It was inevitable this day would come... today we made sweetbreads. Sweetbreads are not carbohydrates and contain no sugar. They are for the adventurous eater who wishes to add pancreas (stomach sweetbreads) or thymus gland (throat sweetbreads) to his or her diet. Chefs overwhelming prefer using the thymus of the calf. This is the least pungent of all the sweetbread options and is actually cheaper than the pancreas type. Sweetbreads, which are soft, blob-like pieces of pure cholesterol, are generally braised or fried. Why are they called sweetbreads? I have no idea. I'm certain, however, if one saw "Braised Thymus Gland" or "Fried Pancreas" on a menu, it would not read so sweetly.
For the first time in my culinary career, I have encountered a food which I find totally repulsive. To prepare sweetbreads, they must be soaked, preferably overnight, to remove any remaining enzymes and blood. ENZYMES AND BLOOD. Then, the sweetbreads must be blanched to remove the outer membrane. THE OUTER MEMBRANE.
I am fully aware that blood, enzymes and membranes are likely involved with the slaughter of other, delicious proteins, but there is something nice about not seeing or knowing. Many chefs, including The Chef and The Head of Everything are disappointed in a young chef that "distances" herself from the facts and important processes involved with our ingredients; I understand their perspective but its not fair to judge my talent or commitment based on whether or not I can control my gag reflex.
In fairness to sweetbreads, the rest of the world seems to love 'em; you might too. If you're going to give these glands a shot, opt for fried. I kinda sorta see why fried sweetbreads are often described as McNuggety, but after the second or third bite, there is no mistake: Ronald had nothing do to with your dinner.
Thankfully, sweetbreads weren't the only item on today's menu; but for this delicious, warm radicchio salad, we'd have starved (for once!).
Warm Radicchio and Shrimp Salad
Ingredients (for two large salads)
1 head of Radicchio
8 large shrimp
1/4 to 1/2 c. olive oil
1 T. soy sauce
1 T. Worcestershire sauce
3 T. Balsamic Vinegar
1/2 c. walnuts, toasted
Salt and Pepper
Methods
-Toast the walnuts until they begin to brown - set aside
-Peel and de-vein the shrimp. Season with salt and pepper.
-Heat olive oil in a large saute pan.
-When pan is hot, quickly saute the shrimp until 80% cooked.
-Add the soy and Worcestershire sauce.
-Add the balsamic vinegar and immediately remove from heat - set aside.
-Quickly core and slice the radicchio into strips. Radicchio oxidies quickly, so you want to cut it as late in the game as possible.
-Pour the cooked shrimp and pan-dressing over the radicchio.
-Toss in the toasted walnuts and serve.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
Day Fifty Nine
Every Friday we nervously sit at three long tables, in three straight rows, facing an empty demo kitchen. Usually the demo kitchen is prepped with simmering pots, sharpened cutlery, and vegetables mis en placed for one little man, The Chef.
We always plop into the same seat, a function of both habit and personality. The Big Hawaiian lounges in the back row, flanked by empty chairs, while My Favorite Gal, studious and determined sits front and center. I too sit in the front row, but strategically chose the seat closest to the kitchen threshold; this way I can get a 60 second jumpstart on most of my peers. It sounds silly, but in 60 seconds I can roughly chop 2 carrots, 1 onion and 2 sticks of celery, enough mirepoix for about 4 servings of meat, and start sweating the mixture. One full minute is invaluable when a timed deadline looms.
At about 6:58, two minutes before the start of class, The Chef springs into the classroom. "Ear whee geau peepul! Zhee engrheedeeun fhore zhee mharkit baskeet are zhee volloween: Un, Ed-on Ghrimp. Du, Zock Aye Zamon. Twah, Bears."
He said, 'Head-on Shrimp, Sockeye Salmon and Pears.'
"Tudayseh ghest joodge wheel be ere zoon, zeau wurk cleen and bhee rheadhee at elevun zharp. Geau!"
We immediately rise, file into the kitchen begin tackling our task. We must turn out an appetizer, entree and dessert to be tasted by a successful, big-name chef, using the three secret ingredients. Despite the pressure, everyone loves Market Basket days. It is the only opportunity we have to be creative. On these days one can separate the chornichon from the line cooks.
Early arrivers are rewarded. Whomever arrives first proudly scribbles her name (it is always a woman) on the whiteboard and others follow suit upon arrival. The Slow Guy is predictably last. When The Chef hollers, 'geau,' consultations begin. He meets with each one of us to ensure we won't embarrass the school's reputation in front of a guest chef and to offer suggestions, generally good ones. The Slow Guy meets with him nearly 1 hour after I do, a clear disadvantage.
The kitchen is unusually quiet. There are no partners bickering, no comments about how much damn cream and butter we're being forced to incorporate, no complaints in general. The pace quickens about 30 minutes before service. I noticed that people start sweating - I mean, really sweating.
While we are concocting, the classroom is transformed. Crisp white table cloths are draped over surfaces, tasting knives, spoons and forks are arranged for the guest, and if someone really important is in the house, The Head of Everything brings out the booze.
I saw him walking down the hall, carrying a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape. I joked, "Are you going dancing later, Chef?"
He looked at me and stated, "I du not dhanse," and then continued walking.
We draw cards to determine who is tasted first. Everything we make must be neatly packed and stored in the classroom warmer before the deadline, or else. To heighten the tension in the room, the pastry classes and the entire administrative staff view the tasting. While the first student is describing his or her dishes and the chefs are digging in, the second student is plating, and so on.
The guest chef is always decked in kitchen whites, along with The Head of Everything - they are definitely more intimidating that way. They take a bite, make curious, almost constipated looking faces, take another bite, and then nail us with commentary.
"This plating is from the 80's."
"Why did you trim the asparagus?"
"This portion is far to large."
"All of this is underseasoned."
"This (pointing to something on the plate) is a no."
It is brutal. There are also positive comments, but these are less descriptive and less noticeable.
"This is good."
"This is well done."
"Good salt."
Keep It Simple Stupid is key. When you present Sockeye Salmon Mousse with Dill Infused Chocolate and Roasted Broccoli Stems, it is interesting, but only interesting.
My menu follows:
-Roasted Head on Shrimp, Avocado and Grapefruit Slaw, Jalapeno Vinaigrette
-Pan Seared Sockeye Salmon, Paper Thin Fennel, Slow Roasted Tomatoes
-Summer Pear Turnover, Fig Ice Cream
The fennel got a "this is delicious," comment, so I will share the technique. It goes well with chicken, fish or pork.
Paper Thin Sauteed Fennel
Ingredients
1 Fennel Bulb
1/2 Tsp. Anise Seeds
1/4 c. Ricard
1/4 c. Orange Juice
Clarified Butter
Salt and Pepper
Methods
-Trim the green top off of the fennel bulb and discard.
-Using a mandoline, slice the fennel paper thin. Hold the bottom of the bulb and begin slicing from where the green top was severed.
-Soak the sliced fennel in orange juice, for flavor and to preserve the color.
-Heat a saute pan and when hot, add clarified butter.
-Drain any excess OJ from the fennel, and begin sauteing at a high heat.
-Add the anise seed, Ricard and season with salt and pepper.
-When the fennel begins to soften (if your pan is hot and the fennel is thin enough, this should only take about 1 minute), give it about 20 more seconds in the saute pan, and then remove.
-Serve immediately.
We always plop into the same seat, a function of both habit and personality. The Big Hawaiian lounges in the back row, flanked by empty chairs, while My Favorite Gal, studious and determined sits front and center. I too sit in the front row, but strategically chose the seat closest to the kitchen threshold; this way I can get a 60 second jumpstart on most of my peers. It sounds silly, but in 60 seconds I can roughly chop 2 carrots, 1 onion and 2 sticks of celery, enough mirepoix for about 4 servings of meat, and start sweating the mixture. One full minute is invaluable when a timed deadline looms.
At about 6:58, two minutes before the start of class, The Chef springs into the classroom. "Ear whee geau peepul! Zhee engrheedeeun fhore zhee mharkit baskeet are zhee volloween: Un, Ed-on Ghrimp. Du, Zock Aye Zamon. Twah, Bears."
He said, 'Head-on Shrimp, Sockeye Salmon and Pears.'
"Tudayseh ghest joodge wheel be ere zoon, zeau wurk cleen and bhee rheadhee at elevun zharp. Geau!"
We immediately rise, file into the kitchen begin tackling our task. We must turn out an appetizer, entree and dessert to be tasted by a successful, big-name chef, using the three secret ingredients. Despite the pressure, everyone loves Market Basket days. It is the only opportunity we have to be creative. On these days one can separate the chornichon from the line cooks.
Early arrivers are rewarded. Whomever arrives first proudly scribbles her name (it is always a woman) on the whiteboard and others follow suit upon arrival. The Slow Guy is predictably last. When The Chef hollers, 'geau,' consultations begin. He meets with each one of us to ensure we won't embarrass the school's reputation in front of a guest chef and to offer suggestions, generally good ones. The Slow Guy meets with him nearly 1 hour after I do, a clear disadvantage.
The kitchen is unusually quiet. There are no partners bickering, no comments about how much damn cream and butter we're being forced to incorporate, no complaints in general. The pace quickens about 30 minutes before service. I noticed that people start sweating - I mean, really sweating.
While we are concocting, the classroom is transformed. Crisp white table cloths are draped over surfaces, tasting knives, spoons and forks are arranged for the guest, and if someone really important is in the house, The Head of Everything brings out the booze.
I saw him walking down the hall, carrying a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape. I joked, "Are you going dancing later, Chef?"
He looked at me and stated, "I du not dhanse," and then continued walking.
We draw cards to determine who is tasted first. Everything we make must be neatly packed and stored in the classroom warmer before the deadline, or else. To heighten the tension in the room, the pastry classes and the entire administrative staff view the tasting. While the first student is describing his or her dishes and the chefs are digging in, the second student is plating, and so on.
The guest chef is always decked in kitchen whites, along with The Head of Everything - they are definitely more intimidating that way. They take a bite, make curious, almost constipated looking faces, take another bite, and then nail us with commentary.
"This plating is from the 80's."
"Why did you trim the asparagus?"
"This portion is far to large."
"All of this is underseasoned."
"This (pointing to something on the plate) is a no."
It is brutal. There are also positive comments, but these are less descriptive and less noticeable.
"This is good."
"This is well done."
"Good salt."
Keep It Simple Stupid is key. When you present Sockeye Salmon Mousse with Dill Infused Chocolate and Roasted Broccoli Stems, it is interesting, but only interesting.
My menu follows:
-Roasted Head on Shrimp, Avocado and Grapefruit Slaw, Jalapeno Vinaigrette
-Pan Seared Sockeye Salmon, Paper Thin Fennel, Slow Roasted Tomatoes
-Summer Pear Turnover, Fig Ice Cream
The fennel got a "this is delicious," comment, so I will share the technique. It goes well with chicken, fish or pork.
Paper Thin Sauteed Fennel
Ingredients
1 Fennel Bulb
1/2 Tsp. Anise Seeds
1/4 c. Ricard
1/4 c. Orange Juice
Clarified Butter
Salt and Pepper
Methods
-Trim the green top off of the fennel bulb and discard.
-Using a mandoline, slice the fennel paper thin. Hold the bottom of the bulb and begin slicing from where the green top was severed.
-Soak the sliced fennel in orange juice, for flavor and to preserve the color.
-Heat a saute pan and when hot, add clarified butter.
-Drain any excess OJ from the fennel, and begin sauteing at a high heat.
-Add the anise seed, Ricard and season with salt and pepper.
-When the fennel begins to soften (if your pan is hot and the fennel is thin enough, this should only take about 1 minute), give it about 20 more seconds in the saute pan, and then remove.
-Serve immediately.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Externship Interview
Come October, I will begin my six month externship. This is what we've been working towards. This is the part that counts. This is how they make or break a culinary student. This externship will be a royal pain in the ass.
Our externship must be in a scratch kitchen (i.e. no frozen french fries) where the chef works on site. We need to work a minimum of 30 hours per week which is a frivolous requirement considering the average extern clocks 90 hours per week, usually at minimum wage. We are fed all of this information from the school's Director of Marketing and Placement, a kind looking woman who is pushing seventy.
"There are two rules to your externship. Do not quit. Do not get fired." Okay, I thought, I can do that. She continued, "Do not quit no matter how many times the chef screams 'You are an f***ing idiot extern!' or 'Are you the dumbest mother f***er on the planet?!'"
We were horrified not only about our inevitable kitchen destiny but also by the language coming from a woman who could easily move in with the Golden Girls.
"I'm terribly sorry if I'm offending any of you by saying f**k, but the fact is you're just going to have to get comfortable with it. You don't have to participate, but you have to be able to hear it without wincing." Geez.
The search begins by securing a stage (pronounced: stah-je). A stage, for a culinary student, is a working (without pay) interview. A stage, however, can also be a "guest appearance" or "meeting of the minds" for industry veterans. Wolfgang Puck, for example, has staged at the French Laundry with Thomas Keller. A stage is not easy to secure for one snooty, self-aggrandizing, twenty-something reason: the hostess. I partook in the following exchange with hostesses at four different restaurants:
"Um, I'm sorry, who did you say you were again?"
"My name is Whitney and I'm a culinary student hoping to talk to the chef about an externship opportunity."
"Um, yeah, see I'm pretty sure the chef has enough people working for him, so, like, I don't think there are any positions open."
"Okay. I'd like to speak with the chef anyway, can you please see if he is available?"
"Um, yeah, I'm pretty sure he's busy right now, can I take a message?"
My clutch line became, "Please tell him I'm on the line and I'll hold until he is available." I held for the chef for less than thirty seconds each time.
One of my stages (I did five total) was at a fancy-schmancy, award-winning joint, run by a European, James Beard award recipient. I arrived with sharp knives and a pressed, clean jacket in tow. The Golden Girl insisted on sharp, pressed and clean. She shared a story about one of her students who staged at a place in San Francisco.
He arrived at a fancy-schmany, award-winning joint, run by a tough chef and was asked to form a line with six other extern hopefuls, all of them from the CIA (the Culinary Institute of America, a generally esteemed culinary school). The chef walked down the line and immediately dismissed two students who had spots on their jackets. The chef then instructed the remaining candidates to unsheathe their chef knives. He quickly dismissed all but one student, the Golden Girl's boy, since he had the sharpest knife.
I walked into the kitchen and counted nine men and zero women. Interesting, right? My first task was to peel the skin off of very tiny chanterelle mushrooms. It was tedious, but not terrible. I then chopped chives for about an hour. The chef had still not arrived by the time I finished. When he did, everyone knew it. Every man seemed to suddenly and simultaneously stand up straight and speed up his prep work. The chef walked into the kitchen, introduced himself to me and then one by one checked in with each of his peons to see how dinner preparations were coming along.
I didn't do anymore prep work after the chives, but stood and watched the dinner service. These guys moved at a dizzying pace with remarkable precision. Their memory is equally astonishing. "Ordering four rib eye, one medium, two medium rare, one ruined (well done), two salmon, two halibut, three squab, one pork belly and one duck egg," the chef motored. Ten seconds later he'd shout out another set. And thirty seconds later, another. I was overwhelmed.
In the end, he offered me a job, which was exciting. I'm thinking about accepting it. My hesitation is that I'm simply not certain I'm cut out for this. I only worked 5 hours, one third of a normal shift, didn't do any real work, and left with an aching back, neck and pair of feet. I left happy and excited, however, which hopefully counts for something. Its difficult to accept, but this externship could quite possibly be the beginning of the end.
Our externship must be in a scratch kitchen (i.e. no frozen french fries) where the chef works on site. We need to work a minimum of 30 hours per week which is a frivolous requirement considering the average extern clocks 90 hours per week, usually at minimum wage. We are fed all of this information from the school's Director of Marketing and Placement, a kind looking woman who is pushing seventy.
"There are two rules to your externship. Do not quit. Do not get fired." Okay, I thought, I can do that. She continued, "Do not quit no matter how many times the chef screams 'You are an f***ing idiot extern!' or 'Are you the dumbest mother f***er on the planet?!'"
We were horrified not only about our inevitable kitchen destiny but also by the language coming from a woman who could easily move in with the Golden Girls.
"I'm terribly sorry if I'm offending any of you by saying f**k, but the fact is you're just going to have to get comfortable with it. You don't have to participate, but you have to be able to hear it without wincing." Geez.
The search begins by securing a stage (pronounced: stah-je). A stage, for a culinary student, is a working (without pay) interview. A stage, however, can also be a "guest appearance" or "meeting of the minds" for industry veterans. Wolfgang Puck, for example, has staged at the French Laundry with Thomas Keller. A stage is not easy to secure for one snooty, self-aggrandizing, twenty-something reason: the hostess. I partook in the following exchange with hostesses at four different restaurants:
"Um, I'm sorry, who did you say you were again?"
"My name is Whitney and I'm a culinary student hoping to talk to the chef about an externship opportunity."
"Um, yeah, see I'm pretty sure the chef has enough people working for him, so, like, I don't think there are any positions open."
"Okay. I'd like to speak with the chef anyway, can you please see if he is available?"
"Um, yeah, I'm pretty sure he's busy right now, can I take a message?"
My clutch line became, "Please tell him I'm on the line and I'll hold until he is available." I held for the chef for less than thirty seconds each time.
One of my stages (I did five total) was at a fancy-schmancy, award-winning joint, run by a European, James Beard award recipient. I arrived with sharp knives and a pressed, clean jacket in tow. The Golden Girl insisted on sharp, pressed and clean. She shared a story about one of her students who staged at a place in San Francisco.
He arrived at a fancy-schmany, award-winning joint, run by a tough chef and was asked to form a line with six other extern hopefuls, all of them from the CIA (the Culinary Institute of America, a generally esteemed culinary school). The chef walked down the line and immediately dismissed two students who had spots on their jackets. The chef then instructed the remaining candidates to unsheathe their chef knives. He quickly dismissed all but one student, the Golden Girl's boy, since he had the sharpest knife.
I walked into the kitchen and counted nine men and zero women. Interesting, right? My first task was to peel the skin off of very tiny chanterelle mushrooms. It was tedious, but not terrible. I then chopped chives for about an hour. The chef had still not arrived by the time I finished. When he did, everyone knew it. Every man seemed to suddenly and simultaneously stand up straight and speed up his prep work. The chef walked into the kitchen, introduced himself to me and then one by one checked in with each of his peons to see how dinner preparations were coming along.
I didn't do anymore prep work after the chives, but stood and watched the dinner service. These guys moved at a dizzying pace with remarkable precision. Their memory is equally astonishing. "Ordering four rib eye, one medium, two medium rare, one ruined (well done), two salmon, two halibut, three squab, one pork belly and one duck egg," the chef motored. Ten seconds later he'd shout out another set. And thirty seconds later, another. I was overwhelmed.
In the end, he offered me a job, which was exciting. I'm thinking about accepting it. My hesitation is that I'm simply not certain I'm cut out for this. I only worked 5 hours, one third of a normal shift, didn't do any real work, and left with an aching back, neck and pair of feet. I left happy and excited, however, which hopefully counts for something. Its difficult to accept, but this externship could quite possibly be the beginning of the end.
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