the end, ninja/sorcerer has to bring out the good in his dark father. He does, and they fall in love and start at B and B in Galena. That's how I always thought Star Wars should have ended anyway.
The point of this whole discourse is that Benoit is my robot man. He doesn't like me at all, but I am trying to see the good in this guy. He is not a particularly good cook. He doesn't really focus on details too much. His people skills are non-existent, and he is totally rude to me all the time. He will laugh at my pronunciation, or take my knives when I am not looking. He is always telling other cooks how I did something wrong, etc etc.
So, I thought, I am gonna turn this around. I am gonna ignore all of his negativity and be really nice from him. Perhaps I can learn from him in some way. All night, I met his stares of disappointment with smiles. I would help him out by finishing dishes, even if he didn't ask me to. I would go and get him stuff if he needed it. I even brought him some water later in the night when I went and got some for myself. It was really tough to do, but I did it.
And at the end of the night, when we were all so tired, a big order came in really late. He looked at me, and smiled, and said, "You do it" and walked away.
After all my killing him with kindness and what not.
I did do the order.
And when it went out, the chef asked who helped me with it. I told him, "Oh, Benoit saw the ticket, but he decided to take a break and left me all alone." The chef was very upset and left the line to find Benoit.
You know, I am a real optimist, and I would like to see myself as the kind of person who always sees the good in a person, even if they hide it way down low. I grew up in Catholic school, learning to love my neighbor; to hate the sin, but love the sinner, and to always turn the other cheek.
But, Benoit? What an asshole.
First of all, it was a slower night, but steady. We were never swamped, but we had enough orders to be working steadily. The hotel, by the way, as two restaurants: Apollo and Mirage. Mirage is more of a high end pub, which a great buffet and a bar and TVs, but a lot of people go there because it is cheaper and more relaxed.
Apollo gets the "proper" dinner crowd, and that is better for me anyway. There is more to learn there.
The night started off with the chef calling me over to him. He was shucking some oysters. He told me that these were especially good ones, from off the coast of Normandy. Cool water oysters, and fish in general are almost always better. They have to develop more fat to stay warm, and fat is flavor, yo. Also, you could tell how good these oysters were because they came in a really nice box. You know, when you go Jewel or Aldi or someplace like that, you know you're not getting the good stuff because the bags are plastic and cheap, and you can get deals like, "Buy ten oysters, and get the next forty five hundred free!"
But this place, I mean, you had to buy oysters by the count. Like you have to say, "Yeah, I would like twelve oysters." Who sells seafood that way? Only the really good places do. The box these came in, by the way, is sanded blond wood, and inside there is tissue paper wrapping each oyster. It is like the underwater Santa came early this year.
Anyway, I have mentioned already that I am a vegetarian, and that veggie or no, I don't have a real liking for seafood. So the chef was like, "Look at these oysters. They are delicious. You must try one." I balked at the thought. I wanted to say, "Um, hi? I'm a vegetarian. This isn't a plant, dude. Plus it looks like somebody blew their nose in this shell." But instead I just said, "Well, I.... uhhhh...." To which the chef responded, "Eat it. It is a must."
So I did.
It tasted like the cool and fresh waters of the Atlantic. Cold and crisp and salty. It was like I had a New England morning in my mouth.
Until I got to the part where I actually had to chew the oyster.
Mmmmmmmm, phlegmy. Salty and phlegmy.
Why do people eat these things? Who was the guy who first pried open one of these things, and said, "Hey guys, this looks like something that I coughed up yesterday morning! Lets eat it!" Grossville.
Later, the chef asked me to go make some copeaux de Parmesan. You know when you order a salad and you get really thin shavings of cheese on top? Those are copeaux. I don't know what the word actually means. I am guessing "shavings" but Lord knows with these people. I mean, I would have thought that crotan de chevre would have meant goat cheese cake, but you all remember how that turned out.
So, I had to go shave some Parmesan. No problem. I have done it a thousand times. Problem was we didn't have any wedges of Parmesan around. I looked in all the walk in coolers (there are eight), and in the cheese locker. Nothing.
I told the chef about it, and he gave me a knife that was, no joke, about four inches thick, and just shy of two feet long. It wasn't a knife, it was a fricking sword, y'all. Then he took me to a counter, and showed it to me....
Have you ever felt like you were in a waking dream? Like you were in a haze, and the world is just spinning around you, and out of your control? That is what I felt like when he showed me to the table.
It is a simple table with a large cutting board.
The chef said to me, "Here, cut this. We got it from Les Halles-Rungis."
And there she was, on that very table, on top of that very cutting board. My love. My two hundred pound wheel of organic Parmesan cheese.
And in my right hand was the sword I would have to kill her with.
I felt like I was in the middle of a bad Broadway musical.
I just stared at her. How could I cut her up, but how could I not?
The chef looked from the cheese to me, and said, "Just push the knife into the center of the wheel, and pull it down towards you. Then do that again to form the wedge." He might as well have said, "Now just plunge the dagger into your wife's heart like this... There you go, very good. Now, twist it until she screams bloody murder... yes, like that, you're a real natural at this!"
Anyway, I did it. I killed her, but it wasn't easy. I mean, not emotionally difficult. She just happens to weigh a ton. I pushed that knife into the center of the wheel with all of my strength (which is considerable, you know) and then pulled it down towards me. At a certain point, it just wouldn't move anymore. I hung on it, with all of my weight (which is considerable, you know), and still the knife wouldn't move. The chef came by and saw that I was sweating and red in the face. He said, "Here. Like this" and with grace and ease, he pulled the knife right down. I guess there is some technique I have yet to learn. He pushed the tip of the knife into the wedge and lifted it right out. It figures that the French version of The Sword in the Stone should be The Big Ass Knife in the Cheese.
The chef handed me a bit and asked me to taste. After all of that, how was she?
Really? A bit dry.
Later, I was asked to take part in a wine tasting.
This is a real highlight for me. We were to compare a new wine that had come in from the Rhone with a bottle of 1995 Chateau Neuve de Pape (New Chateau of the Pope). If you dont know, Chateau Neuve de Pape is reputed to be one of the best vineyards. Anywhere.
So it was a real treat to taste a wine like that from what was a great year in France. It is also from the Rhone Valley, and the same kind of grape as the new wine, so it would be an interesting comparison.
I tasted and compared. The Pope wine was smooth and elegant. It felt thick in my mouth, and you could really tastes strawberries and white pepper. It took a long time for the wine's taste to leave my mouth, and when I did, I felt a total sense of satisfaction.
The second wine was swill. Straight up swill.
It tasted like bad grapes mixed with disappointment for paying so much for bad grapes. So there is a good lesson: just because a bottle of wine is from a great area and has a fancy name, doesnt mean jack. I mean, I knew that already, but who I am to turn down two glasses of wine in the middle of my shift?
So the night finished off with me working with this guy Benoit (boon-wah). There is a great American film that this person reminds me of. In this film, there are two characters whom I relate myself and Benoit to. Benoit is the seemingly evil robot man, out for destruction. I take the part of the ninja/sorcerer who is only out to see the good in everyone. Anyway, as the movie moves along, you eventually find out that ninja/sorcerer is actually the son of robot man (heaven forbid!). In the end, ninja/sorcerer has to bring out the good in his dark father. He does, and they fall in love and start at B and B in Galena. That's how I always thought Star Wars should have ended anyway.
The point of this whole discourse is that Benoit is my robot man. He doesn't like me at all, but I am trying to see the good in this guy. He is not a particularly good cook. He doesn't really focus on details too much. His people skills are non-existent, and he is totally rude to me all the time. He will laugh at my pronunciation, or take my knives when I am not looking. He is always telling other cooks how I did something wrong, etc etc.
So, I thought, I am gonna turn this around. I am gonna ignore all of his negativity and be really nice from him. Perhaps I can learn from him in some way. All night, I met his stares of disappointment with smiles. I would help him out by finishing dishes, even if he didn't ask me to. I would go and get him stuff if he needed it. I even brought him some water later in the night when I went and got some for myself. It was really tough to do, but I did it.
And at the end of the night, when we were all so tired, a big order came in really late. He looked at me, and smiled, and said, "You do it" and walked away.
After all my killing him with kindness and what not.
I did do the order.
And when it went out, the chef asked who helped me with it. I told him, "Oh, Benoit saw the ticket, but he decided to take a break and left me all alone." The chef was very upset and left the line to find Benoit.
You know, I am a real optimist, and I would like to see myself as the kind of person who always sees the good in a person, even if they hide it way down low. I grew up in Catholic school, learning to love my neighbor; to hate the sin, but love the sinner, and to always turn the other cheek.
But, Benoit? What an asshole.
11 October 2007
John Mellencamp ain't got nothing on me, cougar or no cougar
So things have been pretty steady, you know, smooth sailing for the past few days. My ankle is feeling much better, as is my shoulder and allergies. So I am almost totally mended. That is good. It was not easy to work that way in the kitchen, but the last few days have been slower, so that helped.
In celebration of my second month here (almost.... October 17th), I am taking myself to Champagne this weekend. Actually, the town in called Reims (pronounced 'rens' Go figure). I have booked myself into a little one star there and will tour the vineyards on Saturday, and then rent a bike and ride out to another little town called Epernay to see the big boys of Champagne on Sunday. Moet et Chandon, Veuve Cliquot, Dom Perignon, etc etc etc. That should be a lot of fun, and I think I need a break. I have been working everyday for the past nearly two weeks, and I am getting grumpier by the moment. I don't even want to talk to people anymore.
Yesterday, I sat in my room and watched The Patriot, a Mel Gibson movie (he's a ruggedly hansom Revolutionary war hero, out to save his son, Heath Ledger, whom you might remember as the ruggedly hansom homosexual cowboy, out to save his friend Jack in Brokeback Mountain... yes, yes, its all a rich tapestry). If you know me, you should know that I despise Mel Gibson. I count him as my arch rival and will one day stand over his broken body in victory. But until that day comes, I am happy to while away the hours, conferrin' with the flowers and consulting with Mel Gibson in his strictly formulaic action meets romance meets period pieces.
I guess what I am trying to say is that if I have to spend much more time cooped up in this hotel, getting up, eating, working, sleeping, getting up... I am going to go crazy.
So I am getting the hell out of Dodge and heading out to the most drinkable streets in the world, to quote Winston Churchil (the ruggedly hansom leader of the British Isles. I think he also played Jack Twist in Brokeback, but don't quote me on that).
Oh, and to add insult to injury, yesterday, after work started, I had to run back up to my room to get something, and I walked in on Will and his girlfriend, um, how you say, in flagrante, as it were. I wont go into detail, but sufficed to say, the whole event resembled two woodland creatures going into severe muscle spasms or toxic shock syndrome whilest on top of each other. It was soooooooooo beautiful....
So I need to get away.
The weird thing is this: I grew up in a big town. Chicago is a world class city, and even though I didn't grow up in the Loop or anything, I still think that I reaped all the rewards of being in such a cultural center. But there are things that I missed out on, and I am starting to understand that now.
When I go out to visit my mother or father in law in Crystal Lake (goooooo C-Town!), my wife always tells me that the area has been so developed. She says, when she lived there, it was all rolling hills and fields and lakes and what not. I don't really believe her. If she means, rolling Spring Hill Malls and Marshal Fields, then I see what she means. But seriously folks, she can remember swimming in ponds and walking in actual forests (not forest preserves, where it was always rumored that Satanists met up for fondue parties and such). I have no memories like that. The closest thing I had to swimming in a pond was when the sewers were backed up, and our basement flooded.
Now, there is a hill that I go to sometimes if I want to be alone or want some quiet or whatever. I went there last night, and just put on my iPod and laid on my back and watched the stars. It was so peaceful and relaxing. I never had that before. I mean there was no one around at all. I think about what it must have been like to grow up seeing the stars or with fresh air or actual animals around you. I mean, in Chicago, we had squirrels, and once there was this raccoon that bit my cat, but that is as far as I got with animals as a kid. There's all kinds of four legged friends here. It is really creepy.
A lot of the cooks at work are from small towns in the area, and they are all really proud to tell you about their town. Drancy, Villepinte, Allnay Sous Bois, Saint Denis; they will go on and on about how their town is the best town. It just floors me; why would you be so happy to be so close to Paris, but not live there? I guess there is something to be said for a quiet life.
I defiantly don't have one, but I am learning that it ain't so bad. Still, I think I would never be totally comfortable with such quiet nights. I don't know if I would ever really grow out of noise, air, and light pollution; ahh, the childhood chums of an urban adolescence.
Work is going well now. I think I got to a point where I just gave up on relying on my coworkers. Some of them are really great, but to all of them, I am a stagiare. When you are becoming a cook in France, there are three levels you have to pass through: stagiare, apprentice, and comis. Stagiare is the closest word we have to intern, so that is what I am, but generally a stagiare is the guy who just watches, and runs errands, and throws the garbage and such. He's the guy you make do all the stuff nobody wants to do. Now, since I am a student, I get to do all kinds of cool stuff, but whenever something comes up that no one wants to do, I do it. I mean, that's cool. I am paying my dues. Everyone has to. Everyone in this kitchen was a stagiare at one time or another, so I guess they all got the same treatment.
Regardless, if I want to get something done, I really have to push for it to happen. If I am going to cook a steak, I have to have a tray to put it on before it goes into the oven. Well, if I pull out a tray and turn to get the steak, when I turn back someone has invariably taken the tray for their own use. If I am slicing lettuce for a salad, and someone needs it, they will just come along and take it out of my hands.
I would get really upset at first, because: A. That's totally rude, and B. I am thirty years old, and who the hell does this 19 year old think he is, taking my mesclun greens. I could be your father you know! That's what I want to say, even though it isn't even remotely true.
I had a chat with one of the sous chefs here though, and he said, "You have to forget that you are thirty. You have to work like you are just starting out, and you are 18 years old." OK, so that's a challenge. I mean, I'm up for it. If I can run around on a twists ankle for 10 days, sneezing and wheezing all the while, then I can learn my place in the brigade. It is just another challenge.
Really, this place is breaking me down. It is like culinary boot camp. My school friends are all on internship too, and as I understand it, in Chicago, you go and work for eight hours and go home, and that's it. Here I work for about nine hours a day; I have to do written reports on everything I learn; I am required to be at all the wine tastings for the restaurant to work on my pairing skills, and I am learning the language all the while. It is whipping me into shape.
If have never worked so hard in my life. I come home, and my hands smell of salmon and cheese; they are cut and burned and bruised, and I like it.
I can look at my hands and know that I worked today. I can see what I did today, you know?
Now, if I can just get a little time off to regroup that would be great. So that is Saturday: Champagne and me, and of course, the rugby semi-finals.
I am just holding my breath 'till the weekend comes.
In celebration of my second month here (almost.... October 17th), I am taking myself to Champagne this weekend. Actually, the town in called Reims (pronounced 'rens' Go figure). I have booked myself into a little one star there and will tour the vineyards on Saturday, and then rent a bike and ride out to another little town called Epernay to see the big boys of Champagne on Sunday. Moet et Chandon, Veuve Cliquot, Dom Perignon, etc etc etc. That should be a lot of fun, and I think I need a break. I have been working everyday for the past nearly two weeks, and I am getting grumpier by the moment. I don't even want to talk to people anymore.
Yesterday, I sat in my room and watched The Patriot, a Mel Gibson movie (he's a ruggedly hansom Revolutionary war hero, out to save his son, Heath Ledger, whom you might remember as the ruggedly hansom homosexual cowboy, out to save his friend Jack in Brokeback Mountain... yes, yes, its all a rich tapestry). If you know me, you should know that I despise Mel Gibson. I count him as my arch rival and will one day stand over his broken body in victory. But until that day comes, I am happy to while away the hours, conferrin' with the flowers and consulting with Mel Gibson in his strictly formulaic action meets romance meets period pieces.
I guess what I am trying to say is that if I have to spend much more time cooped up in this hotel, getting up, eating, working, sleeping, getting up... I am going to go crazy.
So I am getting the hell out of Dodge and heading out to the most drinkable streets in the world, to quote Winston Churchil (the ruggedly hansom leader of the British Isles. I think he also played Jack Twist in Brokeback, but don't quote me on that).
Oh, and to add insult to injury, yesterday, after work started, I had to run back up to my room to get something, and I walked in on Will and his girlfriend, um, how you say, in flagrante, as it were. I wont go into detail, but sufficed to say, the whole event resembled two woodland creatures going into severe muscle spasms or toxic shock syndrome whilest on top of each other. It was soooooooooo beautiful....
So I need to get away.
The weird thing is this: I grew up in a big town. Chicago is a world class city, and even though I didn't grow up in the Loop or anything, I still think that I reaped all the rewards of being in such a cultural center. But there are things that I missed out on, and I am starting to understand that now.
When I go out to visit my mother or father in law in Crystal Lake (goooooo C-Town!), my wife always tells me that the area has been so developed. She says, when she lived there, it was all rolling hills and fields and lakes and what not. I don't really believe her. If she means, rolling Spring Hill Malls and Marshal Fields, then I see what she means. But seriously folks, she can remember swimming in ponds and walking in actual forests (not forest preserves, where it was always rumored that Satanists met up for fondue parties and such). I have no memories like that. The closest thing I had to swimming in a pond was when the sewers were backed up, and our basement flooded.
Now, there is a hill that I go to sometimes if I want to be alone or want some quiet or whatever. I went there last night, and just put on my iPod and laid on my back and watched the stars. It was so peaceful and relaxing. I never had that before. I mean there was no one around at all. I think about what it must have been like to grow up seeing the stars or with fresh air or actual animals around you. I mean, in Chicago, we had squirrels, and once there was this raccoon that bit my cat, but that is as far as I got with animals as a kid. There's all kinds of four legged friends here. It is really creepy.
A lot of the cooks at work are from small towns in the area, and they are all really proud to tell you about their town. Drancy, Villepinte, Allnay Sous Bois, Saint Denis; they will go on and on about how their town is the best town. It just floors me; why would you be so happy to be so close to Paris, but not live there? I guess there is something to be said for a quiet life.
I defiantly don't have one, but I am learning that it ain't so bad. Still, I think I would never be totally comfortable with such quiet nights. I don't know if I would ever really grow out of noise, air, and light pollution; ahh, the childhood chums of an urban adolescence.
Work is going well now. I think I got to a point where I just gave up on relying on my coworkers. Some of them are really great, but to all of them, I am a stagiare. When you are becoming a cook in France, there are three levels you have to pass through: stagiare, apprentice, and comis. Stagiare is the closest word we have to intern, so that is what I am, but generally a stagiare is the guy who just watches, and runs errands, and throws the garbage and such. He's the guy you make do all the stuff nobody wants to do. Now, since I am a student, I get to do all kinds of cool stuff, but whenever something comes up that no one wants to do, I do it. I mean, that's cool. I am paying my dues. Everyone has to. Everyone in this kitchen was a stagiare at one time or another, so I guess they all got the same treatment.
Regardless, if I want to get something done, I really have to push for it to happen. If I am going to cook a steak, I have to have a tray to put it on before it goes into the oven. Well, if I pull out a tray and turn to get the steak, when I turn back someone has invariably taken the tray for their own use. If I am slicing lettuce for a salad, and someone needs it, they will just come along and take it out of my hands.
I would get really upset at first, because: A. That's totally rude, and B. I am thirty years old, and who the hell does this 19 year old think he is, taking my mesclun greens. I could be your father you know! That's what I want to say, even though it isn't even remotely true.
I had a chat with one of the sous chefs here though, and he said, "You have to forget that you are thirty. You have to work like you are just starting out, and you are 18 years old." OK, so that's a challenge. I mean, I'm up for it. If I can run around on a twists ankle for 10 days, sneezing and wheezing all the while, then I can learn my place in the brigade. It is just another challenge.
Really, this place is breaking me down. It is like culinary boot camp. My school friends are all on internship too, and as I understand it, in Chicago, you go and work for eight hours and go home, and that's it. Here I work for about nine hours a day; I have to do written reports on everything I learn; I am required to be at all the wine tastings for the restaurant to work on my pairing skills, and I am learning the language all the while. It is whipping me into shape.
If have never worked so hard in my life. I come home, and my hands smell of salmon and cheese; they are cut and burned and bruised, and I like it.
I can look at my hands and know that I worked today. I can see what I did today, you know?
Now, if I can just get a little time off to regroup that would be great. So that is Saturday: Champagne and me, and of course, the rugby semi-finals.
I am just holding my breath 'till the weekend comes.
07 October 2007
The Beat Down- Part Two
Note: Please see part one of "The Beat Down" for all details concerning this entry.
Muchos gracias.
So, I made it through tonight. My left leg is totally sore, as I have been favoring it tonight. My right ankle is still swollen and is really tight right now. I am covered in dried sweat and tired as all get out.
It was an odd night. There was a wedding in the hotel tonight, so most of the guests are there, which means the restaurant is slow. So, I got pulled into the kitchen to work with the banquet team. It just isnt as much fun, though. Before I got there, they had made 250 Caesar salads. Little ones, for after dinner ('cause that is when they have salad here). I mean, what is the fun in that? There is no pressure; there is no rush. You never get slammed. At some point, all the servers line up, and are each handed four salads. They march out of the room, and everyone congratulates each other. On what? "Hey, I saw you hand that fourth salad to the short, blonde server. Nice passing work there." "Thanks for noticing; you're a doll."
It was my job to clean all the plates before they left the kitchen.
You may now take a moment to bask in my glory.
Done? Good.
At Kendall, it is mistake numero uno (that is not French, by the by, for those of you keeping track) to send out a plate that has anything, ANYTHING on the rim, because (everyone together now): "The edge of the plate belongs to the guest." Meaning, basically, that that is the part of the plate that the guest will handle, so dont get schmutz on it. It looks bad. Good servers can attest to being trained on how to carry a plate using only that fatty part of your hand below your thumb and the crease in your palm, so as not to touch the plate with your fingers. Why? Well, to quote another professor at Kendall, "Because you're greasy mammals, that's why."
So, I had the very important task of hobbling up and down the row of seven tables with a wet towel to wipe the rims of the plates. I think I should mention that I was going to name this entry to the blog, "Wipin' the rims," like it was a country song or something, but there is just something very wrong about putting the words "wiping" and "rim" together in the same sentance, at least in relation to food or anything else you put in your mouth.
Nuff said.
Regardless, the whole effort was a big let down.
And speaking of big, big let downs, we come to tonight's rugby match:
France versus New Zealand.
First of all, I had to work, so I could only really listen to the game from the plasma screen TV's set up in the lobby of hotel. Actually, I could only listen to the crowds who were watching the game in the lobby. If I heard, "Oui, oui, oui, OUI!!!!" then something good was happening. If I heard, "I never liked this sport anyway. Now handball, that is a real man's game" then I knew something bad was happening.
In short, there was a good deal of discussion surrounding handball.
Again, let me say, New Zealand rugby is reputed to be the best in the world, and the French were never favored to win this match. On top of all of that, they were forced to play in Cardiff, not even in France. The news kept referring to Les Bleus as playing in "very hostile territory."
But Ruta can attest to this: these people are nuts for this game. There is rugby stuff EVERYWHERE.
The whole world (except for us) is going crazy for this game right now.
Tonight was a big match too. In 1999 France played New Zealand for the cup, in the finals, and lost, so tonight was about revenge.
I told Sylvain (the guy with the boat), "But France has Chebal!" He told me, "Yes, but NZ has several Chebals."
Tonight was also a knock out match. Of the twenty countries who started in the cup, only 8 were left in the running at the start of the night. There are four matches, which will leave four teams remaining for the quarter finals, and then the finals.
So, it was a big game.
I dont know how to convey the feeling of disappointment of an entire country. It is like all the life goes out of you. You go on with the things you do, but nothing has a joy to it anymore. You look at the people around you, and you just have nothing to say. You make a joke to lighten the mood, but it just falls flat.
There are a loud and rowdy group of Kiwis staying with us at the hotel this week, so naturally, they were boozing it up and jumping and clapping everytime NZ scored.
They were having a gay old time of it, at the expense of the French, who just stood there looking like they were in a cross between deep depression and a coma.
Between scoring, the lobby and restaurant were dead silent. I dropped a spoon, and I swear people called down to the front desk from their rooms to see what all the racket was about.
We just stood there (I just leaned against a wall) and watched the past few weeks of win after win slip away. When you know your team is going to lose, when you finally resolve yourself to that fact, you start to let it go. You just know it, and you let go of the hope of winning. Maybe that is why Cubs fans are so special: they never ever let go, no matter how often the team loses (which, for those of you in other countries, is often).
It had been a good run, and maybe in 2011, for the next world cup.
In the final quarter of the game, the score was 13 to 3. The Kiwis were waving their flags and doing the little dance they do to celebrate their wins (really, the have a special dance; I dont even want to describe it, it is so embarrassing). The All Blacks (their team) seemed to be having a good time too. They were charging for another score, and were passing long back and forth. You could almost see them smiling as they charged down the field.
I think that was when it hit the fan for the French.
Chebal broke ranks and tore through the on coming All Blacks and pounded one, two, three of them down, ran right to the center of their offense, took him out by the knees and kept running at the guy with the ball. In terror, that guy passed the ball, to someone, to anyone, just get this mad Frenchmen away from me! So the passed the ball; it was a perfect pass. It landed firmly and squarely in Chebal's waiting arms.
The guy took off. I have only ever seen a living creature run like that on Wild Kingdom. The whole field turned around and chased him, but there was no chance. He crossed the end zone line, spiked the ball, and headed back on to the field to start playing again as soon as he could.
The French broke into cries of joy. If you're going to go down, go down slugging.
But something was different. That emptines was gone. That lifeless, colorlessness was gone.
The French rallied, and charged!
It was as though the whole country was on the field. Les Bleus pushed and pushed and pushed, and scored again.
The lobby was a melay in and of itself: the French screamed and jumped; the Kiwis screamed at the TV's and cursed, the kitchen crew were all piled on top of each other, trying to see the plasma screens through the curtains of the restaurant walls.
The whole hotel had gone to hell. The wedding party all came out into the lobby.
All pretense of professionalism was shruffed off.
The French launched into their cheer, "Tout derierre Les Bleus! Allez! Allez! Allez!"
The All Blacks scored again, and then the French again!
In a moment it was all tied up, but the All Blacks scored again! Now it was 18 to 13, and the final moments of the game, and as though on wings, the French flew against the All Blacks, pushing them further! and further! and further! until...
One of the French slammed into the defensive wall that was the All Blacks as the game time ran out.
He slammed into that wall, and kept on going.
He crossed the endzone line with less than a second left.
The final score-
New Zealand's All Blacks: 18
France's Bleus: 20
They had done it. The All Blacks, favored to win the whole of the world cup, reputed as the best team the world over, the champions over the French in 1999 and before; the All Blacks stood in defeat. They are out of the cup now. France will push on to meet their old arch enemies, the English, in the quarter finals, but the talk all over the radio, TV and web is that there might be nothing and no one playing who can stop the French now.
Muchos gracias.
So, I made it through tonight. My left leg is totally sore, as I have been favoring it tonight. My right ankle is still swollen and is really tight right now. I am covered in dried sweat and tired as all get out.
It was an odd night. There was a wedding in the hotel tonight, so most of the guests are there, which means the restaurant is slow. So, I got pulled into the kitchen to work with the banquet team. It just isnt as much fun, though. Before I got there, they had made 250 Caesar salads. Little ones, for after dinner ('cause that is when they have salad here). I mean, what is the fun in that? There is no pressure; there is no rush. You never get slammed. At some point, all the servers line up, and are each handed four salads. They march out of the room, and everyone congratulates each other. On what? "Hey, I saw you hand that fourth salad to the short, blonde server. Nice passing work there." "Thanks for noticing; you're a doll."
It was my job to clean all the plates before they left the kitchen.
You may now take a moment to bask in my glory.
Done? Good.
At Kendall, it is mistake numero uno (that is not French, by the by, for those of you keeping track) to send out a plate that has anything, ANYTHING on the rim, because (everyone together now): "The edge of the plate belongs to the guest." Meaning, basically, that that is the part of the plate that the guest will handle, so dont get schmutz on it. It looks bad. Good servers can attest to being trained on how to carry a plate using only that fatty part of your hand below your thumb and the crease in your palm, so as not to touch the plate with your fingers. Why? Well, to quote another professor at Kendall, "Because you're greasy mammals, that's why."
So, I had the very important task of hobbling up and down the row of seven tables with a wet towel to wipe the rims of the plates. I think I should mention that I was going to name this entry to the blog, "Wipin' the rims," like it was a country song or something, but there is just something very wrong about putting the words "wiping" and "rim" together in the same sentance, at least in relation to food or anything else you put in your mouth.
Nuff said.
Regardless, the whole effort was a big let down.
And speaking of big, big let downs, we come to tonight's rugby match:
France versus New Zealand.
First of all, I had to work, so I could only really listen to the game from the plasma screen TV's set up in the lobby of hotel. Actually, I could only listen to the crowds who were watching the game in the lobby. If I heard, "Oui, oui, oui, OUI!!!!" then something good was happening. If I heard, "I never liked this sport anyway. Now handball, that is a real man's game" then I knew something bad was happening.
In short, there was a good deal of discussion surrounding handball.
Again, let me say, New Zealand rugby is reputed to be the best in the world, and the French were never favored to win this match. On top of all of that, they were forced to play in Cardiff, not even in France. The news kept referring to Les Bleus as playing in "very hostile territory."
But Ruta can attest to this: these people are nuts for this game. There is rugby stuff EVERYWHERE.
The whole world (except for us) is going crazy for this game right now.
Tonight was a big match too. In 1999 France played New Zealand for the cup, in the finals, and lost, so tonight was about revenge.
I told Sylvain (the guy with the boat), "But France has Chebal!" He told me, "Yes, but NZ has several Chebals."
Tonight was also a knock out match. Of the twenty countries who started in the cup, only 8 were left in the running at the start of the night. There are four matches, which will leave four teams remaining for the quarter finals, and then the finals.
So, it was a big game.
I dont know how to convey the feeling of disappointment of an entire country. It is like all the life goes out of you. You go on with the things you do, but nothing has a joy to it anymore. You look at the people around you, and you just have nothing to say. You make a joke to lighten the mood, but it just falls flat.
There are a loud and rowdy group of Kiwis staying with us at the hotel this week, so naturally, they were boozing it up and jumping and clapping everytime NZ scored.
They were having a gay old time of it, at the expense of the French, who just stood there looking like they were in a cross between deep depression and a coma.
Between scoring, the lobby and restaurant were dead silent. I dropped a spoon, and I swear people called down to the front desk from their rooms to see what all the racket was about.
We just stood there (I just leaned against a wall) and watched the past few weeks of win after win slip away. When you know your team is going to lose, when you finally resolve yourself to that fact, you start to let it go. You just know it, and you let go of the hope of winning. Maybe that is why Cubs fans are so special: they never ever let go, no matter how often the team loses (which, for those of you in other countries, is often).
It had been a good run, and maybe in 2011, for the next world cup.
In the final quarter of the game, the score was 13 to 3. The Kiwis were waving their flags and doing the little dance they do to celebrate their wins (really, the have a special dance; I dont even want to describe it, it is so embarrassing). The All Blacks (their team) seemed to be having a good time too. They were charging for another score, and were passing long back and forth. You could almost see them smiling as they charged down the field.
I think that was when it hit the fan for the French.
Chebal broke ranks and tore through the on coming All Blacks and pounded one, two, three of them down, ran right to the center of their offense, took him out by the knees and kept running at the guy with the ball. In terror, that guy passed the ball, to someone, to anyone, just get this mad Frenchmen away from me! So the passed the ball; it was a perfect pass. It landed firmly and squarely in Chebal's waiting arms.
The guy took off. I have only ever seen a living creature run like that on Wild Kingdom. The whole field turned around and chased him, but there was no chance. He crossed the end zone line, spiked the ball, and headed back on to the field to start playing again as soon as he could.
The French broke into cries of joy. If you're going to go down, go down slugging.
But something was different. That emptines was gone. That lifeless, colorlessness was gone.
The French rallied, and charged!
It was as though the whole country was on the field. Les Bleus pushed and pushed and pushed, and scored again.
The lobby was a melay in and of itself: the French screamed and jumped; the Kiwis screamed at the TV's and cursed, the kitchen crew were all piled on top of each other, trying to see the plasma screens through the curtains of the restaurant walls.
The whole hotel had gone to hell. The wedding party all came out into the lobby.
All pretense of professionalism was shruffed off.
The French launched into their cheer, "Tout derierre Les Bleus! Allez! Allez! Allez!"
The All Blacks scored again, and then the French again!
In a moment it was all tied up, but the All Blacks scored again! Now it was 18 to 13, and the final moments of the game, and as though on wings, the French flew against the All Blacks, pushing them further! and further! and further! until...
One of the French slammed into the defensive wall that was the All Blacks as the game time ran out.
He slammed into that wall, and kept on going.
He crossed the endzone line with less than a second left.
The final score-
New Zealand's All Blacks: 18
France's Bleus: 20
They had done it. The All Blacks, favored to win the whole of the world cup, reputed as the best team the world over, the champions over the French in 1999 and before; the All Blacks stood in defeat. They are out of the cup now. France will push on to meet their old arch enemies, the English, in the quarter finals, but the talk all over the radio, TV and web is that there might be nothing and no one playing who can stop the French now.
06 October 2007
The Beat Down
OK, so let me answer some questions that I recently recieved in the "comments" section of this blog:
1. Do you like the second shift? I really like second shift. I work from 3:30p to 12:18am, and I get to sleep in and watch all the SkyNews and Cartoon Network that I want, since those are the only two stations with anything good to say. I do have two other stations, but BBC World has their heads up their collective arsses with all their talk about how the English will sweep the coup du monde de rugby, and CNN is full of peroxide blondes faking their way through the news. No thanks.
2. Who eats steak at midnight? Greedy, selfish Americans eat steak at midnight. I think they were from Texas. As a public service to the other 49 states in the Union, I have begun telling everyone here that Texas has recently ceeded itself from the nation, and is now a different country altogether, so not to judge us all on the basis of the Longhorns (sorry Leah).
3. What are toast points? You take a piece of sandwhich bread, cut it into an even square, toast it, flatten it under a flat tray, and cut it into four equal, triangular wedges. Presto! Toast points.
So now that my stint as Dear Abbey is over, on with the story of this week.
It has been rough.
Really, really rough.
Remember a few blogs ago, I was like, "I am ready to kick my own ass"? Well, I should have said, "I am ready to have my ass kicked."
This is how the week has been so far:
Monday- arrive to find out that my schedule has been changed to the night shift, but no one told me. Not too bad. OK.
Tuesday- My wife left me for anther country. What does that country have that I dont have? As if Ruta leaving wasn't hard enough, I also caught a cold. Super. I thought, "I can deal with that. I have some Airborn. I work nights now, so it wont be too busy, and I can sleep in. No problem." Wrong. As you already know, it is crazy busy here at night, and I dont have a cold, as it turns out. I have, as usual, seasonal allergies. Huzzah! Now the runny nose, and sore throat and sinus pressure can last for months, instead of a week! Hurray!
Wednesday- I woke up from a long and leisurly slumber to find out that I had slept on my left shoulder wrong, and now I can barely turn my head or lift my left arm. No harm done though; its not like I use both arms in the kitchen.
Friday- We are slammed again, and I cant breathe through my nose, my head is pounding, my shoulder is aching badly; I have no pain meds except some pills that Will gave me whose instructions are in Chinese (so I probably wont be taking them. They could turn me in to Mothra for all I know). In the midst of all that fun, chef says, "Mark go to the patisserie, and get some madelines!" I say four words to the chef at all times: "bonjour", "au revoir", and "Oui, chef." This was a situation that called for the last phrase. He further instructed me, "Vite, Mark! VITE!" (Hurray, Mark. Hurray!) So I ran.
I ran on my newish clogs.
The universe is an ironic place.
I am signed up for the Chicago Marathon, which I obviously wont be attending. I signed up because I didn't think I could do it. I wanted to prove myself wrong.
Turns out, I was right.
I ran down the hall to the patisserie, and just as I was turning the corner, my right ankle gave out under me. For a moment, my foot was perpendicular to my leg. The chef coming down the hall stopped with a look of horror and said, "What was that!?!" at the sound of bones cracking.
I told him "Nothing, chef" and got up and got myself to the patisserie. If I could just ignore the pain for the next four hours....
I did, and the shift ended quietly.
My right foot is swollen and red. I can walk on it though. I am icing it, and my friend Olivier says that he will bring me some cream for the swelling. If it does not go down tomorrow, I will have to see a doctor because it might be sprained. Yippee!
The upside to having allergies, a pulled shoulder muscle and a possibly sprained ankle- simultaneously- is that the doctors here dont really require an insurance card. I can just walk in and wait to be seen. I was floored by this. I mean, you just walk in (or in my case, hobble). Isnt that..... a fricking great idea!?!?!? Hello!!! Public health care, people!!
So, because I took off two days last week, I am working this weekend to make up. I have twelve days in a row to work. Thankfully, I only have seven days left, but our buffet line is closed tonight and tomorrow, so all orders come through me and two other chefs. What fun.
If I can do this, I can do anything, though. It is all an education.
Last night, though, in the midst of all of this, I had an almost out of body experience.
The night was over, and I was a bit burned out, for reasons that should be obvious. One of the other cooks, Jeremy (the "I love you" guy) saw that I needed a break, so we did a little coke.
Ha! That joke never gets old.
He bought me a CocaCola, which is not drank everyday here like it is in the states. It is a real treat here.
I think my generation missed something though. The coke he bought me came in the classic glass bottle, and there is just something more fitting about that. I know you can get coke like that in the states, but it is a bit harder to find. The bottle is just how they serve it many times here.
I hadnt had one since I was 14 years old. I had gone on a mountain climbing trip with my BoyScout troop to New Mexico. On the way back of two weeks in the mountains, we all stopped in a little town called Simeron or Cimmeron or something. It was like somehting out of an old movie.
The gas statin had an actual guy who pumped your gas, people honked and waved to each other when they drove by, and inside the gas station there was an old Pac Man game (which was still old when I was 14). A group of us Scouts walked in kind of timidly, covered in dust and grime (since there really arent any showers in the mountains, per se), and just stared at the game in awe. To teenage boys, a video game is like a momentary key to paradise. I knew the game was old, but after two weeks of packing up everything I had in the world and loading it on my back, of sleeping on the ground, of boiling everything I had to eat, of not showering at all, of tying my food into a tree so the bears couldnt get it, of being lost almost constantly, and of walking forever uphill, a video game was pure and simple Nirvana.
I had no coins though; no body did. The man behind the counter looked us over, and said, "We got only one rule here: if you're gonna stare at the game, you gotta play it." He took some coins out of the register and gave us all enough money for a turn. I have never been so shocked at such simple generosity.
After we had all had our fill of Pac Man, he opened the cooler and gave us all a tall, cold, blue/green bottle of Coke. It was pure nectar. In all my wine tasting, I dont think I have ever tasted something so good.
In a flash last night, the minute I put that bottle to my lips, I was there again.
It is so funny where life takes you. I never would have thought that 16 years later, I would be living in France, doing what I am doing. I wonder where those other scouts are now...
Now, I am not making any endorsements here, but that Coke was a total treat. It was such a relief to have the day over with.
And it was the second time in my life that someone handed me a tall, cold, blue/green bottle, and I was stunned at the generosity. It was all I needed.
Sinus pressure, sore throat, runny nose, pulled muscle, sprained ankle, and carbonated sugar water.
Things really do go better with Coke.
1. Do you like the second shift? I really like second shift. I work from 3:30p to 12:18am, and I get to sleep in and watch all the SkyNews and Cartoon Network that I want, since those are the only two stations with anything good to say. I do have two other stations, but BBC World has their heads up their collective arsses with all their talk about how the English will sweep the coup du monde de rugby, and CNN is full of peroxide blondes faking their way through the news. No thanks.
2. Who eats steak at midnight? Greedy, selfish Americans eat steak at midnight. I think they were from Texas. As a public service to the other 49 states in the Union, I have begun telling everyone here that Texas has recently ceeded itself from the nation, and is now a different country altogether, so not to judge us all on the basis of the Longhorns (sorry Leah).
3. What are toast points? You take a piece of sandwhich bread, cut it into an even square, toast it, flatten it under a flat tray, and cut it into four equal, triangular wedges. Presto! Toast points.
So now that my stint as Dear Abbey is over, on with the story of this week.
It has been rough.
Really, really rough.
Remember a few blogs ago, I was like, "I am ready to kick my own ass"? Well, I should have said, "I am ready to have my ass kicked."
This is how the week has been so far:
Monday- arrive to find out that my schedule has been changed to the night shift, but no one told me. Not too bad. OK.
Tuesday- My wife left me for anther country. What does that country have that I dont have? As if Ruta leaving wasn't hard enough, I also caught a cold. Super. I thought, "I can deal with that. I have some Airborn. I work nights now, so it wont be too busy, and I can sleep in. No problem." Wrong. As you already know, it is crazy busy here at night, and I dont have a cold, as it turns out. I have, as usual, seasonal allergies. Huzzah! Now the runny nose, and sore throat and sinus pressure can last for months, instead of a week! Hurray!
Wednesday- I woke up from a long and leisurly slumber to find out that I had slept on my left shoulder wrong, and now I can barely turn my head or lift my left arm. No harm done though; its not like I use both arms in the kitchen.
Friday- We are slammed again, and I cant breathe through my nose, my head is pounding, my shoulder is aching badly; I have no pain meds except some pills that Will gave me whose instructions are in Chinese (so I probably wont be taking them. They could turn me in to Mothra for all I know). In the midst of all that fun, chef says, "Mark go to the patisserie, and get some madelines!" I say four words to the chef at all times: "bonjour", "au revoir", and "Oui, chef." This was a situation that called for the last phrase. He further instructed me, "Vite, Mark! VITE!" (Hurray, Mark. Hurray!) So I ran.
I ran on my newish clogs.
The universe is an ironic place.
I am signed up for the Chicago Marathon, which I obviously wont be attending. I signed up because I didn't think I could do it. I wanted to prove myself wrong.
Turns out, I was right.
I ran down the hall to the patisserie, and just as I was turning the corner, my right ankle gave out under me. For a moment, my foot was perpendicular to my leg. The chef coming down the hall stopped with a look of horror and said, "What was that!?!" at the sound of bones cracking.
I told him "Nothing, chef" and got up and got myself to the patisserie. If I could just ignore the pain for the next four hours....
I did, and the shift ended quietly.
My right foot is swollen and red. I can walk on it though. I am icing it, and my friend Olivier says that he will bring me some cream for the swelling. If it does not go down tomorrow, I will have to see a doctor because it might be sprained. Yippee!
The upside to having allergies, a pulled shoulder muscle and a possibly sprained ankle- simultaneously- is that the doctors here dont really require an insurance card. I can just walk in and wait to be seen. I was floored by this. I mean, you just walk in (or in my case, hobble). Isnt that..... a fricking great idea!?!?!? Hello!!! Public health care, people!!
So, because I took off two days last week, I am working this weekend to make up. I have twelve days in a row to work. Thankfully, I only have seven days left, but our buffet line is closed tonight and tomorrow, so all orders come through me and two other chefs. What fun.
If I can do this, I can do anything, though. It is all an education.
Last night, though, in the midst of all of this, I had an almost out of body experience.
The night was over, and I was a bit burned out, for reasons that should be obvious. One of the other cooks, Jeremy (the "I love you" guy) saw that I needed a break, so we did a little coke.
Ha! That joke never gets old.
He bought me a CocaCola, which is not drank everyday here like it is in the states. It is a real treat here.
I think my generation missed something though. The coke he bought me came in the classic glass bottle, and there is just something more fitting about that. I know you can get coke like that in the states, but it is a bit harder to find. The bottle is just how they serve it many times here.
I hadnt had one since I was 14 years old. I had gone on a mountain climbing trip with my BoyScout troop to New Mexico. On the way back of two weeks in the mountains, we all stopped in a little town called Simeron or Cimmeron or something. It was like somehting out of an old movie.
The gas statin had an actual guy who pumped your gas, people honked and waved to each other when they drove by, and inside the gas station there was an old Pac Man game (which was still old when I was 14). A group of us Scouts walked in kind of timidly, covered in dust and grime (since there really arent any showers in the mountains, per se), and just stared at the game in awe. To teenage boys, a video game is like a momentary key to paradise. I knew the game was old, but after two weeks of packing up everything I had in the world and loading it on my back, of sleeping on the ground, of boiling everything I had to eat, of not showering at all, of tying my food into a tree so the bears couldnt get it, of being lost almost constantly, and of walking forever uphill, a video game was pure and simple Nirvana.
I had no coins though; no body did. The man behind the counter looked us over, and said, "We got only one rule here: if you're gonna stare at the game, you gotta play it." He took some coins out of the register and gave us all enough money for a turn. I have never been so shocked at such simple generosity.
After we had all had our fill of Pac Man, he opened the cooler and gave us all a tall, cold, blue/green bottle of Coke. It was pure nectar. In all my wine tasting, I dont think I have ever tasted something so good.
In a flash last night, the minute I put that bottle to my lips, I was there again.
It is so funny where life takes you. I never would have thought that 16 years later, I would be living in France, doing what I am doing. I wonder where those other scouts are now...
Now, I am not making any endorsements here, but that Coke was a total treat. It was such a relief to have the day over with.
And it was the second time in my life that someone handed me a tall, cold, blue/green bottle, and I was stunned at the generosity. It was all I needed.
Sinus pressure, sore throat, runny nose, pulled muscle, sprained ankle, and carbonated sugar water.
Things really do go better with Coke.
04 October 2007
Panic at the disco!
Early Tuesday morning, I took Ruta to the airport to see her off. It was tough, but good. You know, for as much as I did in the first month I was here, I think that I was really spending that month waiting for her to show up. When she finally got here, she totally, as my friend Paul puts it, "recharged my batteries." I just needed to know that she was doing well in the States, and when she said that she had seen growth and change in me since I left, it made me feel like I was doing well here. You know, its not that I needed her to say, "Yes Mark, you're doing good" but that she sees me very clearly. I thought I had been growing and changing, but to hear it from someone who knows me so well, that only confirmed it. So now, I am totally jazzed about the rest of my time here.
It was tough to put her on that plane, but I feel ready to really kick my own ass now.
And so, that is how I learned the meaning of the phrase, "Be careful what you wish for."
One of the sous chefs here, Chef Tony, he has changed my scheduling to the night shift. I was told, "You're so lucky. The night shift doesn't do ANYTHING."
That is a fallacy.
I used to work from 7am until 3:40pm. My new schedule is 3:30pm until 12:18am, and believe it or not, they are really strict about that cut time. I do not get to leave at 12:15am or 12:17am. I am finished at 12:18am an not a moment before. OK, I get it.
These past few days on the night shift have given me a whole new outlook on dining out. I don't think that I was ever the guy who asked for all kinds of crazy changes to my order, but now that I am one of four people who serve over 100 guests a night, I can see what a total pain in the ass it is to change even the smallest thing.
Let's take a step back for a moment:
I was working lunch in the Apollo. Lunch can get pretty hectic from time to time, but this is a business class hotel. Most of our clients are businessmen and women, so they come down from their meetings for a power lunch and go. Please note that a European power lunch includes a full cold course (salads, cheeses, etc), followed by the main course (usually a small steak or slice of roasted pork, unless it is Friday, in which case its lobster), and finally dessert. This is all washed down with a bottle of wine, and followed by coffee. As I understand it, a power lunch in the States is a PowerBar and a nice tall glass of Pepto followed by a shot of Jack Daniels, with a hefty side of stress and anxiety.
Regardless, the Apollo can get kind of busy during lunch, but dinner, hold the freaking phone.
If lunch is three courses and a bottle of wine, then dinner is (at least) double the people, with double the courses. You have your cold course, followed by your first hot course, followed by your main course, followed by your salad course, followed by your cheese course, followed by your dessert course. This will all be accompanied by cocktails to start, two or three bottles of wine, and coffee, after coffee after coffee (and cigarettes by the carton). Note: "coffee" here refers specifically to espresso. If you want American style coffee, then you should eat in America. We just don't have much of it around.
In truth, it is a beautiful way to eat. You never have dinner alone; in fact, the larger the group, the better. Dinner will start at about 8:30 and last until 11 or after; that's our busiest time anyway.
These past few days we have been slammed.
We have several groups at the hotel this week, so they are all eating at the same time. It gets so busy that I don't even think anymore about what I am doing.
I used to take the time to do one thing at a time, but now, I simply cannot do that. I am making the Norwegian salmon plate (smoked salmon, toast points, horse radish mousse and lime wedges in herb oil), while I am making the St. Jacques, while I am prepping plates for steaks, etc etc etc. It is a great education.
Last night, though, one of the line cooks didn't really check that we were fully mise-en-placed. Mise en place is French for "put in place;" basically, it means that we have everything ready that we need to have. I cant make the St. Jacques if I don't have prawns wrapped in bacon ready to go, that kind of thing.
This line cook told us all that we did have everything, though, so we started out a very busy night with no:
1 mesclun greens
2succrine lettuce
3 potato wedges for fries
4 baked phyllo dough for a crab plate
5 mayonnaise
6 good avocados
7 forks/spoons for tasting
8 Gruyere cheese for the soups
9 sliced baguettes for the soup
10 salmon
How do you tell someone that you are ready to go, when you don't even have a fork ready?
Of course, we got hit hard. People came at a rush, and everyone wanted something a little different than the menu said.
There is a crab dish that is basically fresh crab meat, mayo, lemon juice, avocado and cilantro mixed and spooned onto baked phyllo disks. It is topped with mesclun greens in a simple vinaigrette, and garnished with herbed oil on the plate. As you can tell from the list above, I was only able to put the herb oil on the plate, since I had nothing else to work with. This required that I run, screaming, into the back kitchen and cook three trays of phyllo while finding the crab and mayo and slicing some good avocados, because three orders for this simple dish came in at the same time.
It was mayhem.
The show kitchen looked like a bomb went off in it. Of course, it is smartly designed so that they buffet line is higher than eye level when you are sitting, so as a customer, everything looks nice a neat. Meanwhile, I am sliding over egg yolks and bits of wilted spinach to try and cook your omelet. Oh yeah, omelette's are big for dinner here. I think it sounds good: a three egg omelet with cheese and mushrooms, a small mesclun salad and a glass of white wine. That's a nice light meal here.
Oh, and speaking of light meals, the kitchen closes at midnight, so of course, a group sat down at 11:30 for dinner, the full dinner. They wanted salads and cheeses and soups, and at juuuuuuuuust before midnight, they ordered a hamburger with bacon and cheese and a fried egg (?), and seven steaks.
Seven f***ing steaks, as we are closing.
Everyone was wondering, "Who the hell are these people?"
Then one of their party came up to the kitchen to make sure that the steaks would be cooked as they liked them: "Medium well, not medium. I've been getting medium all week when I ask for medium well, and that is not what I want, y'all." She said it with a smile: "That is not what I want, Y'ALL."
Americans.
What is wrong with these people? I am starting to understand why we are thought of so badly. I mean, they don't hate us here, but they do think of us as not knowing our manners.
I mean, I have met a good number of Americans here, and by and large, they are pleasant, quiet, respectful people who are here to discover something new. It is the very few of us who are so badly behaved that give all of us such a rotten image.
This woman didn't speak to me first, so she didn't know I am an American. My point? She just started speaking English to us (three Frenchmen and me), expecting that we would know what she wanted and understand her language.
First of all, they don't do medium-well here. You have four choices: blue, rare, medium or well done. There is not medium rare or medium well here, so if you ask for medium well, you are going to get medium or well done.
But that's not even the worst of it. What possess you to come into a restaurant that is almost empty and order seven steaks, demand them prepared in way that is not normally done in the whole of the country, and then start making further demands in English?
This woman received the blank stares she got from the cooks with growing agitation. The other cooks didn't understand her, and all looked at me, since they knew she was speaking English.
I looked her in the eye, shrugged, and said, "J'ai pas compris" ("I don't understand"). Come to think of it, I should have given her the look. Regardless, she walked away in obvious frustration, and we laughed without discretion. I am feeling much more at home here.
And that is good, because since I took last weekend off, I have to work this weekend, which means I have twelve strait days of this kind of business, and tonight, there is someone out sick.
I have a bad feeling about this....
It was tough to put her on that plane, but I feel ready to really kick my own ass now.
And so, that is how I learned the meaning of the phrase, "Be careful what you wish for."
One of the sous chefs here, Chef Tony, he has changed my scheduling to the night shift. I was told, "You're so lucky. The night shift doesn't do ANYTHING."
That is a fallacy.
I used to work from 7am until 3:40pm. My new schedule is 3:30pm until 12:18am, and believe it or not, they are really strict about that cut time. I do not get to leave at 12:15am or 12:17am. I am finished at 12:18am an not a moment before. OK, I get it.
These past few days on the night shift have given me a whole new outlook on dining out. I don't think that I was ever the guy who asked for all kinds of crazy changes to my order, but now that I am one of four people who serve over 100 guests a night, I can see what a total pain in the ass it is to change even the smallest thing.
Let's take a step back for a moment:
I was working lunch in the Apollo. Lunch can get pretty hectic from time to time, but this is a business class hotel. Most of our clients are businessmen and women, so they come down from their meetings for a power lunch and go. Please note that a European power lunch includes a full cold course (salads, cheeses, etc), followed by the main course (usually a small steak or slice of roasted pork, unless it is Friday, in which case its lobster), and finally dessert. This is all washed down with a bottle of wine, and followed by coffee. As I understand it, a power lunch in the States is a PowerBar and a nice tall glass of Pepto followed by a shot of Jack Daniels, with a hefty side of stress and anxiety.
Regardless, the Apollo can get kind of busy during lunch, but dinner, hold the freaking phone.
If lunch is three courses and a bottle of wine, then dinner is (at least) double the people, with double the courses. You have your cold course, followed by your first hot course, followed by your main course, followed by your salad course, followed by your cheese course, followed by your dessert course. This will all be accompanied by cocktails to start, two or three bottles of wine, and coffee, after coffee after coffee (and cigarettes by the carton). Note: "coffee" here refers specifically to espresso. If you want American style coffee, then you should eat in America. We just don't have much of it around.
In truth, it is a beautiful way to eat. You never have dinner alone; in fact, the larger the group, the better. Dinner will start at about 8:30 and last until 11 or after; that's our busiest time anyway.
These past few days we have been slammed.
We have several groups at the hotel this week, so they are all eating at the same time. It gets so busy that I don't even think anymore about what I am doing.
I used to take the time to do one thing at a time, but now, I simply cannot do that. I am making the Norwegian salmon plate (smoked salmon, toast points, horse radish mousse and lime wedges in herb oil), while I am making the St. Jacques, while I am prepping plates for steaks, etc etc etc. It is a great education.
Last night, though, one of the line cooks didn't really check that we were fully mise-en-placed. Mise en place is French for "put in place;" basically, it means that we have everything ready that we need to have. I cant make the St. Jacques if I don't have prawns wrapped in bacon ready to go, that kind of thing.
This line cook told us all that we did have everything, though, so we started out a very busy night with no:
1 mesclun greens
2succrine lettuce
3 potato wedges for fries
4 baked phyllo dough for a crab plate
5 mayonnaise
6 good avocados
7 forks/spoons for tasting
8 Gruyere cheese for the soups
9 sliced baguettes for the soup
10 salmon
How do you tell someone that you are ready to go, when you don't even have a fork ready?
Of course, we got hit hard. People came at a rush, and everyone wanted something a little different than the menu said.
There is a crab dish that is basically fresh crab meat, mayo, lemon juice, avocado and cilantro mixed and spooned onto baked phyllo disks. It is topped with mesclun greens in a simple vinaigrette, and garnished with herbed oil on the plate. As you can tell from the list above, I was only able to put the herb oil on the plate, since I had nothing else to work with. This required that I run, screaming, into the back kitchen and cook three trays of phyllo while finding the crab and mayo and slicing some good avocados, because three orders for this simple dish came in at the same time.
It was mayhem.
The show kitchen looked like a bomb went off in it. Of course, it is smartly designed so that they buffet line is higher than eye level when you are sitting, so as a customer, everything looks nice a neat. Meanwhile, I am sliding over egg yolks and bits of wilted spinach to try and cook your omelet. Oh yeah, omelette's are big for dinner here. I think it sounds good: a three egg omelet with cheese and mushrooms, a small mesclun salad and a glass of white wine. That's a nice light meal here.
Oh, and speaking of light meals, the kitchen closes at midnight, so of course, a group sat down at 11:30 for dinner, the full dinner. They wanted salads and cheeses and soups, and at juuuuuuuuust before midnight, they ordered a hamburger with bacon and cheese and a fried egg (?), and seven steaks.
Seven f***ing steaks, as we are closing.
Everyone was wondering, "Who the hell are these people?"
Then one of their party came up to the kitchen to make sure that the steaks would be cooked as they liked them: "Medium well, not medium. I've been getting medium all week when I ask for medium well, and that is not what I want, y'all." She said it with a smile: "That is not what I want, Y'ALL."
Americans.
What is wrong with these people? I am starting to understand why we are thought of so badly. I mean, they don't hate us here, but they do think of us as not knowing our manners.
I mean, I have met a good number of Americans here, and by and large, they are pleasant, quiet, respectful people who are here to discover something new. It is the very few of us who are so badly behaved that give all of us such a rotten image.
This woman didn't speak to me first, so she didn't know I am an American. My point? She just started speaking English to us (three Frenchmen and me), expecting that we would know what she wanted and understand her language.
First of all, they don't do medium-well here. You have four choices: blue, rare, medium or well done. There is not medium rare or medium well here, so if you ask for medium well, you are going to get medium or well done.
But that's not even the worst of it. What possess you to come into a restaurant that is almost empty and order seven steaks, demand them prepared in way that is not normally done in the whole of the country, and then start making further demands in English?
This woman received the blank stares she got from the cooks with growing agitation. The other cooks didn't understand her, and all looked at me, since they knew she was speaking English.
I looked her in the eye, shrugged, and said, "J'ai pas compris" ("I don't understand"). Come to think of it, I should have given her the look. Regardless, she walked away in obvious frustration, and we laughed without discretion. I am feeling much more at home here.
And that is good, because since I took last weekend off, I have to work this weekend, which means I have twelve strait days of this kind of business, and tonight, there is someone out sick.
I have a bad feeling about this....
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)