Ms. Glaze's Pommes d'Amour

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.

Technorati Tags: how to shuck oysters, oysters, video

Dans Le Jus

French Expression: dans le jus

Translation: In the juice

Every kitchen has expressions for when things are going really really badly. In American kitchens we often say "in the weeds". But in France it's: dans le jus.

During the service there sometimes arrives a moment where you have tons of orders to fill all at the same time. This is normal. If the front of the house has booked the whole restaurant for 8:00 P.M. then there is really no way to get around it.

But in America we have this little thing called a COMPUTER where servers can input the orders and then the entire menu pops at each individual station through a little ticket machine. Each course is fired off via COMPUTER when it's time to plate the next course. You post your little tickets up at your station and then fill them in the order they arrive unless the executive chef wants to go ahead with a different table first.

If you're a visual learner, like me, then you'll appreciate being able to see your orders.

But we don't do that in France. We do everything verbally. The orders come in (up to 8 courses) and you must memorize it on the spot. We often seat 80 people a night so imagine memorizing that many orders. When a long order comes in you have to know what the dish ahead of yours is to be sure to get your plate prepared and ready to go. And mind you, one station could possibly have several different courses to fulfill for one table.

Are you following me here? Because I'm confusing myself already.

So there's this horrifying moment when one is dans le jus when the chef starts calling out complete menus as well as courses to be finished at the same time. (my French is remedial remember) and you're trying to finish one plate when another one has to go out before it and then another order comes in and you've already forgotten it because you were struggling to just get something to the pass.

Do you see where I"m heading?

And your whole station looks like a tornado swept through it. Shit everywhere. Plates half finished. And you've forgotten the rest of the orders that just came in. Did I mention: forgotten the orders that just came in?

Now, I am doubly dans le jus because I can't count. If you want to be a chef, learn how to count in every language in the universe, because it will make life easier. The French word for 'six' which is also spelled the same in French but pronounced: seece, sounds awfully close to the French word for 'ten' which is 'dix', prounounced: deece. Oh, and 'eight' is 'huit' in French pronounced: wheet.

Seece, deece, wheet.

Need I say more?

But I am dans le jus in more ways than one. I'm training with another Chef de Partie so I can take his station and he can move to another one and a commis (cook) who both have more experience than me. Not in everything of course, but certainly when it comes to vegetables. Give me a rack of lamb, a chicken, a pigeon, a rabbit, a baby boar or any other feathered or fury critter and I'll school you in preparation, but show me a carrot and I haven't the faintest idea what to do with it. (ahem)

So basically right now, everyone thinks I'm stupid. No one has confidence in me. And I might as well be invisible because I don't speak French. It takes me twice as long to understand. Twice as long to prepare everything. Twice as long to re-prepare everything because I've done it wrong the first time.

DANS LE JUS!

It occured to me the other day just how behind I am in the French system of educating cooks, when I looked over to see a 17 year old boy chopping mushrooms razor thin for duxelles at a speed and accuracy that would take me years to master. I thought to myself: by the time he's my age he will be light years ahead. Talk about learning curve.

Dans le jus, dans le jus, dans le jus.

But you know what? I have have something they don't have. I have tons of world experience. I have not lived my whole life inside a kitchen. I'm a trained actor, credentialed teacher, and an accomplished cook. And, I know some day when I have my own restaurant I will use everything that I have learned here, but I will add my creativity and my own personality in a way that represents my background.

I can only say right now, that I am thankful that the chefs have faith in me. It's not exactly normal to be a thirty-something, still learning, female cook in this environment. And, I hope to live up to their expectations. I will live up to their expectations.

In the meantime I intend to take up swimming lessons so I can paddle my way out of this juice.

Technorati Tags: 3-star restaurant, Chef, chef de parti

The Sharper Your Knives?

So much for Semper Fi do or die!

I'm spending my first day at my new position as Chef de Partie staring at the ceiling, flat on my back, sick in bed. How do you like them apples? This is such a bad joke, it's not even worthy of a three tap drum roll.

Despite the onset of ma crève yesterday I ironed my chef's jacket and my chef's pants too laying them aside for a quick morning exit. I even trekked out in the rain to the 14th arrondissement to get all my knives sharpened.

My knife guy does everyone's couteaux in Paris including the staff at Hotel Crillon and Le Meurice. He grinds many a galley cook's knives to razor sharp precision – and he'll be happy to do yours too. (address at the bottom of post). It's a lot of fun to see his enormous five foot grinding wheel turning while he holds the blades against it, sparks flying everywhere.

Every time I go he tells me to be careful with my freshly sharpened knives. And every time without fail I slice one of my ten doigts without even noticing it. That's how crazy sharp they are. You don't know you're cut until blood gushes everywhere and you realize it's your blood that's making the mess. The nice thing about smooth cuts (as opposed to cuts from serrated knives) is that you really don't even feel them. Until you start cooking...

I had my first chef's knife professionally sharpened twelve years ago while working at Ristorante Ecco in San Francisco. I was so darned proud of that knife. It was a beautiful enormous Wüsthof chef's knife (Global who?) I didn't have a satchel of knives like other cooks, just had that one German workhorse and at a whopping $64, it was all I could afford. In hindsight it was too long and heavy for me, but I didn't care. I just loved the weight of it in my hand and the power it wielded.

After a month at the Garde Manger station my trusty steed began to dull past the point of a sharpening rod's aid. Since everyone's knives were dull he Head Chef, Wendy, called the knife man to come in and grind all of our blades. She warned me that my knife would be very, very sharp afterwards.

Yeah, okay, thanks for the tip Chef.

Slicing beefy red tomatoes horizontally into rounds, I noticed a burgundy color juice running all over the cutting board. I thought it was the tomato. Nope, it was my finger squirting blood everywhere. I unknowingly swiped the inside of my left index finger, which was holding the tomato steady, with my right hand and the tip of my knife across the inside bone joint down to my finger's base.

I should have gone to the hospital for stitches right then and there. The cut was deep tearing across the bleeding wouldn't stop. Wendy came over with wads of papers towels holding them around my finger applying pressure in between my deep gulps for air. We bandaged it tightly and put a finger condom on it. The clock struck 6 – time for dinner service to start.

The restaurant turned out 60 covers a night, with a bare bones kitchen brigade of four cooks. There were no stagiers or apprentis dying to take over and prove their worth. There was no Grand Chef standing at the pass cleaning plates and calling out orders to step in. The Head Chef was also the meat & fish cook and the Sous Chef was also the pasta & vegetable cook. I was the garde manger and pastry cook and there was one pizza guy. And that was that.

I made some beautiful insalatas at Ristorante Ecco: spicy rocket salad with sweet fennel ribbons, bitter endive, peppery radicccio and sliced pears tossed in a tart champagne vinaigrette and garnished with a crisp lacy cheese wafer. Or, my favorite, the baby spinach salad with roasted beets (gold, pink, and crimson) and smoked trout mixed with an aged balsamic dressing. Not to mention our signature Ceasar salad and the butter lettuce with tarragon starter.

But, mixing those salads required the use of bare hands. Each ingredient was dressed separately and then added artistically together on the plate. And plastic gloves weren't very popular back then – they certainly weren't practical in the kitchen in any case. Think about it, you would have to change your gloves every time the different beets were dressed in order to keep the juice from staining the shaved fennel or pears. Who has time for that nonsense?

Orders flew in like witches gathering for winter solstice and I was out of my mind trying to get cold entrées finished in time before the dessert orders started up. Whipping together salads in record speed, I felt my index finger bitterly stinging. I looked down in horror to discover that both the bandaid and the finger condom were missing.

Oh fuhhhhhhhhhh-dge.

Waitresses grabbed salads off the ledge of my station before I had a chance to delicately poke through them. And more servers ran back yelling: "Where's table 5? Where's table 7?".

I frantically turned back to the salads I was preparing searching for any remnants of plastic, but none was to be found. I spent that whole night in fear that sooner or later a customer was going to chew my bloody bandages, report it to the server, who in turn would tell the head chef, who would then fire me on the spot.

I waited.

Luckily for me nothing happened. I would hate to think that a client ate the bandage and the finger condom. I dunno, maybe they mistook it for calamari? It must have been awfully chewy. Hopefully it magically found its way to the garbage can, but I still can't be positive. My finger eventually healed although it took a good long month and I still have the fine white scar to remind me. But, at least it's a neat bulging line and not some jagged saber tooth monstrosity.

Don't worry, that was a good long time ago and one of my first real cooking jobs. I would never do that to your food today. Never!

So, tomorrow I intend to start my new position assuming my fever comes down, my throat isn't blistery, and my head stops threatening to explode. Luckily for me, they only laughed when I called at 7 A.M. to say "I'm sick". They told me not to worry and that my post will still be waiting for me.

Did you want that knife guy's address in Paris?

Coutellerie D'Allésia
Affutage & Reargenture
161 Rue D'Alésia
Paris, 75014
Metro: Plaisance, line 13
Tel: 01 45 42 39 67 (you must call in advance to make sure he's not on assignment)

P.S. If you tell him that "Amy the American" sent you he'll be happy. I don't know if it will get you a discount, but I told him I'd mention him on my website. He asked me to send my friends ;-)

Technorati Tags: knives, paris, puppy, sharpened

Chef de Partie

I want to throw up. I want to toss myself into the toxic waters of the Seine or walk into a big black endless hole or just simply throw up. I've been given the sand swallowing promotion of Chef de Partie.

Under normal circumstances this would be very exciting. If I was back in the U.S. I would be shaking up champagne bottles. But here, in Paris, where students start careers in cooking at the age of fourteen and pass their entire lives in clastrophobic kitchens, this is like being handed ten sacks of flour and ordered to run a marathon without having trained properly.

For my age it is a good title. I am old enough to take the responsibility. I know how to run a team and work with people. I'm fun (occasionally). I have creative ideas. And I have trained and proven my love of hard work and French cuisine. But lets face it, my French is remedial. I have problems understanding rapid fire orders in French and I haven't done my time, so to speak, as many of these derserving French cooks have. Ah well, leave it to the crazy American to stir up the pot.

When I found out my new position today, I could only reply: êtes-vous sûr ? (Are you sure?) I was cautioned that it would be a lot of responsibility, and indeed it will be.

In America we toss around the word 'chef' like a used towel, but in France the word strictly translates as 'boss'. To be a Chef de Partie is to be the boss of a part. In essence this postition will make me responsible for one station in the kitchen. And it is still miles in distance and training from sous chef or executive chef. So don't think I'm walking around with a swollen head or anything because I'm not. I'm scared.

You know how sometimes you think you really want something and then all of a sudden you get it and you just want to run away? Well, that's me right now.

Basically this title will mean that if anything goes wrong (as it surely will during my tenure) then I will be the one to catch hell. Not the commis, not the stagiers, not the apprentis – me. It also goes without saying that my role will be to insure all food is accounted for, properly prepared, beautifully plated, and expertly cleaned up at the end of each service twice a day at my station.

I've heard new cooks in America call themselves "chef" just after graduating from cooking school, and at one point I wrote "American Chef" under my self-description on this blog. I considered myself one because I had worked in restaurants, taught high school cooking classes, and attended cooking school (in that order strangely enough).

Oh, I was so wrong. In the French world of cuisine 'chef' is given with humbling respect. When I call my boss 'chef' in the kitchen, it's because he's cooked over thirty-two years and demanded perfection each day of his career. It denotes more than some one who can carry around a satchel of knives or pay for a fancy cooking school education. It means you understand food and the business of food with every muscle of your body.

That is why the grand chefs of France are so highly regarded. Because everybody in the business knows how long and hard they have worked to achieve success. The road to French chefdom is not paved with glitz and glamour but with fourteen hour work days two shifts a day, little pay, and ruthless critics tearing you down or catapulting you forward.

And I'm worried about being a measly Chef de Partie! I can't imagine how it must feel to run a whole kitchen, feed over 150 clients a day, retain three Michelin stars, and open restaurants all over the world, simultaneously. Mon Dieu, the responsibility!!!

For now, I'm only a cook. And being a Chef de Partie is thankfully just that: a cook with a ton of responsibilty. But, I can finally say – jokingly at least – that I am a tiny chef in France.

Technorati Tags: chef de parti

How to Talk Like a French Chef

I’m not learning the kind of French I intended to.

The other night on one of my days off, I ordered a cocktail at an upscale restaurant that I had never heard of before. It was a mixture of rum and spirits with fruit juice. It sounded interesting but a little too sweet for my taste. I asked the server if it was dégueulasse (deh-guh-lass), which I thought meant 'gross'.

I hear it all the time in the kitchen and I just assumed it meant bad or unsavory. I just wanted to know if the cocktail was good! I really upset the server who stormed away after correcting my French and telling me never to use that word in public. How was I supposed to know? The word means 'filthy'.

My French friends at the table burst out laughing after the server vanished and then they explained the word to me. They thought my little cloquial version of ‘gross’ was funny. But there I was totally in the dark wondering why I had just caused such a reaction to the extent that the server was replaced by another young man.

And then there’s the word ‘putain’ (poo-tan) which means ‘whore’. Every time some one messes up a dish in the kichen they exclaim, “Oh putain!”. I thought the word meant ‘oops!’ or 'oh brother!'. I hear the word constantly throughout the day so it’s just become part of my vocabulary. If I drop something on the floor I say, “Oh putain.” If the chefs are yelling at me I say, “Oh putain” and put my head down and work faster. If some one is being a jerk I say, “Oh putain” in exasperation and walk way.

But I don’t think I was supposed to use it on the crowded the metro during rush hour when I dropped my cell phone on the floor. Because when I exclaimed, “oh putain” and then crouched down to look for my phone in between people grabbing onto bars for balance I caused some funny stares, a few giggles, and some downright mean looks.

So now you have two words you can put together into a sentence. Here’s how the chef’s do it in the kitchen: Oh putain! Ça c’est dégueulasse! (oh whore! That’s filthy!)

But wait there’s more. Oh yes, there’s a lot more bad words in the kitchen and I haven’t even begun to really get down and dirty. But first let me fill you in on the obligatory inbetween words that will no doubt pair with the spicier bad ones. Qu'est-ce que c'est ça? (keh-skuh-say-sah) literarlly translated means ‘what is that there?’. This is one of my Chef's favorite phrases and he has a way of putting the fear of God into you just with that one rhetorical question.

If you’re being asked ‘what is that there?’ by the Chef, then you already know what is there. You know it is something totally inedible that is an embarrassment to the reputation of the restaurant. God forbid, the Michelin reviewers should walk in while you're serving that plate of shit. Normally the sentence is accompanied with the rolling of eyes and an outstretched finger pointing directly to the merde that you have just created.

So here’s the new phrase altogether now: Oh putain! Qu'est-ce que c'est ça? Ça c’est dégueulasse (Oh whore! What is that there? That’s filthy!)

I know you know the French word merde that I mentioned above. Everyone in the world knows that word. It’s a funny little word for dog doo isn’t it? But there’s another way of twisting it into something a little less cutesy. C’est de la merde is like dégueulasse but means 'it’s of the shit’ or 'it's a plie of crap'. Again, this phrase is normally accompanied with the obligatory rolling of the eyes and outstretched finger pointing to the dog doo you’ve just plated for some famous client. It can be tagged on behind the phrase ça c’est dégueulasse for added punctuation.

In other words, if you didn’t understand (because you're an idiot) that what you slaved over for five hours to create is disgusting, you will certainly get it through your thick skull that it's a pile of poop.

Hallelluja! Now we’re really getting somewhere: Oh putain! Qu'est-ce que c'est? QU'EST-CE C'EST ÇA? Ça c’est dégueulasse – c’est de la merde. (Oh whore! What is that there? WHAT IS THAT THERE? That’s filthy – it’s a pile of crap!)

Now remember that cooking in a French kitchen is like being in the military. Not only is the fact that you messed up your roti de veau (roasted veal) pointed out for the whole staff to witness, but also the fact that you’re a butt hole.

Well you’ve got to be an butt hole if you’ve just messed up something as basic as roti de veau right? And the chef’s also have to insure you clearly understand the pecking order. If you screwed the pooch on the veal then you are definitely in the merde pile. The word for butt hole is conard (coh-nard) or if you’re a female butt hole its connasse (coh-nass). Isn’t that nice and undiscrimating of the French? How kind of them to give women their own feminie version of the word. I think the female version sounds much prettier.

And of course if you’re a gros connard, then you’re a ‘big butt hole’. Now before we put the whole new sentence together I’d like to introduce one last phrase, fait chier (fay-shay), which is truly grotesque. It means ‘to take a poo’, but really it is more equivalent to our “oh f&*k” American expression. This expression can be used in the same way, “Oh putain” is used, but normally expresses a higher degree of agitation.

So here it is, the grande finale, the final sentence that will truly enable you to call it like it is in a 3-star French kitchen: Oh putain! Fait chier! Conard, qu'est-ce c’est ça? QU'EST-CE C'EST ÇA? Ça c’est dégueulasse – c’est de la merde! Oh putain. (Oh whore! Oh f*&k! Butt hole, what is that there? WHAT IS THAT THERE? That’s filthy – it’s a pile of crap! Oh whorrrrre!)

And what do you answer back when you hear this lovely sentence breathed inches from your face by a screaming, sweaty, red faced French chef that has pulsing veins bulging out from his neck?

Oui chef! (yes, chef)

Technorati Tags: French swear words, merde

Ratatouille Preview!

I just came back from viewing the Paris preview for Pixar's Ratatouille at Planet Hollywood on the Champs Élysées! Whooo-oooo!!!! C'est Adorable!

Many people have emailed me about the connection between Guy Savoy and the movie. I had no idea that the movie had anything to do with Monsieur Savoy until recently! So here's the scoop: the Pixar crew came to the restaurant four years ago to study how cooks work in a 3-star kitchen. They took detailed notes on the layout of the kitchen and the social interactions. They also went and visited other famous French kitchens including Procope, Tour d'Argent, Hélène Darroze, Tailevent, et Chez Michel.

Monsieur Guy Savoy has a small part in the French version of the film as a client ordering foie gras. It was funny to hear his familiar voice but see such a different character on the screen. Nonetheless, we applauded his performance. After all, he took his entire staff from his four Parisian restaurants to watch the preview in between lunch and dinner shifts! I'm not back officially at the restaurant yet, but they invited me along anyway. I guess I'm the token American along for the ride.

The movie is fantastic! It is so French – the Pixar team has captured everything that I love about Paris and everything I love about cooking in a restaurant in Paris. The ending for me was a little bitter sweet, only because I don't want to leave this city and I know some day I will have to. The movie sums up why I love it here. You'll have to see it for yourself to understand...

Technorati Tags: Guy Savoy, preview, ratatouille

Back To Work

People keep asking me when I'm going back to work. I've been asking myself that same question. My lawyers have been asking the French government that question too. But now it seems that there is a ray of sunshine. It will take one month and then I'm back cooking away. This is great news for me, except that the restaurant will be closed for July and August so I have a little more waiting to do.

However, I've become accustomed to not working. I take hour long runs through the Bois de Boulougne everyday. I sip coffee after my runs at the lake in the park and chat with other runners. I stare out and ponder what I might blog about – it's a perpetual daydream!

I'm constantly thinking up new recipes and seeking out the freshest ingredients in the farmer's markets to try out my latest obsession. Sometimes they work and sometimes they don't, but just having the time to try them out is a rarity. Cooking in a restaurant seldom provides the time to think about personal style and recipes. Most of the time I find I'm so focused on getting prepared and then cooking that I don't have time to discover my own style. Just for fun this week I've bought an ice cream maker, a pasta mill, and a deep fryer so I can experiment with things I'm not so familiar with.

Aside from my newfound creativiy, my fingernails have grown extra long and I take the time to polish them. The scars on my hands have started to blend in and I don't have dark circles under my eyes anymore. I've lost weight from running – or at least the beefy arms and thighs that come from lifting heavy pots and pan and running up several slights of stairs throughout the day. Lookin' good!!!

Really, I'm living this fantasy right now and all I want to do is be back in the kitchen slaving away, over a hot stove for next to no money, with people that yell and criticize, in work conditions that only insane people would enjoy.

Well, that's it. I must be insane.

Sometimes I only have these revelations when I'm writing. Hence the need to continue my blog therapy program.

I did not get the Top Chef spot, but I did make it on the casting director's radar and received personal email from her. She was very supportive which surprised me – I guess I figured she'd be more appathetic. It looks like they've taken the sous chef, Hung, from the Guy Savoy Las Vegas restaurant instead of me. The Top Chef film crew came to test him in the kitchen a week before I arrived in Las Vegas to cook, so I missed my chances. However, she did say she wanted to keep my email for the next round. We'll see...

I'm enjoying making my own cooking videos at home. It's fun to combine my two passions: theater and cooking. Then I can yell at my husband too when he messes up the lighting, or my close-up doesn't look good, or he's missed filming some part of the preparation that I can't repeat. Yes, in my own kitchen, I am my own diva, and I like that. He doesn't like that too much, but he gets to eat the results at the end and I've yet to hear a complaint!

For the next two months I plan to chase Moulins (wind mills) through France, drink wine, run, blog, make videos, visit back home, attend my sister's wedding, sail in Croatia, bicycle in Alsace, and cook for private parties and fundraisers in Paris and San Francisco.

It's amazing at how one can fill up the calendar without a real job! I've never been busier!!! Then come September it's back to the normal 3-Star grind.

Prada For Poulet

When I first started cooking at the meat station I couldn’t believe that we had chicken on the menu. “Chicken? We have chicken on the menu? This is a 3-star Parisian restaurant and we’re serving chicken?” I finally asked my boss why a restaurant voted 8th best in the world would stoop so low as to serve chicken and why at such an outrageous price of fifty euros a pop.

“Tu as déjà goutée?” (Have you tasted it?).

“Non, je n’aime pas le poulet.” (No, I’m not a chicken fan.)

“Fais la papillote maitenant.” (Make the chicken cooked in a pocket now.)

“Non, je ne peus pas, j’ai beaucoup trop de chose a faire.” (No, I can’t, I have too many other things to do…)

“Maintenant!’ (Now!)

“Oui, chef.” (Yes, chef.)

So I made the stupid chicken and grumped the whole way through it. Meanwhile my boss stood cross-armed inspecting every last detail from the way I butchered the bird to the cooking of it. To be scrutinized by a brooding French chef, is to understand fear. French chefs are not known for coddling their subordinates.

With a mixture of adrenaline and angst pumping through my veins, I hacked the neck off with my cleaver and defiantly chucked it into the trash can, cut off the wing tips, removed the wishbone, and portioned the darned thing quicker than a bat out of hell. He studied my chicken carcass carefully to make sure that I had taken off the breast correctly and removed the legs along with the special back divets that once King Louis IV coveted as his favorite part. I passed the test.

After my portioning was deemed acceptable, then came the toughest part: la cuisson (the cooking). I put the breast into a pocket of aluminum paper that I carefully folded like an origami letter. Inside the pocket I added a stalk of lemongrass, some legumes, and a few spoonfuls of homemade chicken stalk. I placed the origami papillote in an aluminum dish filled with water on the burner to boil and popped it into an extremely hot oven.

As we waited for the chicken to cook, I continued with other chores while my chef continued to stand cross-armed watching my every move and pointing out my every mistake. This was embarrassing, because frankly, I don’t like to be wrong. Anybody that knows me well knows that I really hate to be wrong. But even more frustrating is that I am wrong probably 80% of the time that I insist I’m right. My chicken debate was no different.

Finally my chef announced: “Essayes!” (Try!) I pulled the chicken breast out of the aluminum and looked at it. Admittedly, it was pretty and glistening a pale ivory innocence. I shuddered a little at having to eat the rubbery skin that wasn’t crispy the way I like it. But, I have learned the hard way, when cooking in a French kitchen with big French chefs, you don’t think you just do as you’re told. “Oui chef” I replied.

And then there was silence as I chewed and swallowed…

“Oh! C’est bon ça” (Oh! It’s good!). I quickly inhaled the remains of the most tender breast I have ever eaten. Yes, my French chef against my will, taught me another thing about food: chicken is good. Sometimes I’m such a Bay Area snob that I think the French are totally outdated when it comes to food, but then again, that could fall into the 80% wrong category.

To end our chicken debate, I humbly thanked my chef for allowing me to eat the fifty euro chicken breast because this is never ever allowed in the kitchen. He replied in his funny sounding English mimicking my California valley-girl accent, “Whatever”. Obviously an expression he’s learned through my responses to his sometimes-querulous orders.

By now, I have plucked, gutted, de-boned, filleted, cooked whole (once for the Michelin guide director), stuffed, sous-vided more chicken than most people will ever eat in a lifetime. In fact, I am sure that if challenged, I could do any of the above blind folded. And from all this chicken handling I can say that in France, chicken is turkey. Well, not literally, but it is served just as ceremonial during the holidays as it is for a weeknight dinner. I know many Americans will probably scoff at the notion of serving a chicken for a special feast but here in France even Le Guide Michelin applauds a properly cooked poulet.

Have you ever eaten Poulet de Bresse? It tastes like it looks – deliciously proud. It arrives daily to the restaurant with head still attached: coxcomb bright red with a whitish brown collar of feathers clean and soft. Around it’s downy neck it boldly boasts a certified necklace, which clearly states the birds’ credentials including place of origin and social security number. Sometimes the chef hangs these medals around my neck, which causes everyone in the kitchen to fall about laughing for reasons I still don’t understand. The birds are juicy, range fed, delicious, and fattened up with some corn and milk during its final weeks. Wait a minute – the necklace – is he saying I’m fat? Oh la la la la.

Poulet de Bresse is also the only poulet in France to have it’s own Appelation Origine Controlée (A.O.C.). This means there are strict laws governing how and where these birds are raised. After thirty-five days exactly, the birds are range fed in a grassy area. This diet is supplemented with cereals and skimmed milk for a specific time. Each chicken must have ten square meters of space and one flock cannot exceed five hundred birds. The last phase of production is completed in ventilated wooden cages that are in a quiet and low-lit location in order to keep the chickens happy and calm. The chickens are caged for at least 8 days and up to 8 weeks. No wonder they’re so expensive!

We also have something else in France that most American supermarkets and restaurants don’t have (yet). We have variety in the type of chicken we purchase. I’m not talking about the breed, although there is that too, but the age and sex of the chicken. For instance farmers raise chapons (castrated roosters) & poulardes (hens) to sell to the restaurants and markets during the winter holidays. These chickens are raised from November to December. We put these birds on the menu in December when Paris is cold and customers come in wanting to eat some holiday novelty. Because they are only raised for a short period of time each year every French man and woman knows to order them quickly.

Once we run out of these special birds at the restaurant, we run out. No more are ordered and they can only be served to a table of four or more because we cook them whole and serve them whole to be carved tableside by one of the highly trained servers. In fact when the Michelin Guide came into eat (there were five of them), we cooked up a large chapon. The trick in cooking them whole is to make sure the skin evenly browns and remains un-cracked or torn. This is harder than it might appear. Especially when you’re also cooking for sixty other tables with multiple course meals and there are only two ovens.

I will never forget cooking these whole birds throughout December and watching waiters and chefs bicker over any extra tasty bits as the carcasses returned from the floor. It was like watching a sea of pigeons descending on the last grain on earth. There I was, observing the feeding frenzy night after night in total disbelief. “It’s a frickin’ castrated rooster, how can it taste that good?” Once again, I ate my words.

My chef, annoyed that the servers were eating all the good parts that clearly only cooks deserved, put a stop to the mobbing and declared that all chickens would be returned pronto to the meat station after carving. After this declaration the carcasses were returned to us immediately. Only the head chefs and myself would eat the remains – how’s that for pecking order! So I learned that these birds are delicious and different in taste. They are more mature in flavor then the young chickens and yet still juicy. The albufera sauce blended with foie gras that we made special to accompany the birds didn’t hurt the flavor any either. Needless to say, it was impossible for me to resist dunking my tidbits in.

I know there are many people out there (including myself and my friend George) that think chickens are dirty birds. From experience with my Grandma’s chicken coup I can say they are mean nasty little devils that deserve to be spit roasted. I’ve never thought twice about butchering chickens.

However, the chickens here in France seem to have some kind of elegance that our American one’s do not. I could be overly romanticizing but it’s hard not to when you live in a city of unparalleled fashion. Prada for Poulet! Seriously, some restaurants actually serve the chicken necklace alongside the dish to prove its authenticity. You’d think it was a Cartier gold chain or something.

Well, I suppose for the French, it practically is. At least they have their priorities straight: range fed chickens brought up in humane conditions taste better and are worth paying for. And also: age and gender don’t matter (it’s the mileage baby, it’s the mileage). These last two statements, I think, would go in the 20% right category.

Technorati Tags: 3-star restaurant, birds, chapon, Chef, chicken, Paris, poularde, poulet