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.