The Storm Settles

I apologize for my lengthy absence from the blogosphere. It was primarily due to 1) the fact that the last couple of weeks at school were fairly uneventful and 2) I've spent enormous amounts of time ensuring my life is in order before I enter a black hole called A Real Restaurant Kitchen.

Our last days with The Chef were fun and memorable. Hard, for sure, but it seemed like we were finally getting the hang of it all. Our lunch service consistently went out on time and the final market basket was proclaimed, "Zhee bhest I've tasteed en zhee easetorhee of zhee skghoul" by The Head of Everything.

I was most thrilled by the final market basket because my fiance attended! At 12:30, exactly one hour and thirty minutes after he began his journey into the suburbs on public transportation, he popped into the tasting room, eager and excited to see if the chefs, the students and the experience were everything I promised. My partner and I were first (and the appetizer was 100% mine) so he immediately saw a round of Me vs. Judges.



Our first secret ingredient was ahi tuna. Everyone was going Asian, and since I'm already Asian, I didn't want to go there. Instead, I went old fashioned tuna salad. I pounded the tuna thin to make a carpaccio, served it with onion and mayonnaise mousse, pickled celery, garlic croutons, and a mustard vinaigrette.



"Zhis deesh is zhee clowsist tu phearfict yhou can geet," commented The Head of Everything. I was THRILLED! My peers later told me that I couldn't stop jumping up and down and smiling. Brian reported I even executed a few fist pumps after The Head of Everything spoke.

We took our Phase II final last week and since then I've been tying up loose ends at my part-time consulting gig. As I walked my final commute this morning, I evaluated the differences between my life now, and my life 6 months ago. Back then, I was organized, independent, stable, comfortable and well-paid. Now, I am frantic, nervous, anxious, tired and totally broke. Am I happier now than I was before? The jury is still out on that. However, I believe I'm certainly more satisfied.

Today, maybe for the first time, I truly realized what I've done to my life; I've done IT - taken the plunge, broken ground, gotten the ball rolling or whatever you want to call it. And, so far, doing IT has been one of, if not the most difficult storm I've ever weathered. To ignore logic and accept uncertainty is plain old uncomfortable - in every way. It takes unadulterated faith.

As I thought about where I was and where I am, a wave of serenity and satisfaction hit me. I remember smiling, a big toothy smile, not at someone I knew or because I saw something funny, but at myself. I had finally found the calm after the storm.

Tomorrow, when I start my externship, a new storm will begin to brew; I'm okay with that. Without a storm, there is a complacent, anticipated, everyday kind of calm. The ordinay calm can be nice, but the calm after the storm...it is far more breathtaking.

180 Minutes, 12 Courses, 6 Hungry Women

One thing I adore about the women in my class is that like me, they love to eat. I mean really, really, really eat. For the first time in my life, I've been surrounded everyday by women who eat, and eat, and eat simply because it tastes too good to stop. I've already explained what a danger this is to the size of my body; praise the kitchen gods who made it so a chef must work on his or her feet, as quickly as possible, in extreme heat.

Like their appetite, my female peers' enthusiasm for competitive cooking is also healthy. This made the six of us an unstoppable force in the infamous Twelve Course Tasting Menu Challenge.

We were directed to serve three canapes, a soup, a fish dish (using lobster), a granite, a meat course (using lamb tenderloin), a cheese course (using goat cheese), dessert (using pears) and three mignardise. Mignardise are similar to canapes, but come after the meal and leave your diner with a final impression.

We had 24 hours to plan a menu and 3 hours to cook enough to serve 6 guests. The menu was served course by course, alongside the boys' dishes to a table of two award winning food critics, two James Beard award winning chefs, The Head of Everything and The Chef.

This is what we cooked up:
Canapes
Duck Pate Mousse, Fried Potato Spiral and Granny Smith Apple
Smoked Salmon, Pickled Fennel and Herbed Cheese
Watermelon, Fried Feta, Honey and Fresh Mint
Soup
Tomato Bisque, Grilled Cheddar and Dill Crouton
Fish Course
Butter Poached Lobster alongside Scallop, Roe and Tarragon Mousse, Beets two Ways and Orange Buerre Fondue
Granite
Pomegranate and Lavender Granite
Meat Course
Lamb Tenderloin Medallion, Sauteed Wild Mushrooms, Sweet Pea Puree
Cheese Course
Goat Cheese Timbale
Dessert
Pear Tart, Pear Ice Cream and Cranberry Coulis
Mignardise "Napoleon"
Vanilla Bavarian Cream Puff
Chocolate Almond Biscotti Bites
Strawberry Shortcake Tart

I was responsible for the canapes and the lobster course. The lobster was a challenge. Its not a protein we had worked with in class and I'm most familiar and frankly quite content with just steaming the damn thing. This was one of the most difficult dishes I've had to conceptualize and execute at school.

I was shocked how many people were concerned about the crustacean's "slow death." Seriously?! Its a f**king LOBSTER! To get everyone to shut up, I agreed to spear their skulls with my chef's knife before boiling them.

If you boil a lobster for about 1 minute, the meat remains uncooked but peels away from the shell. This way the meat can be removed, cleaned and prepped for poaching, searing or whatever. I poached the meat in butter, an Orange Beurre Fondue to be exact. Beurre Fondue is an emulsified butter sauce, which is a pain in the ass to make, but creamy, delicious and totally worth it. I infused mine with orange zest and poached the lobster tails in the sauce over a double bain marie. It took about 20-30 minutes to cook the tail, which is very slow by poaching standards, but necessary as the sauce must be held only warm to keep it from breaking.

I served a piece of the poached tail over a paper thin slice of golden beet, alongside a cylinder shaped piece of scallop, tarragon and lobster roe mousse. (I shaped the mousse into a log using plastic wrap and poached the entire thing. Once the mousse was cooked and firm, I cut it into pieces. When the pieces are turned so one of the flat ends is down, they look like cylinders.) It was topped with fried red beets (cut into thinner-than-angel-hair noodles using a Rouet machine), orange zest and a spoonful of the Orange Beurre Fondue.

I knew the canapes were delicious and well executed; it was the lobster dish I was worried about. A wave of relief washed over me as the judges tasted my dish and offered only three comments:

"The mousse is a little salty."
"The sauce is out of this world."
"Zhee lubstuher es pearfictlhee kooked."

I can certainly live with salty mousse.

After the food was consumed and the points were tallied, the girls came out on top - by a whopping eleven points! It was one of the most exciting moments I've had at school to date. Never mess with 6 hungry women.

The Homestretch

The last couple of weeks have been a whirlwind. People are exhausted (and therefore have been crying, yelling, swearing and screwing up) and people are anxious and eager to begin life as an extern. The drama associated with securing an externship is astonishing. The Dummy, of course, tried to get a job without telling the chef he was a student, hoping for an extra dollar or two above minimum wage. He was immediately dismissed when he whipped out the externship contract for the chef to sign. The contract requires the chef pay us fair market value ("fair" - a funny way to describe our compensation), work us at least 40 hours per week (another silly contract clause - most externs work 90 hour weeks), and provide written reports to the school about our progress. The chef, enraged that he had been fooled, told our classmate to "get his ass out of the kitchen." What a dummy.

In an effort to get hired, The Big Hawaiian staged for 2 weeks at one of the busiest spots in town.. We'd previously heard the chef at this joint is a huge dick. This was confirmed when the chef returned the Big Hawaiian's contract, signed, with the addition of a handwritten clause "duration of externship is a minimum of 18 months." The Big Hawaiian politely told the chef he was unable to make an 18 month commitment, and the chef told him "sucks for you" and "forget about getting paid for the two weeks of work."

School got exciting last week when The Little Accountant showed up with a dead deer. "Zhees eez geauing du be a guud day!" The Chef proclaimed when he saw the freshly skinned carcass carted into the walk-in.

"Ooh wheel du zhee boochairing?" No one volunteered, except for me. "Wheatknee, pearfect!

Although I didn't really know what I was doing, it went pretty damn well. A deer is much easier to butcher than one would think. The hardest part was maneuvering the thing. Positioning and holding a dead deer carcass on a cutting board is a far cry from a whole chicken. I started by sawing the entire thing in half right below the ribs. I couldn't get a good grip on the thing so I kept getting whacked by flailing hind legs which whipped back and forth as I sawed. Once Bambi was in two pieces, getting the meat off the bones was straightforward. Our meat lectures with The Head of Everything kept popping into my head; he always said "Fhalow zhee bones wis zhee blhade of yor nyfeh."

The second hardest part was hacking up the bones for stock. For a woman, hacking bones is not a particularly becoming activity. It takes a hefty upswing followed by a strong downswing and a thunderous pound onto the cutting board. If you hesitate, it simply won't work. I discovered this when I would take an upswing, close my eyes (making sure my free hand was behind my back!), and lamely strike the bones with the cleaver. "Neau, Neau, Neau! Why yeau deau eet zhis whay? Zhee momint yeau leeft zhee cleaveur, you most comeet teau whaking zhee bone as ard as poseeble!" The Chef demonstrated for me. I noticed at the top of his upswing, he was on his tiptoes. Using every ounce of his 4'2", 110 lb. body, this little french man shot the cleaver into the deer and yelled "VOILA!" He cleanly sliced through the bone it was impressive and entertaining.

I loved the venison. We marinated the meat overnight prior to cooking to decrease the gamey flavor of the meat. We used olive oil, rosemary, garlic, oranges and onions. We also marinated the bones in red wine to flavor the wine for our Sauce Grande Venuer (a classic venison sauce made with red wine and currant jelly).

Venison should be cooked exactly like steak, but is much leaner, so be careful not to overcook it.

Our eight course tasting challenge looms (the last class had Michele Richard as the head judge!). I was snooping around again and eyed some paperwork indicating it may be a girls vs. guys showdown. YES!

Day Sixty Two

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.

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.

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.

Days Fifty Two and Fifty Three

The Chef has turned out to be very knowledgable, which makes him enjoyable. His accent is really thick, however, and I spend a good chunk of the day saying, "I'm sorry, Chef, run that by me again." For example:

"Hav yhou bin tu allan?" (Have you been to Holland?)
"Ay wahnt zhee conezeestanzhee of zheerhub." (I want the consistency of syrup.)
"Whee ahre geauing tu yhooz bitches!" (We are going to use peaches!)

Life as an advanced student is exhausting. I'm surrounded by uber competitive people, which is a good thing, however we're approaching "insane" on the crazy meter regarding our arrival time. The first day of Phase II, we all arrived about 30 minutes early - typical for a culinary group since we have to change into our uniforms and do some minor mis en place. On the second day, a few people showed up 45 minutes early. On the third day, some overachiever arrived a full hour early. We're now ALL arriving about 2 hours before the opening bell - Oy vey! To put an end to this mad habit, I decided to make an announcement.

"So, I've been thinking....instead of arriving super early to sit around, drink coffee and whine about The Chef, can we all agree to arrive together, at a normal time? That way we'll catch an extra hour of sleep and be perceived as equally excited and dedicated."

"I agree," said The Big Hawaiian. I knew he'd side with me. He looks like one of those guys that naps all the time.

"Excellent assessment of the situation, Whitney," The Ex-Lawyer stated. 'Perfect,' I thought, if anyone can make an argument, its her. After a lengthy closing-statement-esque monologue, she got everyone to agree to my proposal.

I was thrilled to sleep in the next morning and merrily commuted to school an entire hour later than usual. I pulled up to the parking lot and almost choked on my turkey-bacon-to-go. Backstabbers! They all arrived EARLY AGAIN! Well, not all of them. As I was getting out of my car, The Big Hawaiian pulled up in his doorless, bright yellow Wrangler. "Son of a Bitch!" he exclaimed. "We got punk'd."

At least we're making cool stuff. This week included bacon wrapped monkfish, roasted squab (pigeon) and numerous terrines. My favorite terrine was made of fresh oranges. It is a delicious, light and beautiful summer dessert.

LA TERRINE D'ORANGES
Ingredients
5 Whole Oranges
1/4 c. sugar
2 Gelatin sheets

Methods
-Line a mini disposable loaf pan with plastic wrap - set aside
-Peler a Vif 4 of the oranges. To Peler a Vif, cut the end off of each orange to make two flat ends. With a pairing knife, following the shape of the fruit, cut the skin and white pith off of the orange.
-Segment the peeled oranges by cutting the flesh of the orange away from each membrane. Cut over a bowl to reserve an juice drippings.
-Juice the 5th orange and combine with the drippings in a small saucepan. Add the sugar to the orange juice and bring to a boil. Let the juice reduce by half.
-While juice is reducing, lay the orange segments into the terrine until all are used. Lay the segments lengthwise to make cutting the terrine easier. Also, soak the gelatin sheets in ice cold water for about 20 seconds - remove and set aside.
-When the juice has reduced, add the gelatin to the juice while warm.
-Pour the juice and gelatin over the orange segments and fold plastic wrap over the top. Chill in refrigerator for at least 2 hours.
-Before serving, turn terrine out and slice. Serve with raspberry coulis. This terrine is also delicious if a finely chopped fresh herb such as tarragon, mint, or basil is added to the juice reduction.