Ms. Glaze's Pommes d'Amour

Valentines Day Recovery & The Ravioli Station

"Did you check the schedule?!?!? Did you check the schedule?"

"No, not yet, why?"

"You're 'Back Monk' next week girl!"

"Shit, what the hell is 'Back Monk'?"

"It's the ravioli station!!!"

"Oh my God, really?!?!?! SWEEEEEET!!!! Um, but why is it called 'Back Monk'?"

"I have no idea."

"Oh putain, me neither."

This is the conversation between me and my best friend at work. She's French and cooking here on a one year visa. And yes, we do gossip in French as much as we possibly can in the hopes that no one around us will understand.

But I'm sure everyone does understand because our body language is just too conspiratorial and my French is simply too remedial. If you took an 8th grade French class you could probably make out what I was saying. Oh heck, if you took an 8th grade Spanish class you could probably figure out what I was saying...

Thank God, you couldn't figure out what she was saying.

So 'Back Monk' really means that I make raviolis, plate lobster carpacio, and help the cold appetizer station out during service until the hot appetizer station needs me more.

Which really means – I finally get to cook over the fire!!!

Still not sure why it's called 'Back Monk'.

And yes, I still turn bright red when I cook. And yes, everyone still makes fun of me. And no, it's nowhere near as hot as the kitchen as Guy Savoy in Paris so I'm not making excuses to get things from the refrigerator like I used to.

I'm so thankful to be doing something different. If you've ever cooked in a restaurant then you will understand what I'm talking about.

Sometimes when I do something over and over and over again I just want to shoot myself in the head. I have to force myself to focus on making the next dish more perfect so I don't become complacent and lazy.

Sounds easy, but it's not. Trust me. Being mindless is not easy.

I mean really, if you had to write the same email or type the same bill, or teach the same lesson to the same class, or operate on the same patient, or drive the same customer from point A to point B day in day out, you would turn to automatic pilot too.

Of course it's reassuring to come into work and know exactly what you're going to do and how much time you have to do it in, and how to prepare for fire drills in advance. But let's face it, it's also boring. Like sharpening 1000 yellow #6 pencils by hand every day.

So speaking of boring, there are two things that are quite the opposite: 'Back Monk' and my 'Love Life'.

I'm thinking that my 'Love Life' should be a station at the restaurant as well. Since it seems to flow in and out of the time I spend at work, I think it could (at this point) be considered a job. I'm unsuccessfully working pretty damn hard at it.

I should be getting payed for it dammit. Minimum wage at least.

Back to ravioli's... ravioli's are a life saver. Why? Because I've begun to realize that relationships have a lot to do with ravioli.

Have you ever made pasta dough? First you weigh out the flour (that's you) then you carefully pick out the yolks from the whites of countless eggs (that's your significant other that you've sorted through).

Then you make a well in your flour (that's you again) and place the yolks in the center (that's the significant other again).

Then you put the mixer on low speed with a dough hook that gently combines you and the other person, ooops I mean flour and egg yolks, until you are somewhat mixed together.

Then you add water (commitment?) and all of a sudden the flour/egg mixture starts to turn into real pasta dough that is stretchy but manages to maintain its balled state (oneness) as it's whipped around the mixing bowl by a large metallic dough hook (metaphor for life putting you through the wringer?).

And, if your pasta dough is perfect it will maintain good elasticity, sheen, suppleness, and finally it will handle the automatic pasta machine which, is like a close-up print out or photo copy of your relationship.

You put both of you together (with some water or commitment) through the automatic pasta maker and you either come out: too wet, not wet enough, crinkly and in need of more flour, or crackly and in need of more water, or perfectly supple and smooth.

Damn, that shit's not easy to get right.

But, with practice, and perhaps mistakes as well, it all comes out in one long paper thin strip of moldable pasta dough. And from this point, you can get really experimental.

The first week at the ravioli station went smoothly. Relatively. There were a few hiccups along the way, but nothing unexpected or unacceptable. Nothing to get yelled over.

My second week at the ravioli station included Valentines day. Dough, egg yoks, water – knead I say more?

Our restaurant was slammed for Valentine's day. I mean booked to the gills. And we were all excited about it. Honestly, it's fun to cook when the restaurant is full to bursting. All of us prefer it. We cook better, we work better, we have more fun when the restaurant is packed.

But my valentines day kind of took a dive off the high board into an empty cement pool.

I received divorce papers on my way to work.

Still having trouble getting the dough right....

I showed up to work laughing with tears running down my face. I bummed a cigarette off a fellow cook who was counting his last few moments before entering the abyss for 12 hours. He looked at me cockeyed, handed me a smoke, and asked, "Are you okay? You look like you could use a shot of something...."

To which I could only reply, "Is my masacara all over my face right now?"

To which he gracefully responded, "No, no one will notice. You look fine."

(Liar.) "Thanks, thanks for the smoke..."

I called my husband who thankfully, being the good guy that he is, (yes, we still talk about each other in the positive and are very close friends) was as shocked as I was. The papers were sent a whole week before and I had been expecting them – just not on Saturday morning. It was an untimely accident.

But the fact still remained: I received papers on Valentines day. And I had to go into work and stare at flour and egg yolks working themselves out in a bowl. And then I had to put the dough through the pasta machine and give it attention and ... thank God I had to give it attention...being busy and under pressure and maybe even somewhat mindless is better than thinking about reality at times.

I would much rather be thinking about the present than freaking out over the future.

God, I love pasta. Is this why it's considered comfort food?

As much as I forced myself to focus on making pasta my stomach was also forcing me not to think about food. I couldn't even smell food without wanting to throw-up.

I didn't eat. Not one single thing. Just one cup of coffee and one cigarette.

I began my shift on the cold appetizer line making stunning barely cooked fish starters and 2 hours later was called up to the hot line to help the hot appetizers cooks. Here, normally I would have been nervous with the anticipation of a new station and a new challenge but instead I was just shaky with apprehension and simply loss of love.

How doing the mundane, the boring, the rote, could have been such a godsend on this dark day. Oh well.

Why is the power of love so underestimated? When full of it we ride higher than the moon, and when empty with it we sink lower than the sun.

I want none of it.

(such a lie, I want all of it!)

I no sooner got to the hot line during the middle of the second seating when one of the cook's frantically asked that I re-stack the plates. I scuttled hurriedly to the dish pit to grab clean plates carrying a stack that normally would have been challenging, but not heavy.

I placed half on the dish rack next to the station and the other half I attempted to place up above the piano (the stove top) where we keep all of our plates warm.

I lifted the plates and my arms gave out. I was only an inch away from making the connection – my arms outstretched and elbows locked – but something gave way and the stack fell with an embarrassing crash onto the hot grill underneath.

Only one plate broke in the stack. But, I panicked. It was like something cracked inside my brain, a little tiny blood vessel bursting and yet single handedly causing a flood.

The other two hot apps cooks rushed in to clear the plates and re-group. But I simply took a step back and tried to focus on the present. No one yelled at me, no one said a word about it the whole night. Thank God for small favors.

And thank God for the excellent team I work with who often get on my nerves, and more often than not, calm them.

My shift ended on a positive note. I got to cook on the hot and cold line and make fresh pasta off and on throughout the evening. The executive chef ordered the kitchen crew several bottles of champagne to quench our desires, our thirsts, and to say goodbye to two beloved externs who have made life more bearable over the last few months.

I ducked out shortly after finishing my glass of bubbly to cry a little on my own in the girl's locker room and just release.

It was certainly not the best day in my life, and most certainly the worst Valentine's day I have ever had.

But you know, it's always nice to finally feel free to start the whole pasta making process over again...

For the First Time I Stand Alone

I didn't think up the title of this post.

It came to me indirectly from the executive chef. I don't think he had any idea how meaningful it would be to me but, it's a damn good title and I'll attempt to do it right..

I came to New York knowing that it could support me with the energy, dynamism, and happiness that has been slowly leaking out of my life if I could muster up at least a little effort and courage in return.

It's been a long time since I've been on my own.

It's not fun changing countries, starting new jobs, making new friends, and ending frayed relationships. When I look at other people my age in their mid 30's who are settled with children and houses and well into careers with nice retirement plans I sort of want to put my face in my hands and cry.

Either that or pick up a cleaver and chop down the chain bone of something twice my size.

I dove head first into a New York 3 Michelin star kitchen culture that perhaps wasn't the best place for a woman, going through what I'm going through, to be in.

Why? Because your head needs to be in the game and your spirit needs to exude self confidence. But when all you feel like inside is a human construction site, walking into a competitive unforgiving environment is a little akin to smashing beer cans against your head over and over.

How can I organize a station if I can't even organize my life right now? How can I react to command when my inner voice of doubt and worry is drumming out the chef's outer voice? How can I cook anything right when everything in my life is wrong?

How am I going to get through this?

I pretty much wanted to quit after the first month. I thought: the executive chef's a jerk, I hate the people I work with, I don't fit in here, garde manger is stupid, the sous chef's don't do shit beside criticize everything I do, the guys are competitive for no reason, I'm here to cook fish and I'm a year away from getting to the line.

and...

I want to be where people know me and know what I'm capable of – not where I have to prove myself. I'm tired of proving myself. And further more, I don't have the energy to prove myself.

So I dragged myself and I'm sure everyone around me through a grueling first three months at the garde mange station.

I prepped salads, sauces, gelées, cold fish plates. I Diced cucumbers and jalapenos till I never wanted to see either vegetable again. I Plated smoked salmon, raw salmon, hamachi, kampachi, and bluefin till my hands could go through the motions effortlessly while my mind wondered back to it's dark 'why am I here?' place .

I whipped green cilantro foams (still something that never turns out right by my hand) and seaweed soysauce glazes. And the whole time it felt like moving mountains, not like creating fragile art.

My mantra bounced back and forth between: 'f all of you' and 'I don't care'. Neither of these two being healthy to meditate on. Especially not for 12 hours a day.

I'd be a liar if I said that nobody noticed I wasn't focused.

It took me a little while to realize, and yes a good long heart to heart with the executive chef too, that really I'm the one who needs to pull it together. I was hired to do a job and do it perfectly regardless of my personal life or the dynamics at work. And out of this conversation I re-found my backbone which had started to disintegrate

and...

that the executive chef is really a great leader, the sous chef's are talanted, I sincerely like the people I work with, garde manger is perfect for me because I need better knife skills, I can be competitive too without being a bitch, and I do want to prove myself.

And just as I was beginning to feel the cloud of doom clear from my mind the executive chef sent me to the fish pass (which momentarily clouded me again) and then to a sunny short vacation in the salon, and now on canapés...

Where: FOR THE FIRST TIME I STAND ALONE

(you knew I'd weave this back in somehow didn't you?)

The canapé station, or amuse bouche station, is a little like a life raft bobbing on the tumultuous high seas without a tow in site. In other words you're all by yourself and you either sink or swim. I have seen quit a few cooks flounder and fall off this boat only to find themselves flung back to the mainland (garde manger) until given a second chance to prove themselves.

I have witnessed several cooks sent home for a plethora of innocent yet amateur mistakes: soup not hot enough, wrong bread used for the croutons, or shortage of mise en place.

So when I got to this station all I could think of was: I don't want to be sent home. I'm over 30 years old not 12 and if I get sent home I'm going to be very, very, very upset.

But here's the thing: it's really hard to cook something right when you are terrified of cooking something wrong. It makes you not trust your own judgement. It makes organization difficult. Ah heck, it just takes the fun out it in general and creates an atmosphere where success seems unobtainable and being set up for failure a certainty.

I kept telling myself: I have nothing to loose. There is nothing more in my life left to loose and there is everything, everything to gain.

And it's just an amuse bouche for goddsake. It's not rocket science or quantum physics or computer technology or anything requiring a PhD. Jeez: it's just food!

Furthermore, I absolutely adore amuse bouches. They are beautiful mini meals in a single bite that set the tone for the menu to come. And anyone who downplays the significance of a canapé or amuse bouche has never truly experienced one before.

They are little suprises. Even when they are expected they are still a surprise because you don't know what it will be until it arrives. I love that.

My first few days at the canapé station were cake. I got to work with a girlfriend of mine who was on her way out (to move back to L.A.) and she showed me how to get organized, set up the station, hide the pots and pans needed for service early in the afternoon, and load up on extra mise en place.

We had a lot of fun working together. It could have been called the 'gossip station' instead of the 'canapé station' because that's really all we did in between spooning lobster into tiny cups, squeezing hot foams, and yelling "pick up canapé!".

We had good time. Something that had been missing for me.

Then she left and it was all up to me.

My canapé for my first day alone was simple enough: a truffled celriac soup with lobster and a gorgeous bright red sauce Americain foam on the top. I followed the instructions I was given to make the soup, but when I blended it, it was border-line too thin. I got chastised for it, but not sent home.

Had I done the soup the way I knew how to this would not have been a problem. Had I trusted my own instincts this would not have happened. And then getting blamed for not following common sense like: remove the celeriac cubes from the broth before blending and add the broth in little by little until the right consistency is acheived feels even stupider.

Lesson learned: trust instincts. Then you have no one to blame but yourself.

The service went fine. I didn't run out of anything, I enjoyed talking to the servers as they picked up the plates, and I sincerely enjoyed being responsible for my very own island.

In fact, I prefer to be in charge of my very own island.

"Pick up canapé!!!"

Le Salon!

Oh yeah baby, I'm working in the Salon this week. Talk about sunshine after a long week of running fish back and forth, popping oysters open and stabbing lobsters between the eyes.

The salon is a separate kitchen on the second floor that only caters to private events. And it is so much fun to work up there. Almost like a vacation without the fruity cocktails and hot pool boys (bien sûr).

Let's call it an offsite. Isn't that where corporate employees go to bond, learn new skills, and just enjoy each other?

Don't get me wrong – it's not easy – just a different change of pace and the opportunity to work with the executive chefs and sous chefs one on one and learn their individual styles without all the al a carte drama of the main kitchen.

And every once and awhile I get to actually cook something on the line – HALLELUJAH!!!!

Working the salon is an introduction to working downstairs on the main floor. It's a chance to see all the dishes on the menu and become familiar with them. The stakes aren't as high in the salon because the menu is set to begin with so there is less margin for error.

It's also the chance to see the flow of service: when to flash dishes in the oven, when to start the pick-ups on the main courses, and how the servers handle different crowds.

There's some drawbacks too. It can be painfully slow and then all of a sudden you have to dredge up endless energy to pump out a gazillion plates all at the same time. One hundred and eighty different canapes? No problem. Fifty tuna- kobe plates? No problem.

Are the mashed potatoes hot? Are they f'ing hot or not? Oven! Oven! Put the plates back in the oven now – all seventy of them!!!

(Oh my God) Yes! Chef!

Okay and there's the horror part of working the salon. Like when there are two totally different parties side by side with different canapes, cold appetizers, and main courses and all of it must prepped beforehand and everything gets fired between ten minutes of the other.

That is when working the salon is not like an offsite. That is like one huge panic attack with an added acid flashback for icing.

That's when I'm running back and forth to our taped up menu sheets double checking the different canapes for each party to make sure we don't pass the wrong hors d'oeuvres to the wrong group.

That's when the downstairs line cooks rush upstairs from the main kitchen to help fire off all the fish dishes to the different parties.

That's when I'm just putting my head down and finishing plates with the garnishes and passing them off to the executive chef for one last final inspection before the servers carry them away on silver trays.

And honestly, that's fun too.

Fish Pass Girl

I'm not sure whether I'm being tested or just given the opportunity to learn a new station: The Fish Pass.

At the restaurant, all cooks when hired begin on the garde manger station and rotate through the various duties: salad prep, cold fish plates, canapes, homemade ravioli, and hot appetizers picking up the necessary skills along the way to eventually work on the intense frenetic fish line.

And, if the cook is really good, after working all the other stations at the restaurant he or she will finally become the 'Saucier' and run the fish line – a very demanding position. The Saucier is responsible for making 20 different sauces and insuring that the 14 different fish dishes are perfect by the time they reach the pass.

"Medium rare fish, guys, medium rare fish...we're tasting our food, right? Coming up on a mahi by halibut followed by 3 stripe by snapper, cod, black bass... how long on the mahi? Minute and a half – we go?..."

It's a smart system. The idea being that by the time you have finally made it to the fish line you can jump back into any station at the restaurant at any time to help out.

We seat over 200 people an evening and as customers eat their way through the menu from cold to hot dishes the sauté cooks come over to help out garde manger and hot appetizers until all the orders rest solely on the line.

But the Fish Pass station is not on the normal rotation. It's kind of island of it's own and a very significant one at that.

What does the fish pass cook do? Besides not cook a single piece of anything?

He runs back and forth from one side of the kitchen to the other passing perfectly portioned pieces of striped bass, black pass, skate, mahi mahi, cod, halibut, monk, white tuna, snapper, langoustines, salmon, lobster, lamb, squab, and filet mignon to the sauté cooks while popping oysters to order and keeping a running count of the tickets coming in and all the fish being sold.

Here's the deal, and I know I'm a little crazy for thinking this way, but I really want to work this station. Not forever – I can barely even type this post right now my fingers are so shredded from the preparation involved – but it's a great opportunity to actually get to work with the fish itself.

Great position or not, I really f'd things up on Friday night. Everyone got their fish on time and all the oysters were opened to order, but I didn't follow the executive chef's request on one small eensty teensy little thing so I was banished for the last hour of service and sent to clean mushrooms alone, upstairs, in the salon kitchen.

I don't like being banished. And I don't like messing up. But I definitely understand what I did wrong.

I didn't communicate. And that is a very important part of my job.

My Friday afternoon preparation started off great. I waltzed in around 1PM and directly asked the chef how many lobsters I should kill. He told me I needed: "20 all day" (meaning that I needed a total of 20).

I looked in the fish pass refrigerator at my station to see how many lobsters were already prepped from lunch and there were 7. I failed to notice however that there were still 15 customers yet to order on the board from lunch. I just sort of assumed that lunch was finished.

It wasn't.

I've worked the garde manger station during lunch and I know we rarely sell a lot of lobster so I thought it be okay. In France we cook both lunch and dinner so it's easy to keep a count on what's selling in the kitchen or at your individual station.

I butchered 13 lobsters for the fish line.

Killing lobsters used to freak me out but now I just take my old Wustov knife (that I don't care about) shove the tip right between the lobsters eyes to kill it instantly and then rip off the tail and claws.

Breaking down lobsters cuts up your hands because their claws have exoskeleton thorns that pierce through just about everything – five pairs of latex gloves included.

And sometimes, even after I've killed them, their tails spasm and clinch up wrapping around my hands and pinching my fingers. Or their claws open and close without warning – again pinching my fingers.

Next I de-shelled and cleaned a box of 40 langoustines. Clearly not enough for a service of 200 people, but they were the only ones I could find in the fish fridge.

Cleaning langoustines is another finger shredding job that sent me to the hospital a few weeks ago for a two night hiatus. My puncture wounds from their shells somehow got infected with Staff and red lines started growing up my arms from the blood infection. Not fun.

Back to my preparation... after cleaning the evil langoustines, and stabbing 15 lobsters, I started stuffing calamari. But I ran out of stuffing. I don't make the stuffing, that's another cook's job, but I had enough calamari prepped (or so I thought) for at least the first seating of 100 people.

And yes, I did communicate with the powers that be that I needed more stuffing and that I didn't think there would be enough langoustines for the whole evening.

I get my station set up by 5PM and I think I'm totally ready to go. I'm actually excited to start my aerobic workout for the evening running back and forth throughout the kitchen passing fish and popping oysters. God, do I love oysters...

But then the orders start flying in and low and behold they are all langoustines, calamari, and lobster. We're 8 tables deep into the service and I'm already out of lobster tails. I look into my little fish pass fridge and I'm freaking out – where did all my friggin lobsters go?

I notice that the cook on the canape station is doing a lobster amuse bouche and I go over to him and accusingly ask, "Did you take any of my lobster tails for your amuse bouche?" He responds "No." I turn to the sous chef and ask him about my tails and he doesn't know anything so nervously I ask the executive chef about my lobster tails.

He laughs. Thank God. And asks what time I counted the lobsters at before I killed them. "Did you actually look on the board before you killed the lobsters? I told you there was a table of 15 yet to order at lunch".

This stupid mistake hits my stomach like a ten pound boulder, my face flushes crimson, and I realize that all in one second that my college degree is worthless and that I'm probably lower than a cockroach on the scale of evolution.

"They ordered lobster? The whole table?"

"Yes. The whole table. You better kill 10 more right now."

So in between popping oysters, running fish, totaling tickets, and freaking out in general – I'm also killing lobsters. An hour hasn't even gone by yet and I'm already in the weeds so deep I might as well be in the amazon rain forest slashing my way through creepy vines and overgrown bushes.

Weeded. Weeded. So weeded it's not even funny.

Of course, I'm sure it was hysterical to everyone else. But certainly not to me.

I get the lobsters finished miraculously and breathe a sigh of relief that the rest of the service can return to a normal state of controlled chaos.

But no, how could I think such a stupid thing? The hot apps cooks need more stuffed calamari. And they need it now...

I finally get the stuffing for the calamari and the more langoustines are retrieved from the downstairs freezer.

All langoustines are frozen fresh, they don't make it to the U.S. from France in any other way. Nonetheless they are outrageously delicious. If a shrimp and a lobster made babies they would taste like langoustines. Depending on how they are packed and shipped, they can either be thawed out and used over a few days or they used that same day.

Quality is closely monitored in all respects at the restaurant. Especially the fish rotation and our langoustines are some of the biggest and tastiest that I have ever seen or eaten – France included.

Here's where I messed up biggtime: the chef tells me to wrap up the langoustines I have in my fish pass fridge to save and breakdown and serve the other ones first.

This would not have been a problem if I wasn't also doing my aerobic fish pass workout while finally getting the opportunity to stuff my 80 calamari tubes.

Cleaning langoustines takes time. They are sort of an overgrown crawfish and their shells are almost as hard as a lobsters. The tricky part in cleaning these evil succulent tasting creatures is to not tear the flesh while ripping off their segmented shells piece by piece. After the exoskeleton is removed they need to be gutted and trimmed – again without tearing the flesh.

Did I mention that langoustines are really expensive?!?!

I kept thinking: it is more important that the cooks have the fish they need when they need it instead of breaking down the other langoustines. So I continued to pass the langous in my fridge. I just didn't think about how important it might be in terms of cost. And, I just didn't have the time.

The evening begins to slow down a bit with just 60 left to order. I'm exhausted, my hands look like they've been mauled by a pit bull. My arms are tired from reaching for fish, running fish, popping oysters to order, butchering lobsters, and stuffing calamari.

I finally have the langoustines cleaned and wrapped up and I'm about to take them to the back fish fridge to store for tomorrow. But the chef sees me and says, "Those are the langoustines I asked you save right?"

"No chef, they're not."

There is a brief moment of silence as he looks me over with a mixed lethal concoction of disappointment, anger, and disgust.

"What happened to the ones I asked you to save."

"We sold them."

I start to launch into my litany of excuses as to why I couldn't get them prepared in time and how the orders of langoustines kept coming in while I was still trying to prepare calamari and lobsters and, and, and...

"I dont want to hear your bullshit."

"It's not bullshit!" I retort.

I wish I hadn't retorted. Because it's not my place to tell the man who has run a world famous kitchen for over 15 years with only impeccable reviews whether something is or is not bullshit. He clearly knows the difference.

He turns away from me after a long sideways glare and gives his attention back to the fish line. Meanwhile I return to my station heart in hand wondering whether or not I'm going to get fired for such a costly mistake. Isn't this the time where that big black hole is supposed to open up beneath you and swallow you whole?

The old fish pass cook is called back over to the station and one of the sous chef's tells me to take two sheets of black trumpet mushrooms to the salon kitchen to clean.

I take the mushrooms and head upstairs to my solitary confinement. An hour and a half passes and I'm still cleaning mushrooms defiantly willing myself not to cry. My punctured hands can barely hang on to their delicate stems because they are swollen. My fingertips are stained black and I start recounting the events of the evening. How could I have made that happen differently?

I couldn't have. I did everything I could have possibly done. Except the one thing I needed to do: communicate with the chef. Tell him why I couldn't or wouldn't be able to do what he asked. And that's 100 percent my fault.

It was my job to make his request happen and if I couldn't then let him know immediately.

Service is service. And when it's over it's over. Tomorrow's a new day.

And speaking of new days, Saturday the chef greeted me with same familiar "Hi Ms. Glaze". No altercation hangovers thankfully. Service was fun. We did 240 covers which is record breaking in my short two months at the restaurant. My mis en place was en pointe and the whole evening was a success all around.

"Pass the striped bass Amyyyyyyy!!!!"

"Yes, chef!!!!!!!"

The Professional Edge

My first day on the job I took a look at what knives all the chef's were using and sure enough everyone had Japanese cutlery. After questioning the saucier about whether or not Japanese knives really do make a difference he put it to me like this:

"It's your profession. You use a knife all day and you should have one that you can sharpen easily and that stays sharper longer. Japanese knives are expensive but it's like – why race in a Pinto when you can win in a Porsche? Why wear a Timex when you can sport a Rolex? If you're cooking at the top level then don't you want to have the tools to take you all the way?"

Why, yes I do want to have the very best tools.

So I took his advice (and many of you who left comments on my last post) and headed to Korin's knife store in Lower Manhattan.

Wow! I knew nothing about Japanese knives. I mean, I had heard of Shun (which they don't even carry) and Global (which they do carry, but they don't display) but Masamoto? Nenox-Honyaki? Misono?

These knives have tradition behind their names. Serious tradition. In some cases dating back over 800 years. Many of these families made samurai swords and now have turned their attention to crafting knives.

I asked the sales lady to show me a range of chef's knives in different prices. She pulled down a ridiculously expensive Ninox that was beautiful but out of my budget. The next one she displayed was a Masamoto Virgin Steel (first press steel that is handmade and not reformed over) that was sharp enough to split hairs but also too pricey.

And then she laid down a mid priced one and I knew immediately if was for me. Yes, I might be a sucker for marketing, but the dragon etched in the blade caught my eye. I had heard of the name, Misono, which is known for making excellent blades with pure Swedish steel – some of the purest steel in the world right now.

I picked it up, felt it in my hands, and handed over my credit card.

My knife is amazing. I had no idea how much difference it could make in daily preparation, speed, and accuracy.

It's true they require a little more care. Mine is carbon steel which can rust and should not be used to cut acidic foods. Also, they need to be sharpened on a wet stone preferably at the end of ever 12 hour day to keep the edge sharp.

Any sharp knife serves it's purpose. And nothing is more frustrating than a dull knife in the kitchen. What might be right for me, is not necessarily going to work for a home cook.

But after using Japanese knives I will never go back. Now I open my after shift beers with my Wûstof knives – at least they're still getting some action ;-)

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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...

Cracked Ribs & Catering

Here's my recipe for cracked ribs. It's not one of my brainier recipes, in fact it's downright stupid, but I still think you'll find it juicy.

Ingredients
Rib Cage

Instructions
1. Walk straight into a rod iron latch sticking out of a gate at full speed carrying boxes. Make sure the rod goes in between two ribs cracking the upper one.
2. Fall over face flat on the cement ground.
3. Try to move your head and yell for help while all sensation leaves your left arm and a warm spreading painful feeling throughout your chest warns you that the damage is more than just a bruise.
4. While trying to yell, give up, because breathing is difficult and using your diaphragm to press air over your vocal chords is excruciatingly painful.
5. Find a passerby who speaks your language to help you get off the ground– not just stack your dropped boxes neatly while you continue to lie paralyzed.
6. Go to emergency room.

Note: Make sure to have the doctor check your lungs for punctures. Don't worry about your ribs, there's nothing they can do for you at the hospital anyway accept confirm that you do have a fracture and give you painkillers.

Oh, and one more note, be sure to have an appetizer party to cater with some very special people attending (who you'd like to impress) two days after the accident. That gives you one day to shop for the food in pain, one 15 hour day to prepare the food in pain, and one day to transport the food and serve it (in pain).

Also, make sure it's your first real catering job ever so there's no other stress involved.

And do yourself a favor. Hire your best girlfriend to come and help you cook and serve. Convince her that her disability leave from cooking should be ignored. I mean really, tennis and golf elbow in both arms? What's that compared to cracked ribs?

Tell her you'll share your Vicadin and your sympathy if she lends a helping hand.

Let's see, what else can we add to the mix. How about hot weather, lack of refrigeration space, and bags of ice nowhere to be found.

Other than those minor set backs, I'd say the party was smashing success. And I'm very fortunate that a third talented female cook came to lend a helping hand on the big day. And she was not injured, tired, or stressed. She was perky, proffessional, and a big, big help. A life saver really.

So what did we injured cooks conjure up for the party? That's really the important part. Not all the pain and suffering that went into it. Because no one wants to eat an appetizer of tears.

We made some really fantastic stuff – all bite sized. And despite our physical ailments we had a great time doing it.

The biggest hit was an appetizer that I wasn't sure would work out or not. It was a crab & mango salad tossed with an apple cilantro vinaigrette served in a little apple crisp cup. These little apple cups just dissolved in the mouth magically.

Other hits were the warm apricots stuffed with walnuts and blue cheese and wrapped with thin country ham and the steamed mussels served cold topped with cucumber, red onion, and mint relish with a splash of ponzu sauce and a tiny red hot chili pepper slice.

I wish I had taken pictures of everything, especially the beautiful fruit plate my friend made. I asked her to come up with a fruit sculpture and she pretty much laughed at me and then did it anyway. It was sleek and modern. God, I love her.

I've learned a lot about catering from this experience. First of all, it can be more challenging than cooking in a restaurant because you are responsible for everything that goes into the dish, not just one part of it, and the transportation too. Secondly, a professional kitchen makes preparing for large parties much easier than a small galley kitchen. Third, working with talented people is the key to success.

It's all about the team. Just like in theater, you can have the best musical or play at your disposal but without a talented cast to pull it off it's just a script in black and white.

The same goes for any recipe.

And, just like in theater, no matter what happens the show must go on.

(Thank you Jamie and Mattie for all your hard work and help! I hope we can all three work together again soon. And a big thank you to our client who made all this learning possible and allowed us to be creative in ways that we rarely get to do in a restaurant. It was a fantastic experience for all us. )

Life On Board A French Frigate

Working in a French kitchen is like sailing on a French frigate in the 18th century heading out to war. Our code, work hours, and skills are more in line with the navy, than a bunch of tatooed swash buckling cons.

Remember, I said 'frigate'. You know, one of those ol' wind powered wooden fighting yachts with square sails and canons? Not Battlestar Galactica.

It's France, not Mars, after all. And we don't have nuclear technology aboard ship, we're still pulling ropes and hoisting sails with blistered hands and feet wrapped in toe holds. In fact sometimes I think we're still navigating by the stars.

Nonetheless, we gracefully sail onward.

Growing up in the French kitchen is a tough life. Teens sign up around the age of 18 and hand over their youth to indentured servitude knowing full well that the hours will be long, the work back breaking and monotonous, the pay ridiculously low, the camaraderie hearty, and the staff meals lousy.

They willingly do this. And, I might add, once a student is on this trajectory, it's very hard to jump ship.

What are you going to do if by the age of 24 you realize this is not the career for you? You can't walk the gang plank the way we do in the States between one career and another. No one wants a dishonorable discharge. Students are trained and tracked in one field at a very early age.

And think about this: spending 60 hours a week in a kitchen. Work starts at 8A.M. and goes to 11 P.M. with a short hour and half break in the middle of the day. There's no time to go for a workout, take care of personal stuff, see family, or be with friends. There's no time do anything else but cook and clean.

Is it really any wonder that there are few women in the French cooking brigade? Unless you are bringing your children into the restaurant to cook or can afford day care, kids aren't an option. And, who can afford daycare on a cooks salary?

So the question remains: Why do French kids sign up for this kind of life? I'm still trying to figure this one out. But here's some of the perks to working for a famous French frigate: there is an opportunity to travel to foreign countries as the restaurant expands its empire and there is great honor given to chefs in France.

But I'll tell you life on board the ship can be truly suffocating. There are personality clashes, jealousy issues, cultural differences, language barriers, behavioral problems, and more. And all this gets blown up under a microscope because there is just no escaping. Thank God for le weekend or we'd all be court marshaled. Adults included.

Funny enough as much as we drive each other crazy, when the weekend does roll around, we all go out together and drink ourselves silly.

Well what else would you expect from a bunch of sailors?

It goes without saying that the captains are militant instilling fear while demanding perfection. But doing so only to keep the ship afloat, on course, the kids in check, and ready for battle twice daily. And when the lunch battle is over, after the deck is scrubbed down and casualties accounted for, everyone breathes a deep sigh of relief and relaxes for an hour or so before the dinner attack begins.

It is during these battle times that the ship comes together as one. Everyone has a job to do and everyone knows what it is. There is not a lot of thinking going on, just a lot of executing. In other words, we don't always know what battle we're fighting, we just know that its war and we have to rely on each other to win.

I have been asked before why it is that the Grand Chefs of France don't cook anymore. Why do they just stand around? And I think it's for the same reason that Captains don't reef sails.

First of all, they've already done that for twenty years or more. The muscle memory of cooking is ingrained into every inch of their bodies. Second, they keep a constant look out over every dish that goes out. Third, they need to drive the team.

And I truly love this part of the battle. All the call and response that goes on makes me feel like we're all pulling oars at the same time. Like we're really getting somewhere fast. Without this, it would be a miracle if even one table got their food at the same time.

The chefs call out the complete orders and the whole staff responds, "Oui Monsieur!" loud and strong to acknowledge the command.

If some one doesn't respond, then they get in trouble. Sometimes they have to scrub the deck after the service, which sucks. Especially when you're already exhausted.

Perhaps you're thinking that this is not a crime worthy of punishment, but really it is. The whole restaurant relies on verbal commands – no computer, no written down anything.

It is very, very easy to be concentrating so hard on what you're cooking that you don't hear the next order. Responding to the order is supposed to ensure that you've registered it.

For example, if the fish station is ready to serve up a juicy piece of turbot, and the meat station hasn't even begun cooking the roasted veal chop then not only is the client going to be waiting a long time, but the fish will have to be thrown out and another fillet cooked. This costs the restaurant money.

Waste in a restaurant is often what makes it or breaks it. We don't waste anything.

But I'll tell you, once you've been punished once, you're less likely to make that same mistake twice. It's a tough way to learn, but at least we don't tie sailors to the mast and give lashings. (Although, sometimes I think this might work better.)

And no, I've never seen anyone picked up by the scruff of their neck and thrown against the wall or anything like that.

Well, once, but it was more of a peer to peer "discussion". There were no officers involved. And I suppose the young man had it coming. It didn't hurt him – just knocked the wind out of sails a little and shaped him up real fast. Growing up in the kitchen, you fall into line, or you fall off the ship.

The teasing can be relentless. One evening an apprentice started crying at the end of a dinner service. These apprentices are young, mostly 16 years old, and still in trade school. Yet, they work 12 -14 hours a day, just like the rest of us and alternate between weeks on and off for school.

I asked him if he was okay, in fear that maybe he was injured. But he just said he was exhausted and couldn't stop the tears. And believe me, we've all been there before. The next day, all the other young guys asked him "What's the matter Arnaud, you tired?" "Did you sleep well?".

This went on for a full month. He sucked it up, laughed at it, and never said he was tired again. Lesson learned.

I get teased about my chef's clothes as well as my hair styles and make-up. We wear our own jackets and cooks pants and mine are designer. Excuse me, but I am a woman and I like to wear chef's clothes that fit my figure.

I am not square head to toe and my chef's gear is designed by a woman in San Francisco who knows how to cut cloth for female cooks. I hear a lot of "What are you wearing today? Gucci?" to which there is really no reply but a smile or a quick fashion turn.

It's all in fun, but lets just say that no one and nothing goes unnoticed. When I cut my bangs, I heard about for a week (it did look terrible). When I braided my hair, a slew of jokes I don't even want to understand got cycled about. The last time I changed my perfume one of the servers called me on it. There's just no escaping! Aaaaaaaaaaarrrgggghhh!

But, I think for all of our squabbles, there is a sense of family that can't be beat. It's why I've never even considered being a personal chef or anything like that. I love the team aspect of cooking. I like mentoring and being mentored. And I love the work.

The funny part about it, is the whole time you're on the ship you're thinking of how much you want to get off of it. And then when you get off, you can't stop thinking how much you want to get back on.

That's life on board a French frigate.

Tres Soigne

The expression "Très Soigné" is a staple in the French kitchen. Or in any professional kitchen for that matter. Even Marcel tossed it around on the second series of Top Chef.

"Très Soigné" translated means "very neat".

To me it normally sets off the alarm that the President is coming in, or the owner of Ferrari is dining privately, or the beautiful Queen of Sweden has arrived, or the Michelin Guide Director is lunching with friends (everyone knows the Director since he eats out regularly around town).

And, it also means: if that plate you're hunched over and trying to finish is not absolutely perfect, you're dead.

Not that I've actually seen anyone murdered in the kitchen, but I've certainly witnessed my fair share of deflated egos.

After I hear the order "Très soigné!" called out and all of us respond "Oui Monsieur!" to acknowledge the command, I peek at the reservations list to see if I might have heard of the person. Mostly I find it's an unknown journalist (to me, that is), but sometimes it's some one world renowned – this definitely gets me excited.

The funny part of this command, "très soignè", is that it really isn't necessary. Everything we make is très soigné. It's not because you are a tourist from Arkansas that your food will be any less beautiful or the servers any less attentive. We don't give bad portions to the Americans and beautiful portions to the French. It's not because you arrived in a Gap suit and left the Channel dress hanging in the closet, that the food will be inedible.

No, every pate is pristine and every plate is watched over by three executive chefs before the servers carry them away on silver plated trays.

Nonetheless, what this command really does is send everyone in the kitchen into a heightened state of awareness because, no one wants to be the person who messed up.

But, there's something that gets my adrenaline moving even more than when I hear "très soignè" bellowed out by the executive chef. It's when I check the reservations list, or walk through the dining room before service begins, and I see single reservations or a table set for one person. I always make a point to memorize that table.

Why? Because single reservations are possibly the Michelin scouts coming in to dine under assumed names.

I know that many people (especially in the Bay Area, and rightly so) have their doubts about the Michelin Guide. But, we live by it here in Paris. And, in a way, it ensures that all people are treated "très soignè" whether the order is called out or not.

The critics mostly come alone, but it's rumored that they dine with other critics too, just to ensure that no one suspects anything. And, they sometimes come in more than once to be absolutely positive that the experience was the same.

In a country where the customer is always wrong, the Michelin Guide sets the bar, and those restaurants that wish to be successful need to climb above it. Far above it.

Of course, to us Americans, where the customer is always right and our competitive culture weeds out the worst, this notion is bizarre. Don't you want my business? Don't you want me to come back here again? Don't you want a nice generous tip and great write-up on my blog?

Tant pis! However if you go to a Michelin stared restaurant you will be sure to have outstanding food and service because once the restaurant has earned its "macarons" the idea of loosing any of them can lead to a significant cut in business (example: Tour d'Argent) or even worse, suicide in the case of the outstanding and widely loved chef, Bernard Loiseau (read "The Perfectionist : Life and Death in Haute Cuisine" (Rudolph Chelminski).

Or if you're just a lowly cook like me, it can mean your job. I'm just assuming that of course, I've never seen any of the cooks fired in the kitchen because I've never seen anyone make an earth shattering mistake. I certainly don't want to be the first!

And we've never lost any stars, why would we? The food is outstanding, the cooks are professionals, and the wait staff have trained in universities in the art of how to serve people properly.

But, you can be sure that I put an extra "très" in the phrase "très soigné" when I hear it called out or see that table for one.

And I might add, I always show a little extra love when I know an American is dining in the restaurant – hey, I know how much the exchange rate hurts right now – and I want at least one of the restaurants you eat at in Paris to be truly worth it.

Oysters: How to Shuck 'Em

There is a long stomach wrenching story that goes along with this video. I'm not sure if I should tell you, but I will anyway.

First, watch the video (4 minutes). It's the first part of two videos (the second on how to beignet oysters coming next week). I filmed it myself so you'll have to excuse the low lighting and the unintentional body shots. I got a little carried away with the Brittney Spears opening too. No regrets, oysters are an aphrodisiac after all... or are they?

I bought a box of 50 oysters on Sunday (my day off) for this video and throughout the evening while I shucked them and dipped them in batter to beignet, I ate about half raw and deep fried.

Monday rolled around and I met some friends that were visiting from San Francisco and the whole day I just felt groggy. I kept thinking it must be fatigue from cooking double shifts each day day. I felt so sleepy that I had to cut our date short.

Tuesday morning I returned to work at 8AM and felt like a tractor had run over me. Looking for a shred of sympathy, I told another cook: "You know I feel really tired, I don't feel so good". He responded: "You don't come to cook at a restaurant like this to be tired."

Well, no shit sherlock.

Right before our afternoon service I could feel my intestines rolling around and I knew something was wrong. Then came the sensation that I was being knifed repeatedly in the lower gut. It came and went throughout the lunch service but I managed to withstand it.

I should say, I managed to withstand it while totally messing up every order on the planet. I heard more than my fair share of, "Ah Amy, c'est quoi ça?" (Ah Amy, what is that?) It's really hard to hear all the long menus coming in when you're doubled over in pain. And you know we do everything verbally. Everything has to be memorized – no point of sale system – so you've got to listen and be sharp. I made it through the dinner service, but just barely.

I came home and slept and returned Thursday morning to work. This time the knifing in my stomach returned accompanied with some terrible side effects. Everything started coming out of me. I mean everything and everywhere. I felt like some one was taking my intestines and tying them in knots.

Now you have to understand that when you cook in a restaurant you don't get sick. It just doesn't happen. If you are truly sick then you better have pnemonia or the plague or something incurable. So I was back and forth to the toliet praying that my body would soon finish evacuating itself before the lunch service began trying not to make to big an issue of it.

Of course no one even asked if I was okay. They just kind of looked at me like maybe I drank too much or something the night before. I know I'm older, a woman, and American but, if some one is really sick don't you think you're going to ask if the obvious: Are you alright?

Thankfully one of the excutive chefs took interest in my well-being and asked if I was okay and offered to get me some medecin. I explained in my best French/American sign language that everything was coming out of me. "Tu as le Gatro" he told me.

I find this name for malady Gastrointestinal really funny because in Paris gastronomical restaurants are nicknamed "Gastros" as opposed to "Bistros". So yes, I had le Gastro while I was working at un Gastro. (no fault but my own though, they were my oysters)

The ever-kind chef, brought me back pills to stop me up and they worked. I managed to pull off another day of two services, lunch and dinner, thanks to the pills and basically slogged my way through Friday. However, I found out later that when you have "gastro" you're not supposed to take these pills while you're body is trying to rid itself of problem. It only prolongs the pain. Which it did. Enough said.

So now I'm okay. And what I've come to conclude is that I think I must be allergic to oysters. I always seem get sick when I eat more than three or four.

But honestly, I do love them. And I love to pop them open and eat them raw straight from the ocean with just a squeeze of lemon. I only wish that my stomach would be more supportive of this habit.

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