Ms. Glaze's Pommes d'Amour

End of One Line: Hot Appetizers

The executive chef pulls me into his office Friday before dinner service, tells me to get comfortable, and asks me to take off my hat.

I'm sitting there staring at him wondering if I'm going to get fired. My mind starts playing back the week trying to recall any unforgivable errors.

I take my hat off and rest it on his desk.

Normally, when pulled into his office I sit in a chair and he sits on his desk towering and totally intimidating the living daylights out of me. He's a big guy with football shoulders and sharp blue eyes that can change instantly from humor to hostility.

But this time he takes the only other chair in the office and we sit eye to eye.

Shit, I'm really in trouble this time.

The office is incased in glass within the kitchen, so all other employees can see what's going on even if they can't hear what's going on. I'm quite aware that my body language is communicating what my colleagues can't hear.

So we're sitting eye to eye – merde – this is it and I don't even know what I did. Could it be that I told a cavalier employee to clean his station the other night with words perhaps stronger than recommended in the employee handbook? Did a customer find a crab shell in the new panacotta dish and choke? Am I too slow, too silly, too, too, too....?

"How do you think you're doing right now? Would you say that you have been successful here?"

"Yes chef, I think I really understand the cuisine on a deeper level and my skills have improved greatly. I'm more focused and I enjoy being here everyday – even though every day isn't easy..."

I'm babbling a mile a minute wishing something profound to come out of mouth, instead feeling like every sentence is canned and falling to the floor like bricks dropped from the top of the Empire State building.

"Yes, I would agree with you. You've done very well at veg station, your raviolis and your lobster plates were good at rav station, you know all the positions in garde manger inside and out, you've done fish pass and canape station well. I'd say you have been successful too."

Wait whaaaaaaat?

In the ten months I've worked at this restaurant, this is the first time I've ever heard a serious compliment from the executive chef. Understand that in a 3-Michelin star restaurant 'good' is never 'good enough'.

"I'd like to start you on Morning Hot Apps this Monday."

"Great Chef!"

Most cooks dread this position. It's a lot of work and a lot of responsibility. The position is titled 'Morning Hot Apps' (appetizers) because the cook comes in at the wee hours of the morning to prep mise en place for the day and night, cook family lunch for 50 people, and run the line during service for the veg station and garde manger.

Lunch service is fast and furious often serving one hundred clients in less than 3 hours.

"You know this station is a lot of responsibility. You must show up whether you are sick, injured, or otherwise."

"Yes, Chef, I know."

"However, I do not want you to get stuck at this station. I think you have more value in the evening during the longer service, but you will learn a lot about being a chef from this position and I know that is important to you. This position is no joke, huh?"

"Yes, Chef."

He calls in the executive sous Chef and asks him to join our conversation about the Morning Hot Apps position.

The French executive sous chef in his thick accent sums it up:

"Amy, eets a laaaht ov wurk, hein? Eets naught uhn easee stahsion, tu sais?"

"Oui chef, je sais."

The Executive Chef excuses me from his office to go begin setting up the line and I'm positively glowing. I'm so happy I could burst. And although the compliments could have done that alone and the responsibility is over the top exciting and challenging, I'm also just flat out ready to have a normal life even if it is only for 6 weeks. I haven't seen the sun in God only knows how long.

The shift ends at 4 P.M in the afternoon and includes two days off in a row: Saturday and Sunday. My body could use a good a rest and my social life could use some improvement.

I joke with the executive chef as I'm wiping down the stainless steel on the line:

"Wow, now I'm going to be able to work out in the evening, maybe go on a date, write my blog..."

"Don't get too used it, huh? It's only for 6 weeks and it is hard work, and I want to see you on the entree line after that. This is your life Amy. Everything you want is here."

He smirks viciously and I laugh at the hard truth we all have committed our lives to.

"Really? I didn't know that husbands, babies, and toned abs came from here chef?"

He rolls his eyes, annoyed (or amused?) by my somewhat wry sense of humor.

I continue my scrubbing, and suddenly my heart skips a beat as I realize what I have to prove at this station. The reality settles and I start thinking about family meal and all the dishes we pick-up on the Hot Apps station. It is no joke.

I grab my little black moleskine note pad and start diagramming the 8 dishes that come off the station and all the garnishes and sauces that are included on each:

My jaw drops. I know how to pick- up all the dishes during service, but I've never prepped them before.

BACALAO (salted cod):
1. Salt cod with smoked salt over night. Grill. Flake
2. Sprinkle with brunoised chives and red onion, olive oil, sherry viniagre
3. Make arugula purée
4. Make lemon confit purée
5. Garnish with brunoised tomato confit, preserved lemon chiffonade, parsley, and almonds
6. Make garlic chips (slice garlic on mandoline very thin,blanch garlic slivers, gently fry in oil)
7. Make garlic oil

But really, I'm ready and excited for this position.

The dishes are beautiful and I've never had the opportunity to work with octopus from beginning to end, or make bacalao (salted cod), or prepare scallops that are so alive they are still quivering when sliced. And the sauces and garnishes are worldly drawing upon flavors from Japan, Spain, India, and France.

Now family meal is another kettle of fish.

You are up for scrutiny not only from all the chefs but all your colleagues as well. I enjoyed cooking family meal for the staff at Guy Savoy twice a day and I somehow managed to squeeze in all my mise en place and endure cooking through lunch and dinner service so I'm pretty sure I can manage it.

Although I doubt I'll be cooking veal liver, lamb's brains, tongue, or tripe for my friends at Le Bernardin. Which is a big sigh of relief. There's only so much offal an American girl can stomach.

And even though I haven't posted a recipe on this blog for months (because I simply have no time to cook at home) I do enjoy coming up with my own dishes and using the creative side of my brain that often is on silent mode at work.

If my family meal really sucks, maybe I'll surprise everyone and just order pizza. I hear you can get anything delivered in NYC. Ha!

So all in all, I'm looking forward and cooking forward to the next 6 weeks of Morning Hot Apps. Wish me luck! And feel free to email any fabulous pasta and fish stew dishes that serve masses of people!

Chef's Whites and New Dishes

I don't look my age.

At least I didn't think I looked my age until I caught my reflection in the bathroom on my only 'sit down' break during the day. There it was, staring back at me in the mirror, an unrecognizable face and an emerging small shock of white hair.

You know what I did? I literally turned around to see if some one was behind me. As if I wouldn't notice some one else in the bathroom with me staring into the mirror.

On closer examination I leaned into the mirror and brought my fingers to my white hairs pulling apart my cowlic to count them. The more I searched, the more I found, the more I lost count.

When did I turn this old? How did I not notice this before?

I put my little paper cook's hat back on making sure to cover the intrusion of white and walked back to the kitchen in a state of denial.

"Look, look at this!" removing my hat slightly so only my girlfriend could see, I pointed to the spot .

"What? What am I looking at?!?!"

"My white, hair, do you see it? Do you see it?!?!"

"Oooooo that's kinda sexy, that little streak there."

"Hmmmm, that's one way of looking at it." I said and pulled the hat half way down my forehead again.

I flung myself back into mise en place in the hopes that total concentration would take my mind off my new discovery. Besides, I work in a kitchen where nobody really cares what you look like as long as you look clean cut. What matters most of all is your skills and your speed and your effeciency and your ability to organize.

Not whether or not you have white hairs sprouting up all over your head.

Then it hit me. I looked down at what I was making. And I blamed it full heartedly: "You, you have given me white hairs."

This is what new dishes do to cooks my age. I suppose it's what unruly teenagers do to parents. They stress them out completely until their hair turns white.

And new dishes are a little like children. They are so beautiful and exciting at first, then they are rebellious and obstinate as you try to include them in the grander scheme of things, and finally they come into their own.

All that frustration and pain just a beautiful memory. (Which is why cooks then create more dishes and, I suppose, parents more children.)

But rolling thinly sliced zucchini around tube shaped curry crab panacotta is a little like threading a very small needle with a vary large piece of yarn. If my fingers were long and thin and not short, swollen, and burned this sushi-like exercise might be enjoyable – even easy, who knows?

In theory the idea of rolling zucchini slices around any stable tube filling should be simple. However, if you want perfect spacing between the green skin and the white flesh of the zucchini with 5 lines of green showing, then this is another feet all together.

In order to achieve this perfection a range in size of zucchini slices must be used. Let me backtrack a little here...

First I slice zucchini very thin on a madolin and salt it heavily to draw out the water. I rinse the salt off and begin laying out a series of slices on my cutting board. The first slice I choose is small, so the two edges of green skin are only an inch apart and no seeds are showing.

Next I sort through the slices to find one that is a little bigger and layer this half way on top of the first slice checking that the green skin edges are all equidistant. This is repeated 4 more times.

After achieving the right spacing I gently place my curry crab panacotta at one end and roll it up. Then I repeat this whole process about 50-60 times.

Now you understand the white hairs?!?!

But making the zucchini rolls is not the only stressful part of the dish, finding a way too cook it so the curry panacotta doesn't melt on the plate before the zucchini has a chance to get hot is another dilemma.

The curry powder we make is yellow in color. And If the curry crab panacotta melts all over the plate, the color of the plate is......?????????

Yellow.

Hmmmmm, I think i just felt another white hair popping up.

Trying to figure out the production of this dish from start to finish so that the only two entremet cooks (myself on the dinner shift, and Marino on the lunch service) can also finish our other mise en place for our new poached egg caviar dish, our beautiful poached tuna (escolar) dish, our pastas, and our vegetable plates in time for service and have enough of everything to serve to two hundred people a day is, well, challenging.

Thankfully all that figuring out is left to the chefs and sous chefs. I am merely a worker bee. I'm just the one who is supposed to "make it happen" as we say in the kitchen.

By the way, I haven't even started in on the process of making the panacotta, and I won't for my own sanity's sake and yours. But let's just say it's also a bit temperamental.

Two hours after plunging myself into zucchini roll maddness, service started. The enormous white erase board we use to diagram tables and chart the courses our guests are presently eating started filling up like crazy.

Two people on table 10, four on table 12, six on table 18....

Thirty people seated, judging from the board. None have ordered yet. All have received their amuse bouches. Now it's just a waiting game...

As always the back waiters come in and announce the first tickets with gusto: "orrrrrrrrrrrrder in......."

They hand the ticket to the chef and fill out one of the boxes on the white erase board which diagrams the menu to come so all the cooks can see and plan accordingly.

The chef calls out the first courses and I scramble up to the passe to check out the mid courses and see if I have anything ordered on the entrée side.

No crab yet.

But why? I spent so much time on that crab dish. All those white hairs in vain? Hmmph!!!

The chef calls in the maître D and some of the waiters to try the new crab dish. I cook two off for him, dot the plate with a spicy Southern Indian oil, and place two micro chives elegantly across each of the green and white spiral panacotta rolls.

The chef pours the crab consommé sauce around the plate. They taste it. They like it. (of course, it's beautiful and delicious why wouldn't they?)

And the orders start coming back to the kitchen with crab panacotta mid courses. Bien sûr.

The evening is in full swing and I'm popping crab rolls into the oven, slicing white tuna, sauteing vegetables, and running poached eggs with caviar to the passe. It's a workout. My thighs are grateful for the exercise but my knees are making an ominous crunching sound every time I squat to heat a plate in the oven.

The second and busiest seating winds down. I bring one last crab panacotta to the passe. The chef looks down at the plate as he takes his white napkin, dips it in hot water, and cleans my finger prints from the edges erasing all evidence of a busy kitchen. With a half smile and a half glance at my weathered state he asks, "How's this new dish workin' out for you?"

"Look!" I say, taking off my hat and pointing to my white hairs, "Look! This is what that new dish is doing to me!" He laughs hard and playfully boxes the top of my head like a coach to a teammate.

I feel like I have just made a touch down until I realize, while replacing my hat and walking back to my station, that there is still one last seating to go before I can truly celebrate getting through the evening with new dishes on the menu.

The third seating begins and it's much slower than the first two. An hour passes and we are waiting for our last reservations to show up. Time is ticking slowly by. I bring another crab panacotta to the passe and the chef says to me:

"You know Glaze, that dish is going to be on the menu for at least a year, better get yourself a bottle of L'Oreal"

"Very funny, Chef."

I can see now I set myself up a plethora of old age jokes. Nothing goes unprovoked in the kitchen. Nothing. I laugh anyway.

The Maître D comes back and announces that the last reservation is not showing up. The chef calls out "Kitchen closed!"

I put my tools away and begin to scrub my corner of the piano all the while thinking about the crab panacotta dish and my white hairs... just a memory now until tomorrow... or until I catch some one else staring back at me in the mirror.

Veg Station: A New Frontier

Changing stations in a kitchen can be like diving head on into an unfilled very deep, very cement pool.

Perhaps tennis shoes in the dryer would be a better metaphor.

Shoes clunking around bouncing off the metal canister and bouncing off each other in an un-rhythmic sort of way. I hate that. Clunk, clunk, clunk... clunk... clunk, clunk...

That's me right now. A little bit at least. When I change stations I normally mess everything up until my inner self loathing demon relaxes, my nerves settle, I tame the adrenaline rush, and I focus.

Does anybody else over 30 find that they are increasingly becoming their own worst critic now more than ever? Is this part of getting older and wiser? And if so, when will I get there?

The veg station is really sort of simple. There are basically two pick-ups and then a few others that are thrown in at random times throughout the evening in order to really screw things up. (Pick-up's refer to the physical action of cooking and plating a dish when it is ordered).

I pick-up the zucchini blossom dish that is stuffed with truffled crab meat (so, so delicious, I almost resent having to send it to the passe) and a stunning white tuna dish that is poached in olive oil and sauced with a deep red bearnaise.

Sounds easy, two dishes.

Okay the z-blossoms are a cinch. Quick, easy, beautiful, delicious. Great!

And the white tuna is not that hard either unless you forget it in the poaching oil because all of a sudden a side of sautéed vegetables is ordered, and a plate of tortellini, and an off the menu fried rice, and an off the menu pastsa with urchin and caviar sauce...

Oops there goes the tuna. Hammered. Waaaaaaaay overcooked.

Regardless of my first night jitters on the hot line and a few sloppy errors, I survived the evening. I'm sure they're giving me a one night grace period to figure out the pick-ups before they rip me apart. I'll take the breather while it lasts.

Could I have done better? Yes. Nonetheless my counterpart on the line said while we were scrubbing down our stations: "You did pretty good for your first night, you just need to get cooking the tuna down". Maybe he was just trying to make me feel better.

I think I'm not going to analyze it too much, take the compliment, and focus on how to poach tuna perfectly!

At least I didn't hear "Welcome to the veg station now go back to Garde Manger".

Hopefully tonight will be less like tennis-shoes-in-dryer and more like towels-on-spin-cycle.

Duckathlon: NYC Restaurant Industry Showdown!

I am not just a little bitter that we lost the annual d'Artagnan Duckathlon Industry Contest: I am OUTRAGED!!!!

Conspicuously missing from this (official?) video is our team. I'm not sure if they left us out because our crew happens to be so good looking that all other teams pale in comparison or what.

At our level though, we are used to jealously. (Toss of hair, smirk, who-really-cares-it's-just-a-silly-game expression).

This competition is just for fun, organized by D'Artagnan, a food distributer who is famous for specialty products.

Foie gras, truffles, game, organic turkeys, jambon, saucisson sec – you name it, they supply it. All the top restaurants in NYC rely on d'Artagnan for quality ingredients.

Each team (restaurant) is given a list of different shops and restaurants to find in the Meat Packing district. At each stop there is a different challenge. Including: olive oil tastings, blindfolded guess-the-spice games, and French-English translation tests (we lost this event even with 3 native French people on the team).

Some of the craziest contests included dunking a sausage tied around the waist by a thin string while dressed in a bra and hoop skirt into a milk pale as many times as possible in one minute.

The hoop skirt, I'm assuming, keeps the contestant from watching the exact placement of the sausage so team members have to aid in direction. What the DD bra over the clothes has to do with anything is a mystery...

And the Ball Busters table where cooks had to match the animal to the correct testicle. I was not good at this. However I did learn that ostriches have large testicles.

And I also scored the bonus point: name the pink fleshy thing...

My sous chef was shocked. Whatever, I'm a woman, there are some things we inherently understand. Now if I had to tell you what animal it came from, that would be a different story.

And of course we also had some fun walking in between shops, bars, and restaurants...

and taking refreshments along the way...

Where we failed completely was the final competition where all the restaurants (Restaurant Daniel, Le Cirque, Cercle Rouge, and Bar Bouley included) gathered around a stage (next to an open bar) in the Chelsea Market and one by one performed a song about food.

We did not pull our song together in time. Our attempted version of "God Bless Foie Gras" to the tune of "God Bless America" bombed.

Next year I think we'll plan it out in advance like the team from Restaurant Daniel who clearly spent hours orchestrating their performance. (losers).

Okay, we got booed off the stage. In fact, we had things thrown at us. Yes, little plastic ducks were literally thrown at us on the stage. It got really bad when we started to throw them back. Big kisses to Adrien who performed the song. We all just stood behind him with our hands on our hearts as we hummed along and dodged flying objects.

Nonetheless we won one of the competitions (every restaurant wins something).

We won the prestigious Sausage Dunking Competition thanks to Camille!!!!!! To quote my friend: "Mais oui, je suis Française."

We walked away with some magnificent prizes including one enormous jambon de Bayonne and two enormous sausages

I barely walked away. Too much Moet.

Totally worth it. I suppose sometimes you have to take one for the team.

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Sun Burned Chefs

Lobster red faces against starched white jackets...

I came into work after our obligatory day off (Sunday, the restaurant is closed) only to look upon a sea of red.

I know you're thinking: so what, people get sunburned.

But we don't see the sun! Ever!!! We live in a kitchen without windows.

When I leave my apartment to catch the train I glimpse the sun attempting to find the earth between montrously tall skyscrapers. Then I get off of the train and walk two blocks before disappearing for the day.

I've never lived in a city where you can see the sun, without feeling it.

Sometimes I pause, if I have the time, on the corner of 50th between 6th and 7th (right off the train station) to let some rays warm my face and dry my hair.

I have found the one spot between leaving my house and getting to work where the sun manages to strike gold.

Then I descend down an elevator to a fluorescent lit hallway to a fluorescent lit locker room. I change into my whites. I take an elevator up to a fluorescent lit kitchen and I stay there anywhere between 10 and 12 hours.

After my shift, I descend in the elevator, change in the dressing room throwing my sweat soaked whites into the laundry bin, spray my whole body with perfume, and take the escalator up to ground level.

It's dark. Stars in sky, moon up above, dark.

This Sunday, the first truly sunny warm Sunday of the new year, every single one of the chefs was either sunbathing, walking around in the sun, drinking in the sun, falling asleep on a park bench in the sun, or doing whatever-one-can-do-under the sun.

The funniest sunburn is that of chef Pierre. He came to work with a terrible driving sunburn. The kind where only one half of your face and one whole arm is red. I doubt he'll let his left arm hang out the window unprotected again. And I'm sure he'll remember to move the visor over to block the rays beating down next time.

Hilarious. (For us, not for him). We teased him for days.

All joking aside, the lack of sunshine is really no laughing matter for cooks. I've started piling up on vitamin D as a result. I went through months of not being able to sleep because my body simply had no idea what time of day it was.

I clearly remember in the middle winter taking a long weekend back to San Francisco to see my folks. It was sunny. On my return one of the chefs said: Wow, you look good!

I'll never forget it.

Because what was left unsaid was undeniable: Wow, most of the time you look tired and pasty, I forgot you could be attractive!

Myself and chef Pierre (the car burned cook) have made a pact that on the next super sunny day we will injure each other so we can be sent home.

The plan being that I will stab him where it won't kill him, but hurt him enough so that he can't work. (We work with knives all day remember). And then he will kindly return the favor.

Sometimes when I work across from him he'll tap a part of his body and wink knowingly. Secretly saying: this is the spot, Amy, this is the spot.

Then I'll reach for my knife and carefully sharpen it slowly eyeing my next imaginary insicion. It's madness, I tell you. Madness!

Actually the plan has become much more elaborate. After mutually mutilating each other and getting sent home, we will pass by the emergency room pleading for painkillers.

But not before raiding the walk-in vegetable refrigerator of it's kaffir lime leaves and ginger so after our hospital excursion we can cook a tasty Thai lunch and enjoy our drugged state-of-mind in the sun while nursing our wounds.

Today he pointed to his fingers. Things are getting desperate. Normally cooks need their fingers. If he points to his tongue tomorrow then I'll send him to a psychiatric ward.

We're just teasing each other. I think.

Us cooks certainly feel that heat in the kitchen. So we know when it's a beautiful day even if we can't see that's a beautiful day.

By golly, things are steaming up! Chef's hats are coming off! Underwear is... we still wear underwear... it's not that hot.

We are not naked chefs.

Yet.

I did ask the executive chef what I needed to do to get sent home. And he told me: "Tell the executive chef to go f%ck himself". We both laughed. I didn't say it. Of course.

Thought about it? Of course.

But I kinda like my job, and I kinda like my chef too, so I guess I'll wait until next Sunday for another shot at deepening my glow.

Or lines of redness.

Not to be confused with: Lines of rareness.

The Women in the Kitchen

Cooking is a competitive team sport. And NYC kitchen cultures are notorious for being like men's locker rooms: sweaty and filled with testosterone.

Even kitchen's in France (or maybe I should say especially kitchen's in France) are balls to the wall, militaristic, male environments.

So how does some one like me, a girly girl, who actually picks the pink kitchen towels out from the blue and white ones fit in?

Good question.

I suppose the answer is: I don't.

That's not to say that I have a problem breaking down a leg of veal, killing lobsters, or sweating it out over the fire. I'm all into that too. I enjoy the adrenaline rush, the push, the team effort just as much as any guy.

I find the trick (as I've learned through trial and error) to cooking in a dominant male culture is to be yourself, but stand your ground. And make sure you have at least one really good girlfriend. Maybe even one that speaks French so you can talk privately. Gossip shamelessly.

The other great thing about having at least one girlfriend in the kitchen (I'm lucky to have several) is then you have your own private island that you can escape to when the guys start, well, being guys.

And truthfully, I actually think the girl talk is often dirtier than the guy talk. Our conversations vary from what's the hottest perfume to the latest greatest cooking technique to whether vibrators should be substituted for male companionship. (No conclusions formed on any subject listed.)

At least we have better things to talk about than football and basketball. Jeez.

Do men and women approach cooking differently? Of course we do. Is that a bad thing? No. Do some guys hate cooking with women in the kitchen? Yes. Do most guys appreciate women in the kitchen? Yes! Do women feel they have to prove themselves and work harder to get respect. Unfortunately, yes.

Do we all cook together for 12 hours a day and then go out get beers together afterwards? Oh hell yes!

What is respected above all regardless of sex, is the quality of your work and your commitment. That stands on its own.

I think all the men and women that I cook with would agree .

Make It Nice or Make it Twice

"Make it nice or make it twice"...

Nope, this isn't my advice to lovers, one-night stands, and people about to get married. But maybe it should be?

In every restaurant worth its salt are the old timers. The cooks who have dominated a station for so long that they are intrinsically part of every dish that is served.

It's the sign of a good restaurant.

I say 'intrinsic' because those of us trained under these pillars of culinary wisdom can't' make anything without hearing their words ringing in our heads: "make it nice or make it twice..." or "medium rare fish guys, medium rare fish..." or "tasting our food, tasting our food...."

I'm not talking about the young hot shot cooks who cruise upward through the different stations faster than a heart beat on adrenaline. But those noble few who have given their lives over to one station and have no intention of going anywhere else in the kitchen.

There is one living fixture in the kitchen who I sincerely look up to. He's probably around 15 years older than me and has run the garde manger station for around that same amount of time.

So while I was studying geometry in high school, falling in and out of love, taking my S.A.T's, performing in theaters, and doing all the things wild teenage girls do to drive their parents crazy he was building the garde mange empire at Le Bernardin.

While I was reading In the Heart of Darkness for my English Lit AP exam he was concocting fluke ceviche. While I was cutting 6th and 7th period to go see the Pink Floyd concert (even though my parents said I couldn't) he was pounding out tuna into a thin perfect ovals and placing it ever so gently over croutons spread with foie gras.

While I was sneaking out of my parent's house after curfew he was training new cooks the art of beautifully prepared food.

And he was doing it in a foreign language: English. People underestimate how difficult it is to work in a foreign country in a foreign language.

Having worked in France, I get it. I clearly remember speaking English to another cook during my first week desperately attempting to get a translation on the orders coming in and being yelled at: "Anglais?!?!? Pas Anglais! Anglais non!"

It did help me learn French fast. And I am very thankful now.

And, regardless of my university minor in Middle English and Single Subject Teaching Credential in English, I still struggle to understand half the English speaking people in this country.

Brooklynese, Long Island-ese, Midwesternese, mumble-ese, voice-so-low-I-can't-understand-ese... yes, English is very difficult to comprehend under pressure. Whoever said that 90% of communication is nonverbal has obviously never worked a service in a 3 Michelin star restaurant.

Having spent six months at Le Bernardin attempting to master the various stations: garde mange, canapé, raw fish, fish pass, ravioli, and back monk I now truly understand my chef's quote: "Make it nice or make it twice".

I'm not panicking about getting my preparation finished or rushing around during service accomplishing nothing very well.

I'm, let's say, a little more focused. More settled. And a lot more aggressive about achieving the right finished product because now I know exactly what it is.

I don't want to have to re-do all the work I just did.

I get annoyed when I see newbies working fast and sloppy. And I get perturbed when I know I've spent time and love to make a plate beautiful during prep time only to see it destroyed in a mad dash during service and sent back at the passe by one of the sous chefs.

During service is where my chef's soft but firm words come in to action...

He looks out of the corner of his eye to glance at the dishes being made around him by young energetic cooks and if he catches anyone trying to rush perfection he'll warn: "Make it nice or make it twice".

This always has the desired impact. The cook slows down and focuses. The adrenaline ebbs. (If only for a second).

But my all time favorite quote of his, is one that I'm sure he'd be slightly embarrassed about me repeating: "I need-a that shit!" Pronounced: I needuh that sheet!

You have to understand my Chef is not the swearing type. Not at all. But if you try and take something away from him, like a squeeze bottle of olive oil or a jar of caviar, he will definitely stop the intruder with: "I need-a that shit!"

Nobody takes anything away from my Chef when he's about to use it. Or they must suffer the consequences of making "fluke on the plate, fluke on the plate, fluke on the plate" the next day.

(Don't ask, "fluke on the plate" is a whole other story. It's really a sort of torture that involves cutting fish into perfect rectangles. Normally we pawn it off on the externs because we all are sick of doing it.)

Sometimes my chef says "I need-a that shit!" for fun and we all fall about laughing.

Or other times I tell him, "I need-a that shit too!" and I take it away. Which normally makes him chuckle. Normally.

When you work in a kitchen there will always be those cooks who try and get away with bad prep. It's often part of the learning process and mostly a side effect of feeling it's impossible to finish all the mise en place before service. They rush and make mistakes hoping no one will catch them.

I've definitely been guilty of it before. I think we all have. And I've always been caught which is even more embarrassing especially when the whole kitchen hears it.

There really is no hiding in a kitchen under those bright fluorescent lights. A cook with bad "place" can only get away with it for so long before the rest of the staff calls him or her out.

That is why the pillars uphold the quality of a station because they know exactly how to make it nice with a style and flare that only comes from some one who has repeated the same dish over and over. Muscle memory. Like a ballerina doing a pirouette.

Once the technique is internalized then and only then can the art of doing it show through. Trust me, If you plate a dish 10,000 times you will find a way to turn it into a master piece, not a finger painting.

I want the art of it to show through....

Make it nice or make twice, make it nice or make it twice, make it nice or make it twice, make it nice or make it twice...

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.