Ms. Glaze's Pommes d'Amour

One Cook For Sale

I got the job.

I mean I got the job I really, really, really want. I should be clinking cosmopolitans. But instead, I am sitting here staring at this computer wondering how I'm going to make ends meet.

How do I get by on a salary that I was making when I first graduated from college 14 years ago?

Listen, you and me are going to have to figure this out together. One of you out there in cybersapce has got to be in financial services and looking for a pet project.

Scratch that idea – if you're in financial services then you're probably loosing your job tomorrow and I'm the one that's going to have to support you!

It's one thing to be living abroad and sucking up the lack of sufficient funds to "experience" and "adventure". It's another thing to be on home turf and chomping down on knuckle sandwiches.

Was it me who said that the street food here was delicious? I feel like I am the street food now.

Ah, well, we can't die with our money. We can't take it with us. It's only life after all and I certainly won't starve – that's the great thing about working in a kitchen. Oh heck, this job is sort of like my postdoc in beautiful food. Why not splurge on education right?

On the sunny side: the restaurant is stunning, the kitchen sleek and modern, the food exquisitie, the staff exceptional, and the air circulation fantastic. What more could a girl – who used to hide out in the walk-in refrigerator to escape the nauseating heat – ask for?

A ridiculously high salary? Thank God for overtime. I need all the hours I can get.

But really that's the breaks. As one of my girlfriend's put it: you chose the profession.

Yes I did. And If I want to learn from the best, then I have to suck it up. And I will, because I do. (I'm sounding like a marriage ceremony).

If you don't love food, love sweating it out over the fire, love crazy people who swing sauté pans around like swords and somehow have time to joke while turning out 210 covers in one evening – then you certainly won't love being a cook because (wait for the drum roll....) there's no money it!

Now that I've got that out of my system, it's time to find a knife grinder in New York so I can start work with my knives razor sharp.

Either that or an organ grinder.

I wonder if I could make extra tips as a dancing monkey? I'm sure I have a red vest somewhere...

McCain Cupcakes with Sprinkles

I entered Eleni's Cupcake shop in the Chelsea Market.

Let me rephrase that: I was reeled in quickly like a line-caught trout heroically flopping away for freedom but tragically hooked by the smell of frosting and cake.

They must pump that heavenly smell above the entrance for people like me who are slaves to their salivary glands.

My inner magpie was dazzled by the bright pink store with old fashioned glass cake tiers filled with perfect tiny frosted cakes in colorful shapes and tantalizing flavors.

"Can I take a picture?"

"Only if you buy one. And only of that cupcake. Not the whole store."

"Okay. Hmmmm... is that really McCain?... I'll take that one."

For some odd reason the little shop only had McCain cupcakes of the political persuasion. No Obama, no Palin, no Liberman – just McCain. I'm not sure why. Honestly I couldn't figure out if they were celebrating him, pawning off leftovers from the RNC, or indulging customers in some twisted fantasy.

And frankly, I was sort of curious as to how they would flavor the presidential candidate.

I asked the staff, "Why McCain?" but nobody answered. They just sort of shrugged, smirked, and looked sheepishly between one another.

And yes, I could have chosen one of the vanilla cakes topped with flakes of dried coconut clear up to the sky or a strawberry one with girlish pink swirls of buttercream. But...

this was so much more satisfying.

Forgive me?

New York, New Work

Here I am. New York City. Wow!

I am so excited I don't even know where to begin. Part of me feels like I just walked out of 1940's Broadway musical where the leading lady shows up in NYC with two suitcases and a lot of nerve and just dives right in.

Come on, you know that song... "if I can make it there, I'll make it anywhere.."

That's me pretty much, except I showed up with 16 boxes (half of which were shipped from France), 2 suitcases, 2 army duffle bags, and my knife case.

And the most important item: a wine opener.

I have learned through living in 6 different apartments, 4 different cities, 2 different countries over the last 5 years that having a wine opener is really the key ingredient.

Everything else can wait. But damn, that glass of wine just cannot wait.

When you're sitting around staring at an empty apartment wine makes everything look rosy. Or it knocks you out cold so you don't have to think about the grim reality of starting all over again.

I'm still in the rosy phase, but depending on how my furniture looks when it gets delivered, I might end up in the drain-the-bottle-in-one-whole-swig phase. We'll see.

But that's what I love about this city – everything can be delivered right to your doorstep even if it's on the 17th floor. How cool is that?

No wonder the French love to visit New York. They don't have to climb up and down multiple flights of stairs all day long.

Today I had 6 bags of groceries from Whole Foods delivered plus multiple boxes from Bed Bath & Beyond and I didn't even have to lift a finger. I didn't have to drag my little Parisian wheel-y cart through bumpy cobblestone streets and up five flights of stairs.

Aside from settling in to my new apartment, I'm peddling my resumé around once again. And this time it's hard. I'm anxious to see what it's like to cook in a New York kitchen, but not so energized about starting from scratch.

I know things will be different here. I know there are kitchen systems, regulations, cultures that are unfamiliar. I'm sure I will be flung mercilessly to the bottom of the totem pole and then struggle to inch my way back up again.

I'm positive that I will be cooking beside 20-something's that have boundless energy while varicose veins climb faster and darker up my legs.

Oh well, as everyone says: fuhgghedabowdit. I suppose that's a little like: tant pis.

The street food alone is reason enough to move. Oh my God is it delicious. I've been eating off the streets since my pots and pans have yet to arrive and all I have to say is: I LOVE NEW YORK!

I thought the crèpes in France were tasty, but I'm sorry, they are nothing compared to the spicy stewed chicken tacos I had for lunch today oozing with sour cream and melted cheese or the philly cheesesteak I had for dinner – again oozing with carmelized onions, peppers, and more melted cheese.

Nathan's hotdog? Yes please. Halal gyro? I'll take two. Fruit smoothie? I need my vitamins. Salted pretzel with mustard? Yup. Spinach empanadas? Oh hell yeah.

Work-out at the gym? No thank you. I'm too busy stuffing my face right now.

Maybe I should re-name my blog: Ms. Glaze Eats Manhattan. Then again, maybe not.

Just so you don't get the wrong impression about my feelings about Paris, I should let you know that I'm applying to only French restaurants.

I'm not sure how restaurants here feel about cooks blogging about their kitchen experiences, so I will keep mine on the back burner until I find out what the proper etiquette is.

My former employer was supportive about my writing and I will always be thankful for that and for everything I learned there too (bien sûr!)

So here's to New York and a new adventure! May it be just as tough, sweaty, and exhausting as the last one and filled with even more grit, grime, and elbow grease.

I'm drinking to that...