Cooks don't make a lot of money. Bakers don't either. And even if you climb the ranks, for the amount of hours you'll put in as a Chef, you are SOL.
Why, then, invest at all in the hospitality industry? Because this will be an industry that always provides challenging employment. Judy Rodgers, of Zuni fame, told one author recently, "...there are so many restaurants right now that are serious and trying hard... If you're hardworking and talented, you're never going to have trouble finding a job."*
Not to mention, our delicious food gives those with a bit of disposable income an excuse to spend it. That money will most likely stay in the city, too.
Easy employment and local, entrepreneurial spirit. That puts wheels on this economy, right? Hell yeah.
The San Francisco Baking Institute has encountered some red tape in renewing its business license. The state has ordered them to stop the private, post-secondary education they specialize in, effective immediately.
I know from watching my peers that the SFBI has trained incredibly talented industry professionals. Based on this, they have built a reputation so outstanding that they've attracted talent from outside of the US. The SFBI is an integral part of our culinary landscape in the Bay Area.
So please, sign this petition to keep the SFBI open.
We're not the best paid workers, but hospitality people are incredibly productive. And if we step in through community college, or an ad on Craigslist, we've invested a relatively small amount of money to begin building a wealth of talent. And places like the SFBI -- who actually pay their interns, by the by -- are a part of this success. So support them!
*Quoted from Skirt Steak: Women chefs on standing the heat and staying in the kitchen. By Charlotte Druckman.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Show your love
I deleted the last entry, wherein I cried about a bad gig. I read it a second time, lucid and awake, made a face and produced some sort of interesting noise of disapproval. Then sent it into cyberspace to rot.
Today, I received some very interesting feedback from my now former Chef (Yes, my internship is done! More on this later.). All marks were high, but there was a caveat.
Apparently, I'm too dour, sometimes. It's not a huge problem, but going forward, I need to know this is my Achilles' heel. I should never tell people I'm tired; I should act as confident as my knowledge makes me.
I was initially miffed. I never wanted to give the impression that I didn't want to be at the restaurant that I had fallen in love with... wait, initially? No, I am still really miffed. Because the hard work I put in at this restaurant, and the amount of extra hours I committed to this place, required fire and passion. Were my extra hours not demonstrative of this love? How could they not see that? I wanted to give my bosses only the very best, and if that didn't come across, then I was disappointed.
...with myself.
Because I had received this criticism before. Obviously, I wasn't doing something right.
There's some sort of disconnect between my emotions and the rest of the world. I am so happy with my decision to become a cook, I am so happy I finished such an amazing internship, I love what I do.
But that really doesn't matter. Here's the general career lesson: not only should you actually enjoy what you're doing, but all of your positive emotions should be visible. It's simple: being around someone who is obviously positive (maybe not to the Pollyanna extent) is enjoyable. It isn't complicated; you don't have to dig for their emotions (like you do with me), and you don't have to handle them with kid gloves because you just don't know what's up in their head.
When I re-read that entry last week about our event gone south, it felt really icky. I wanted to be honest, but I also wanted this blog to be positive. Taking a catering job, I know to expect some strange events and hard days. But its all about how you look at it: was that a terrible fucking day, or a 12-hour learning experience? By any novice's standards, that should be a 12-hour learning experience. And it was -- so that's why I deleted an obviously negative post.
And it felt pretty awesome. To work through something so crummy and come out with helpful insight. I do it more often than I think, and more often than I show.
I'm an INTJ -- a pretty on-point description provided by the Myers-Briggs personality test. If you follow this sort of thing, then you might understand why these problems are fairly INTJ-specific.
Oh, wait, what did I say? It doesn't matter.
I am so deeply in love with what I do, but I shouldn't have to explain that. No one should be forced to explain something so important and complicated as love. So show it.
Today, I received some very interesting feedback from my now former Chef (Yes, my internship is done! More on this later.). All marks were high, but there was a caveat.
Apparently, I'm too dour, sometimes. It's not a huge problem, but going forward, I need to know this is my Achilles' heel. I should never tell people I'm tired; I should act as confident as my knowledge makes me.
I was initially miffed. I never wanted to give the impression that I didn't want to be at the restaurant that I had fallen in love with... wait, initially? No, I am still really miffed. Because the hard work I put in at this restaurant, and the amount of extra hours I committed to this place, required fire and passion. Were my extra hours not demonstrative of this love? How could they not see that? I wanted to give my bosses only the very best, and if that didn't come across, then I was disappointed.
...with myself.
Because I had received this criticism before. Obviously, I wasn't doing something right.
There's some sort of disconnect between my emotions and the rest of the world. I am so happy with my decision to become a cook, I am so happy I finished such an amazing internship, I love what I do.
But that really doesn't matter. Here's the general career lesson: not only should you actually enjoy what you're doing, but all of your positive emotions should be visible. It's simple: being around someone who is obviously positive (maybe not to the Pollyanna extent) is enjoyable. It isn't complicated; you don't have to dig for their emotions (like you do with me), and you don't have to handle them with kid gloves because you just don't know what's up in their head.
When I re-read that entry last week about our event gone south, it felt really icky. I wanted to be honest, but I also wanted this blog to be positive. Taking a catering job, I know to expect some strange events and hard days. But its all about how you look at it: was that a terrible fucking day, or a 12-hour learning experience? By any novice's standards, that should be a 12-hour learning experience. And it was -- so that's why I deleted an obviously negative post.
And it felt pretty awesome. To work through something so crummy and come out with helpful insight. I do it more often than I think, and more often than I show.
I'm an INTJ -- a pretty on-point description provided by the Myers-Briggs personality test. If you follow this sort of thing, then you might understand why these problems are fairly INTJ-specific.
Oh, wait, what did I say? It doesn't matter.
I am so deeply in love with what I do, but I shouldn't have to explain that. No one should be forced to explain something so important and complicated as love. So show it.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Week in review #2, 9.25-10.2
If you're scared of making a mistake, get over it by volunteering to do something you're not at all comfortable doing. Maybe you'll, like, surprise yourself or something.
Working 11 hours at 4,000 feet, after driving up from sea level, makes you very, very, very, very, very tired and very thirsty -- 30 glasses of water thirsty. Stupid altitude.
Curry lingers.
Let spices cool after they've been toasted, before they're going to be ground. The exact reasons why I have to research, or discuss further with other cooks.
Sumac and sumac onions are my new favorite things.
Don't become complacent; ask for new challenges when this feeling starts to become a little too familiar (like right now).
Moleskines are absolutely wonderful. Best way to keep track of things in the kitchen.
CSA boxes are fantastic, and would probably inspire me to cook more at home.
Preach the goodness of cracklin's. Not everyone is aware of their wonder.
Be more than just a cook. Read the news in the morning, catch up on The Daily Show the next day; watch your (erm, my) favorite Truffaut films again; start reading (or re-reading) all of those incredible German books that have gathered dust on your shelf. As fascinating as food is, and as hard I want to work, I'm more than my job.
Working 11 hours at 4,000 feet, after driving up from sea level, makes you very, very, very, very, very tired and very thirsty -- 30 glasses of water thirsty. Stupid altitude.
Curry lingers.
Let spices cool after they've been toasted, before they're going to be ground. The exact reasons why I have to research, or discuss further with other cooks.
Sumac and sumac onions are my new favorite things.
Don't become complacent; ask for new challenges when this feeling starts to become a little too familiar (like right now).
Moleskines are absolutely wonderful. Best way to keep track of things in the kitchen.
CSA boxes are fantastic, and would probably inspire me to cook more at home.
Preach the goodness of cracklin's. Not everyone is aware of their wonder.
Be more than just a cook. Read the news in the morning, catch up on The Daily Show the next day; watch your (erm, my) favorite Truffaut films again; start reading (or re-reading) all of those incredible German books that have gathered dust on your shelf. As fascinating as food is, and as hard I want to work, I'm more than my job.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Week(s) in review, #1
An annotated list of lessons learned, 9.8-9.25
Cover onions with plastic wrap after they've been prepped, even if the container they're in already has a cover. The walk-in will stink to high-heaven otherwise, and the butter will start to smell like onions. Eggs will also absorb that stench.
Need to practice small-dicing carrots and celery. Takes forever. Onions are easy, but become faster with their mirepoix friends.
Corn roasted in a wood-burning oven, tossed with only olive oil, chili flakes and salt, is magical. I wouldn't eat it in December, but it so goddamn amazing right now!
The way we see foods affects the way we taste it. Family meal at the shop included a salad with bits of golden beets that had been scooped out by a very small melon baller. It took a minute or so for me and another cook to figure out they were beets. Mini mind trick.
Don't be a hero -- wear gloves when handling chillies.
Meat and fish
SKIP IF SQUEAMISH: When a lobster dies, its tail curls under, making it nearly impossible to get out all the meat. To keep the tail from doing this, stick a six-inch skewer up its... yup... butthole. They react in ways that are not surprising. "They are just fucking bugs," said my sous, "Just giant fucking bugs!" Don't know how cool am I with this, or just how necessary it is. Follow up with other sources.
Pig brains are not fresh unless they pop out of the brain case immediately. I'm guessing the same goes for other animals... question mark.
Come out of shell and ask questions at restaurant. Otherwise misunderstandings happen.
I, as a non-list maker, must make lists with this job. Must make a habit of writing things down more often. Must. Otherwise misunderstandings happen.
Produce
Cover onions with plastic wrap after they've been prepped, even if the container they're in already has a cover. The walk-in will stink to high-heaven otherwise, and the butter will start to smell like onions. Eggs will also absorb that stench.
Need to practice small-dicing carrots and celery. Takes forever. Onions are easy, but become faster with their mirepoix friends.
Corn roasted in a wood-burning oven, tossed with only olive oil, chili flakes and salt, is magical. I wouldn't eat it in December, but it so goddamn amazing right now!
The way we see foods affects the way we taste it. Family meal at the shop included a salad with bits of golden beets that had been scooped out by a very small melon baller. It took a minute or so for me and another cook to figure out they were beets. Mini mind trick.
Don't be a hero -- wear gloves when handling chillies.
Meat and fish
SKIP IF SQUEAMISH: When a lobster dies, its tail curls under, making it nearly impossible to get out all the meat. To keep the tail from doing this, stick a six-inch skewer up its... yup... butthole. They react in ways that are not surprising. "They are just fucking bugs," said my sous, "Just giant fucking bugs!" Don't know how cool am I with this, or just how necessary it is. Follow up with other sources.
Pig brains are not fresh unless they pop out of the brain case immediately. I'm guessing the same goes for other animals... question mark.
Learning how to butcher just takes practice. Except for size and quality, the anatomy of one pig is just like another. Lymph nodes taste bad.
More lessons learned
Steam burns hurt like a bitch, and you never forget that.
Warm, marinated olives should be made at home for the best snack ever.
Learning something new, no matter how simple, takes at least twice the amount of time you think it does. Tea service at a wedding reinforced this idea for the billionth time. Now I just need to get myself to actually put this into practice more effectively.
More lessons learned
Steam burns hurt like a bitch, and you never forget that.
Warm, marinated olives should be made at home for the best snack ever.
Learning something new, no matter how simple, takes at least twice the amount of time you think it does. Tea service at a wedding reinforced this idea for the billionth time. Now I just need to get myself to actually put this into practice more effectively.
Come out of shell and ask questions at restaurant. Otherwise misunderstandings happen.
I, as a non-list maker, must make lists with this job. Must make a habit of writing things down more often. Must. Otherwise misunderstandings happen.
Try compression ankle supports and socks. Foot goes numb if moved wrong, tend to turn ankles. Ankles hurt like a mother after a hectic catering shift. Stupid Danskos are too damn high for me. Run those down, then replace them with Crocs.
If you feel tired, or are hitting a wall, remind yourself you could have it way worse. You could be a lobster with a half-foot skewer up your ass.
If you feel tired, or are hitting a wall, remind yourself you could have it way worse. You could be a lobster with a half-foot skewer up your ass.
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Humbled by blood and brains
For the first time yesterday, I helped butcher a whole animal -- actually, a few animals. Two lambs and a pig, thus far the most incredible experience of my internship. Sorry I have no pictures -- I don't know how squeamish my audience is.
This might sound morbid, and I know my veggie friends will curl in horror at my next statement, but it was generally an enjoyable experience, if not full of teachable moments. Butchering forces you to be incredibly attentive, incredibly thorough; to feel the meat with your fingers in order to recognize the different textures of the different muscles, or to feel the seams along which to separate those muscles so that you don't waste any part of the animal. An err in cutting along the ribs could mean a ruined tenderloin, and wasted -- note this -- not product, but life.
This is where shit started to get real.
You'll start with, say, a whole pig carcass, and it's an eerie thing. You shave it, you feel it, examine it, you treat it delicately. This animal's about to be cooked; it experienced pain so that we could enjoy it. And here it is, on your stainless-steel table, lifeless.
I had the honor of segmenting the pig's head. With a hacksaw, I first sawed off the snout and then skull in half, following a vertical line in between the eyes. Then I took out the tongue, my fingers feeling the ridges on the top of the pig's mouth and the tendons connecting the tongue to the bottom of the mouth. Yet another strange, indescribable feeling when you're an intern doing it for the first time. It took all of two minutes, but it was gruesome.
I kept reminding myself that I was thankful someone slaughtered this pig, hopefully humanely as possible (it's what we aim for at our restaurant); that it led a good piggy life, and I would be thankful to prepare and enjoy it.
But I wouldn't enjoy it. The slaughterhouse made a massive gaffe, and the head didn't match the carcass. The head wasn't fresh, so all of that loveliness we would normally use to make headcheese -- i.e., the entire head, minus the brains and eyes -- were unusable.
Know how I found out it was unusable? Chef tried to simply pop out the brain with his index finger, which should happen easily if the animal was killed recently. No dice.
I had just defiled an animal, one whose lifeless peepers stared me in the face, to no avail. That idea hit me like a wrecking ball at full force.
This journal entry isn't exposing anything new. But I think it provides some insight into why nose-to-tail eating has become popular. We're human, we form bonds with animals. We're also hypocritical, because we eat many of those animals. But if those animals are raised the right way, they can be incredibly healthy for us*; the least we, as humans, could do is show respect for a creature that nourishes us well. Maybe that's why Catholics say grace before a meal, because my grandmother couldn't bear the thought of catching a lamb's blood while her mother killed it. And what better way to show appreciation than to use all of the animal, and not be forced to cringe at the sound of half a pig's head hitting the side of the green bin?
I'm planning on seeing an animal slaughtered. Not because I want to, be because, if I eat and prepare meat, I have to. It's the only way to actually understand where our food comes from, to truly understand why we should be respectful of the beings we enjoy at dinnertime. And maybe I'll become a committed vegetarian... we'll see.
So perhaps the way I've described this experience doesn't make it sound too enjoyable. But working slowly and carefully with something that was once living is humbling and meditative. And now I am one giant step closer to understanding how that meat gets on my plate.
I wasn't expecting the restaurant industry to do this to me.
*An animal's diet can alter the fats, compounds and minerals in the meat it eventually provides. Corn provides empty calories, but pigs allowed to forage on nuts tend to produce fat and meat that is higher in those brain-boosting, omega fatty acids. More on this later, I'm sure of it.
This might sound morbid, and I know my veggie friends will curl in horror at my next statement, but it was generally an enjoyable experience, if not full of teachable moments. Butchering forces you to be incredibly attentive, incredibly thorough; to feel the meat with your fingers in order to recognize the different textures of the different muscles, or to feel the seams along which to separate those muscles so that you don't waste any part of the animal. An err in cutting along the ribs could mean a ruined tenderloin, and wasted -- note this -- not product, but life.
This is where shit started to get real.
You'll start with, say, a whole pig carcass, and it's an eerie thing. You shave it, you feel it, examine it, you treat it delicately. This animal's about to be cooked; it experienced pain so that we could enjoy it. And here it is, on your stainless-steel table, lifeless.
I had the honor of segmenting the pig's head. With a hacksaw, I first sawed off the snout and then skull in half, following a vertical line in between the eyes. Then I took out the tongue, my fingers feeling the ridges on the top of the pig's mouth and the tendons connecting the tongue to the bottom of the mouth. Yet another strange, indescribable feeling when you're an intern doing it for the first time. It took all of two minutes, but it was gruesome.
I kept reminding myself that I was thankful someone slaughtered this pig, hopefully humanely as possible (it's what we aim for at our restaurant); that it led a good piggy life, and I would be thankful to prepare and enjoy it.
But I wouldn't enjoy it. The slaughterhouse made a massive gaffe, and the head didn't match the carcass. The head wasn't fresh, so all of that loveliness we would normally use to make headcheese -- i.e., the entire head, minus the brains and eyes -- were unusable.
Know how I found out it was unusable? Chef tried to simply pop out the brain with his index finger, which should happen easily if the animal was killed recently. No dice.
I had just defiled an animal, one whose lifeless peepers stared me in the face, to no avail. That idea hit me like a wrecking ball at full force.
This journal entry isn't exposing anything new. But I think it provides some insight into why nose-to-tail eating has become popular. We're human, we form bonds with animals. We're also hypocritical, because we eat many of those animals. But if those animals are raised the right way, they can be incredibly healthy for us*; the least we, as humans, could do is show respect for a creature that nourishes us well. Maybe that's why Catholics say grace before a meal, because my grandmother couldn't bear the thought of catching a lamb's blood while her mother killed it. And what better way to show appreciation than to use all of the animal, and not be forced to cringe at the sound of half a pig's head hitting the side of the green bin?
I'm planning on seeing an animal slaughtered. Not because I want to, be because, if I eat and prepare meat, I have to. It's the only way to actually understand where our food comes from, to truly understand why we should be respectful of the beings we enjoy at dinnertime. And maybe I'll become a committed vegetarian... we'll see.
So perhaps the way I've described this experience doesn't make it sound too enjoyable. But working slowly and carefully with something that was once living is humbling and meditative. And now I am one giant step closer to understanding how that meat gets on my plate.
I wasn't expecting the restaurant industry to do this to me.
*An animal's diet can alter the fats, compounds and minerals in the meat it eventually provides. Corn provides empty calories, but pigs allowed to forage on nuts tend to produce fat and meat that is higher in those brain-boosting, omega fatty acids. More on this later, I'm sure of it.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
...and what did you learn today?
One of my colleagues asked me this today.
And I could come up with only one concrete answer: the recipe for pickling liquid!
But concrete answers cannot sum up the day for an intern -- or any cook for that matter.
Starting out means doing some trivial things. It means lots of mirepoix brunoise; it means taking on two cases of corn, or entering bean purgatory to shell those delicious flageolets. And while they sound boring, those mundane tasks shouldn't be scoffed at. By the time I'm done with this internship, I will be able to destroy cases of corn, quickly. But ideally, my skills shouldn't stop with corn: I'll have a better feel for my tools, what processes work best for which task, a better feel for my hands, maybe even become more ambidextrous, and if I'm lucky (which I am), my colleagues will let me know when I'm doing something wrong. These abilities should spill over into everything else I do, and their development never ends. And it will hopefully translate to an intuitive feel for food, one day...
I haven't yet worked a full dinner service, so when I get home, I am only mentally exhausted. This is also a result of the learning process that cannot be explained in recipes. If I can lift my head up from my current task, I watch one of the sous chefs breaking down fish, and muster up the focus to go back to what I was doing. That is hard for me. Then there are little internal notes that begin to pile up: peer into the cooler or walk-in, take a mental photo; look at prep list; read yesterday's menu; read today's menu; look at recipe, note ratios; ask what ingredient goes with what, on what dish, think about how that works; stay for line-up, taste, analyze salt, acid, bitterness, fat, umami; train your palate; taste everything you touch; remember what that produce tastes like, because it's at its peak, and this kitchen has the best; take notes. Oh, and complete all your other tasks.
Writing a thesis challenges you intellectually, but not in the upfront, honest way a kitchen does. There's no B.S. here; you can't skim paragraphs, or argue your way out of a bad dish. You're starting out, and no matter how much you've read, you're still an inexperienced cook, and you will learn from everyone else.
So be humble, and take in everything.
And I could come up with only one concrete answer: the recipe for pickling liquid!
But concrete answers cannot sum up the day for an intern -- or any cook for that matter.
Starting out means doing some trivial things. It means lots of mirepoix brunoise; it means taking on two cases of corn, or entering bean purgatory to shell those delicious flageolets. And while they sound boring, those mundane tasks shouldn't be scoffed at. By the time I'm done with this internship, I will be able to destroy cases of corn, quickly. But ideally, my skills shouldn't stop with corn: I'll have a better feel for my tools, what processes work best for which task, a better feel for my hands, maybe even become more ambidextrous, and if I'm lucky (which I am), my colleagues will let me know when I'm doing something wrong. These abilities should spill over into everything else I do, and their development never ends. And it will hopefully translate to an intuitive feel for food, one day...
I haven't yet worked a full dinner service, so when I get home, I am only mentally exhausted. This is also a result of the learning process that cannot be explained in recipes. If I can lift my head up from my current task, I watch one of the sous chefs breaking down fish, and muster up the focus to go back to what I was doing. That is hard for me. Then there are little internal notes that begin to pile up: peer into the cooler or walk-in, take a mental photo; look at prep list; read yesterday's menu; read today's menu; look at recipe, note ratios; ask what ingredient goes with what, on what dish, think about how that works; stay for line-up, taste, analyze salt, acid, bitterness, fat, umami; train your palate; taste everything you touch; remember what that produce tastes like, because it's at its peak, and this kitchen has the best; take notes. Oh, and complete all your other tasks.
Writing a thesis challenges you intellectually, but not in the upfront, honest way a kitchen does. There's no B.S. here; you can't skim paragraphs, or argue your way out of a bad dish. You're starting out, and no matter how much you've read, you're still an inexperienced cook, and you will learn from everyone else.
So be humble, and take in everything.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Between absurdity and evolution
So, this is the table where I'm supposed to serve the anti-gravity pizza?I understand that sometimes, cranberry beans are just not enough.
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| Not to your liking? |
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| Just admit it -- you want to dive face -first into them |
I understand that a restaurant's evolution typically means following trends; that the words and principles organic and sustainable are now givens. But how does a chef, or even a lil' ol' cook, know when they're being truly cutting edge, or whether they're in the process of digging themselves so far into a fadhole they won't be able to climb out? How does a restaurant evolve and stick around?
Could it be that food forming, foams and hovering pizzas will make 2012 issues of Art Culinaire look really hilarious?
This entry wasn't written by a bitter, California cook. Sous vide, foams and food forms are popular for a reason -- because when these techniques are applied correctly, they provide a tasty, enjoyable dining experience. Let's first examine the villainous espuma. Its presentation purposes freak me out a little, because it eventually starts to decay into a slimy texture that is... well... something I'd rather not have on my food. But from the taste bud's perspective, foams should be a treat. They should provide more dimension to the dish (taste, texture, mouthfeel), and capture the very essence of whatever ingredient the foam is made out of. Sous vide cooking provides meat with a wholly unique texture -- one student described sous vide Salmon as "warm sashimi." It's something I happen to like, a lot.
But there's little reason for us produce lovers to be scared by machines and hydrocolloids. No chef will be able to work with a tomato in March and produce the best tomato dish, ever; if your purveyor provides you with terrible beef, you will not be able to sous vide it into the best beef dish possible. The best product can live without immersion circulators, anti-griddles and gelatin, but the niftiest of gadgets, compounds and synthetic emulsifiers can't truly make a chef happy without the best product.
The chefs who are currently innovating in this city, successfully moving beyond the jargon of organic, seasonal and sustainable truly understand this concept. Take a look at Dominque Crenn's current menu, and you'll find it loaded with the proper Summer goodness: blackberries, huckleberries, melon, tomatoes. And it's okay to do more with delicious product -- gorgeous product that will definitely be seasonal, and all the better if farmed without pesticides, or raised without growth hormones.
For now, I'm happy to devote myself to truly understanding those basics that all chefs respect, inside and out. One step at a time.
More to come.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
The SF food scene continues to kill it
As if I needed another reason to be such a lucky culinary student.
Bon Appetit named State Bird Provisions 2012's Best New Restaurant, followed by a wonderful article to boot. This coincides nicely with Danny Bowien exporting San Francisco staple Mission Chinese to New York. (Mission Chinese took Bon Appetit's #2 distinction last year). A mere 49 square miles worth of food reputation continues to grow, upwards and outwards.
Damn; I had yet to make my way to State Bird before the uber-press got there. I feel like I'll be regretting my patience.
Nonetheless: congrats, Chefs! And thank you for molding this little peninsula's culinary landscape. What a fantastic place to live and learn.
Bon Appetit named State Bird Provisions 2012's Best New Restaurant, followed by a wonderful article to boot. This coincides nicely with Danny Bowien exporting San Francisco staple Mission Chinese to New York. (Mission Chinese took Bon Appetit's #2 distinction last year). A mere 49 square miles worth of food reputation continues to grow, upwards and outwards.
Damn; I had yet to make my way to State Bird before the uber-press got there. I feel like I'll be regretting my patience.
Nonetheless: congrats, Chefs! And thank you for molding this little peninsula's culinary landscape. What a fantastic place to live and learn.
On site: 8.10.12. The nuts and bolts of catering
We're going to City Hall, for a high-profile event. And I gotta look good. I mean, that's what the e-mail said.
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| The fruits of some of my labor: snap pea salad and a milk-braised pulled pork slider with fennel slaw |
I was stuck in a sticky, hot corner of a makeshift kitchen, so did it matter whether I had actually put on eye makeup? Eh, not really.
This event could have gone smoother. And that's putting it diplomatically.
We were hit with some changes in our timeline: passed hors d'oeuvres started 45 minutes before they were supposed to (eeeep!), and the buffet started earlier than scheduled as well. Oh, and guess what? We were serving 200 big eaters -- farmers and gardeners, hello (sweeping generalizations, hello). Yeah, there was nothing left. It's nice that there was so little waste, because catering is prone to it. That notwithstanding, we shouldn't have run out of food the way we did, or been subjected to such mad scrambling.
You'd like to avoid these mishaps, but you can't prevent them entirely. It's difficult to be flexible in catering. In our mini-disaster, staff should have gotten there earlier. But the call times for employees were sent out a week ago; can you manage to get ahold of your employees, only hours before they're supposed to show up? Maybe, most likely not. Did we even know the timeline was going to change -- that guests would, maybe, start showing up earlier than expected, or that there might have been some miscommunication between client and staff? Did we realize one of the cooks wasn't going to show up, for whatever, most likely valid, reason? In these cases, we can't exercise much disaster management once on site. Heavy. Sigh.
However, these messy scenarios also reveal why I find catering so intriguing. The sheer level of planning that goes into a small event is mind-numbing. Get ready for your eyes to glaze over, because I'm about to list some things you'll need to consider when catering an event. Skim it if you're not organized and anal-retentive to the very core:
Your food. What elements need to be prepped ahead of time, what should be prepped ahead of time, and what can or needs to be made on site. What about a detail as delicate as a garnish? How will you store the food with the facilities and equipment you have? Is the food appropriate for the event? Events are often planned six months in advance -- so what produce is going to survive potential drought or crap weather to be good enough to serve once the event comes around? Caterers aren't soothsayers. I get to go to the market with my soon-to-be Chef this week; there, he truly sees what's good, produce at it's peak. In that respect, he has a major advantage over caterers.
Your venue. Is there a kitchen? If there is, what equipment does the kitchen have? Will you need to bring certain equipment? If there isn't a kitchen, how will you set up? Do you need ovens, burners? Does the site have the electrical capacity to handle your equipment? Will you need to set up tents (if you're outdoors, for example)? How many tents? Oh, P.S. Some of those kitchens, and excuse my French because I will use it sparingly on this blog, can be fucking gnarly. I still shudder at the thought of those few. Ew.
Your equipment. For the kitchen to consider: bowls, butane burners, butane, hotel pans, spoons, whisks, lexans, bus tubs, coolers, plastic wrap, aluminum foil, platters, plates, sternos, ovens, tables, risers for the tables, uniforms, knives, cutting boards, towels, gloves, vinegar and water, sanitizer, soap, first aid kits, extension cords, Crescors, freezers, dry ice for the freezer. For the front of house to consider: saucers, flatware, silverware, glasses, coffee cups, trays, folding tray stands, linens, uniforms, tables, chairs, carpets/mats, portable bar(s), liquor, wine and beer (and their permits), coffee, water, cocktail shakers, coasters, bus tubs, dance floor, stage... and the appropriate size, quantity and type of each of these items.
How will these items be transported? How will you pack the truck?
Your staff. How many cooks? How many servers? How many captains on the floor? How long will they work? Will you drive them there, or will they get to the site themselves? And who will do what? Certain employees might be better suited to certain events. There's one guy at my work who's always working the charcuterie action station, because he has the perfect "look" for it. And there is always an A-Team.
Your timeline. When will your staff arrive? How long will setup take? When will cooks begin prep work? When will guests begin arriving? When will most or all of the guests arrive? If there are hors d'oeuvres, when will they be passed and when will they finish passing? When does everything need to be set-up, prepped and served so that you're ready for your guests?
There. You're welcome?
Oh, yeah, and you need to load and unload everything. So keep yourself fit, which I've realized I have to do just to keep injury at bay. Doesn't mean I am fit...crap.
Restaurants require much more planning to get off the ground, no question about that. But they're not subject to this sort of rigidity once they're open for service. At this point, I'm speaking only from limited experience, so I'll get back to you in three months with a more detailed comparison.
Sidebar: I still won't be an expert on the hospitality industry at that point, so don't take my opinion too seriously. Kay? Kay.
What did you do in all of this madness, Ms. Author? See the colorful salad at the top of this entry? I worked on that.
It was presented on buffet tables in tiny, individual, Chinese take-out boxes. Thirty to a platter, six platters made. Tedious, indeed.
Oh, but the components came together so well. Sugar snap peas, radishes, edamame, julienned red peppers, hajiki, scallions and sesame seeds, all tossed in a miso vinaigrette and garnished with micro cilantro. Hajiki? Heh? It's the black stuff in the photo. Similar to seaweed, it grows on rocks along the shorelines of China, Japan and Korea. It added an interesting texture (somewhat tough, very savory) to the slightly mealy edamame, crispy snap peas and radishes. From the point of view of a cook on a learning curve, who was in the weeds, the micro cilantro was a pain. I didn't think it lent a whole lot of dimension to the salad, but it looked slightly prettier with it.
I also learned, from a more experienced cook I was working with, that the scallions are so delicate they might tend to "cook" in the vinaigrette. Taking this into account, because I had to mix two large batches of salad in advance, the scallions weren't so much "tossed" with the salad as they were used as a garnish, sprinkled on top.
The veggies all looked gorgeous in the tiny to-go boxes: the red and white of the radishes contrasting with the bright green of the peas, beans, and scallions, the black hajiki, the dots of golden sesame seeds, all in the whimsy of little to-go boxes, filling up a large, square tray -- muah! I would have taken a picture, but alas. The hungry crowd made the servers nervous, and they were, understandably so, breathing down my neck for platter after platter.
I ran out. What's on the plate was my dinner, the straggling peas and radishes leftover in the Lexan, inadequate for another serving.
The tiny sandwich pictured above is a milk-braised pulled pork slider with fennel slaw on a mini brioche bun. Yum. The lonely sammie was one of about seven that I had for dinner. Talk about not keeping kosher! I assembled a few dozen of these as well. Easy task. They were a huge hit.
I also chopped some chives for a chilled corn soup. Note: need to find a better way to chop chives. Sounds like a useless piece of information, but I'm writing all my thoughts down. Including observations about my inadequate knife skills. So deal with it, meager Internet audience!
***
A certain Chef who has a certain TV show about pulling restaurants out of the merde made a snide, backhanded comment in the British version of his show. Upon inspecting a disgusting fridge, he commented that the state of such a kitchen was "an embarrassment to catering, let alone a restaurant."
Echem... what?
I hope that, from what I've detailed in this entry, it's apparent good catering requires a massive amount of organization, planning and skill. No doubt there are bad caterers, just like there are bad restaurateurs, cooks and chefs. But a good caterer is not just ultra-organized, they can also churn out fantastic food (above) that pleases a hungry crowd. So let's give them a little respect.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Serious lessons in fun from SF Chefs
I took an old friend with me to SF Chefs "Decadence after Dark," their Saturday night event. It all started at this Pisco booth:
Where we had this:
First things first: a delicious cocktail, with chili, avocado, lime and egg whites? Uh-huh. Yeah, just that drink, in and of itself, was a damn good time.
The food was what I expected: delicious, thoughtful, seasonal. And now, I'm about to delve into the magical combination of food, alcohol and good people.
My friend was freaking out a little too much about attending such a foodie-centric event. While we were standing in line, she shared her fears with me:
And what I told her next goes for everyone else "scared" of the food scene, or those who might find it "snooty:"
Tell the chefs you like their food. That's it. The fact is: those chefs know more than the average foodie, who might be prone to wax poetic about the acid content of ceviche, or have a penchant for the word "unctuous." But that's me, largely digressing.
But sometimes, it really is that simple.
As a culinary student, I understand the importance of dissecting a dish; of analyzing and speaking like a "foodie." This might mean I'll comment on the acid, bitterness, sourness, sweetness or savory umami characteristics of a dish. If I'm dining alone, I take notes with my Catch app (for the record: I love dining alone as much as I do with others). Yet some of my more memorable eating experiences have come when I was dining and drinking on happy autopilot. A four a.m. meal in Kreuzberg, at Hasir: braised lamb swimming in a lovely, paprika-heavy tomato sauce that was easily lapped up by fladenbrot and rice. But I was tipsy, and my friend so very gone she dribbled that delicious sauce all over herself. Or how about a Winter dinner of roast meats and greens in a Berlin suburb, with American exchange students and a German family, preceded and followed by a round of egg liqueur and puh-lenty of beer? And don't forget the Abendbrot! Oh-oh-oh, the charcuterie in Germany. I wasn't analyzing any of these meals. I was focused on enjoying myself and my lovely friends, in lovely settings.
The beautiful thing for me is that if I came across those flavors again, I would be able to place them. I'm convinced it's because the memories of those meals are positive, fond and, most importantly, so fond they're recalled on a regular basis.
Which finally brings me to my main point. At the end of our SF Chefs romp, my friend said something that made me happy for days:
Ah. And to think she nearly wanted to run away before entering the tent. I have a feeling that experience provided a revelation because it was so fun. Our night was the perfect combination of friends, food and drink.
Culinary students can learn from a little bit of enjoyment, too. If we can happily recall an experience, we're more likely to remember it, and therefore more likely to remember why we liked it so much.
I drank at SF Chefs; I was certainly not drunk, but I definitely had a good buzz going. Alcohol, in addition to numbing your other senses, also numbs your palate. Yet I remember that my favorite dish was the scallop crudo with sweet peppers and ginger; that I enjoyed it so much because the ginger gave it a bit of much-needed zip; I remember learning something new about poke from Chef Alexander Ong; and I remember learning that liquid nitrogen will keep the Thai basil in a Thai basil daquiri from oxidizing, which keeps the flavors pure and the drink cold without watering it down with ice. I'll remember these things because I will probably reminisce about this night more than a few times.
Culinary students are going to be in the business of providing enjoyment. Shouldn't we understand what it means to thoroughly enjoy food? I will still use the words acid, bitter, sour, sweet, umami and even unctuous. I might even share extensive tasting notes with my Internet audience. But there's more to food than picking it apart.
Note: I will put together an album for this event, showcasing the beautiful food. It'll appear in an update.
Where we had this:
First things first: a delicious cocktail, with chili, avocado, lime and egg whites? Uh-huh. Yeah, just that drink, in and of itself, was a damn good time.
The food was what I expected: delicious, thoughtful, seasonal. And now, I'm about to delve into the magical combination of food, alcohol and good people.
My friend was freaking out a little too much about attending such a foodie-centric event. While we were standing in line, she shared her fears with me:
Natalie, I'm nervous about my inability to discuss food intelligently... Maybe I could try drawing ties between the presentation of a dish and a major historical event? I know about history.
And what I told her next goes for everyone else "scared" of the food scene, or those who might find it "snooty:"
Tell the chefs you like their food. That's it. The fact is: those chefs know more than the average foodie, who might be prone to wax poetic about the acid content of ceviche, or have a penchant for the word "unctuous." But that's me, largely digressing.
But sometimes, it really is that simple.
As a culinary student, I understand the importance of dissecting a dish; of analyzing and speaking like a "foodie." This might mean I'll comment on the acid, bitterness, sourness, sweetness or savory umami characteristics of a dish. If I'm dining alone, I take notes with my Catch app (for the record: I love dining alone as much as I do with others). Yet some of my more memorable eating experiences have come when I was dining and drinking on happy autopilot. A four a.m. meal in Kreuzberg, at Hasir: braised lamb swimming in a lovely, paprika-heavy tomato sauce that was easily lapped up by fladenbrot and rice. But I was tipsy, and my friend so very gone she dribbled that delicious sauce all over herself. Or how about a Winter dinner of roast meats and greens in a Berlin suburb, with American exchange students and a German family, preceded and followed by a round of egg liqueur and puh-lenty of beer? And don't forget the Abendbrot! Oh-oh-oh, the charcuterie in Germany. I wasn't analyzing any of these meals. I was focused on enjoying myself and my lovely friends, in lovely settings.
The beautiful thing for me is that if I came across those flavors again, I would be able to place them. I'm convinced it's because the memories of those meals are positive, fond and, most importantly, so fond they're recalled on a regular basis.
Which finally brings me to my main point. At the end of our SF Chefs romp, my friend said something that made me happy for days:
I never knew you could experience food like that. That you could taste all of the components and appreciate a dish so much.
Ah. And to think she nearly wanted to run away before entering the tent. I have a feeling that experience provided a revelation because it was so fun. Our night was the perfect combination of friends, food and drink.
Culinary students can learn from a little bit of enjoyment, too. If we can happily recall an experience, we're more likely to remember it, and therefore more likely to remember why we liked it so much.
I drank at SF Chefs; I was certainly not drunk, but I definitely had a good buzz going. Alcohol, in addition to numbing your other senses, also numbs your palate. Yet I remember that my favorite dish was the scallop crudo with sweet peppers and ginger; that I enjoyed it so much because the ginger gave it a bit of much-needed zip; I remember learning something new about poke from Chef Alexander Ong; and I remember learning that liquid nitrogen will keep the Thai basil in a Thai basil daquiri from oxidizing, which keeps the flavors pure and the drink cold without watering it down with ice. I'll remember these things because I will probably reminisce about this night more than a few times.
Culinary students are going to be in the business of providing enjoyment. Shouldn't we understand what it means to thoroughly enjoy food? I will still use the words acid, bitter, sour, sweet, umami and even unctuous. I might even share extensive tasting notes with my Internet audience. But there's more to food than picking it apart.
Note: I will put together an album for this event, showcasing the beautiful food. It'll appear in an update.
Monday, August 6, 2012
CCSF Culinary fundraiser @ Il Cane Rosso, 8.25.12. Good for culinary, good for the college
On Saturday, Aug. 25th, the City College of San Francisco Culinary Arts and Hospitality Studies Department will host a fundraiser at Il Cane Rosso, in the hopes of keeping the program alive. The evening will offer three passed appetizers, a three-course meal (veg option included) and wine pairing, all for $50. That, my friends, is a steal!
Here's some background on CCSF's financial woes, and me, genuinely waxing poetic, carried away by sleeplessness and a lingering hangover from SF Chefs' Grand Tasting. Manohmanohman.
In the middle of Spring semester 2012, this is what was freaking most of us students out. And that's when City's culinary department started kicking it into high gear. The efforts of faculty members to get more fundraising events off the ground, besides our annual Wok on the Wild Side mainstay (oh we kicked it into high-gear for that madness, too), were only borne out after discovering this Summer that the entire college was imploding.
So while Culinary Arts and Hospitality Studies is but one arm of City College, we are an important one. Eighty percent of our graduates are placed in jobs immediately after graduating -- a dizzying figure when compared with the rest of the college. Walk into a restaurant, and you will stumble over successful CCSF alum. We are everywhere, we work hard, and, most importantly, I've found that we are an invaluable resource for one another.
The flipside of the Culinary Arts Department's financial trouble is that we cannot succeed without an accessible institution like City College. We cook in bulk, serving 900 affordable meals a day for an entire campus, providing us with an educational experience totally unique to our program; we're able to work (our butts off), and graduate with minimal to no debt in an industry that starts at the very low end of the pay scale. That's what City is all about; without City, our careers, our education as culinary professionals, isn't the enriching experience we've come not just to expect, but appreciate as well.
But if us culinary students can kick butt with a few events, like the upcoming fundraiser, then maybe we can prove to the Accreditation Commission for Community and Junior Colleges that there's one reason to keep the CCSF ship sailing. We can't represent the History Department, or Chemistry, or Paralegal Studies, but we can represent ourselves, and all that City College has provided for us in the careers we love.
Feel persuaded to come show your support? Love the SF food scene that CCSF alums have helped mold for decades? Well, then, here's all the info you need for the fundraiser at Il Cane Rosso. I hope to see your lovely faces there!
Here's some background on CCSF's financial woes, and me, genuinely waxing poetic, carried away by sleeplessness and a lingering hangover from SF Chefs' Grand Tasting. Manohmanohman.
In the middle of Spring semester 2012, this is what was freaking most of us students out. And that's when City's culinary department started kicking it into high gear. The efforts of faculty members to get more fundraising events off the ground, besides our annual Wok on the Wild Side mainstay (oh we kicked it into high-gear for that madness, too), were only borne out after discovering this Summer that the entire college was imploding.
So while Culinary Arts and Hospitality Studies is but one arm of City College, we are an important one. Eighty percent of our graduates are placed in jobs immediately after graduating -- a dizzying figure when compared with the rest of the college. Walk into a restaurant, and you will stumble over successful CCSF alum. We are everywhere, we work hard, and, most importantly, I've found that we are an invaluable resource for one another.
The flipside of the Culinary Arts Department's financial trouble is that we cannot succeed without an accessible institution like City College. We cook in bulk, serving 900 affordable meals a day for an entire campus, providing us with an educational experience totally unique to our program; we're able to work (our butts off), and graduate with minimal to no debt in an industry that starts at the very low end of the pay scale. That's what City is all about; without City, our careers, our education as culinary professionals, isn't the enriching experience we've come not just to expect, but appreciate as well.
But if us culinary students can kick butt with a few events, like the upcoming fundraiser, then maybe we can prove to the Accreditation Commission for Community and Junior Colleges that there's one reason to keep the CCSF ship sailing. We can't represent the History Department, or Chemistry, or Paralegal Studies, but we can represent ourselves, and all that City College has provided for us in the careers we love.
Feel persuaded to come show your support? Love the SF food scene that CCSF alums have helped mold for decades? Well, then, here's all the info you need for the fundraiser at Il Cane Rosso. I hope to see your lovely faces there!
Friday, August 3, 2012
A segment called: On site...
Introducing "On site..."
You see, a good practice that I have nearly abandoned was keeping a daily culinary diary -- of food conversation, of what I made that day, of what I could improve upon, injuries, etc. I do take notes, but they're miserable. It'll be better if I write with the pressure of an Internet audience on my shoulders, that way I'll be able to make sense of my thoughts easily.
I work for a large catering company, typically at events. Thus the segment name that contributes to this good practice, "On site..."
Yesterday, we arrived on site at 8 a.m. to the view below. Seeing this, you just had the sense that the day was going to go smoothly.
Ah, I love it when positive premonitions are on-the-money. The only big hiccup was the fact that the kitchen was a needless 110 degrees Fahrenheit. We weren't doing a whole mess of hot cooking, but an ill-placed skylight in a home kitchen made the room way too warm.
But, I mean, when this is your view... um, yeah... who cares?
The gorgeousness above the fog is from the Thomas Fogerty Winery in Palo Alto, high up atop the Santa Cruz mountains on Skyline Blvd (one of my favorite roads to drive, by the way). The climate is perfect for producing Pinot Noir and Chardonnay. Would love to come back when I find the free time.
Later I prepped these:
And these Armenian cucumbers:
for our infamous panzanella, which is basically bread salad (wrap your low-carb diet around THAT). Panzanella is a good way to use up your stale bread, especially with the bounty of ripe, lovely Heirloom tomatoes August has on offer. I took the leftover 'loomies home and made some myself.
The catering company I work for makes their panzanella with tomatoes, cucumbers, mandolin-thin or minced red onion, toasted cubes of bread, fresh basil and a fantastic vinaigrette, whose secrets I have yet to discover (that's definitely at the tippity-top top of my to-do list. I'd like to accomplish this task before October comes around and tomatoes become cardboard.) For this event, we plated the salad with burrata cheese and a deep-green basil oil. If it sounds lovely, that's because it is. There's no much acid in the salad that a cheese as rich as burrata is the perfect compliment. Easily one of my favorite things to build.
Note: experiment with infused oils. Probably something a child could do.
In between prepping the lovely, lovely panzo' and plating it, I built hors d'oeuvres. This is where I like to work on one of my weak spots: speed. People who arrive at a catered event and begin drinking usually want something to nosh on... pronto. If you're me, you'll inhale these bites of food, because, after all, they're soooooo tiny. Only a snack, or two... or three... or ten.
Success! Got through hors d'oeuvres for 32 people 15 minutes before the meal started. Timing was exactly what I wanted.
Being passed around the room: Caesar salad bites in frico cups and mini corn tacos. First time I've built the tiny tacos, even though they are always on the menu in some form or another (duck confit tacos, for example). My manager had set-up the station, making an aluminum foil stand for the iddy-biddy taco shells. I'll be swooping on that method, kaythanks!
Most people love the Caesar salad bites. It's a diminutive version of a common fave, making clients squeal at its cuteness. There are even wee-liddwle croutons, OMG! The mini corn tacos were also yummy -- they're served with cilantro corn, red pepper brunoise, chili aioli and an little slice of avocado. People: corn is LUSCIOUS right now. Go do something with it!
My Kitchen Manager had built a paper cone to dollop the aioli, which made me remember, "Crap, I kind of forgot how to make those. Have to re-hone my skills." Maybe I'll practice chocolate writing while I'm at it...
The entrée was prepped by a badass cook (no, not I. I don't get to touch hot food yet): airline chicken breast with potatoes dauphinoise, green- and yellow beans in herb butter and fresh mustard greens. The chicken was spot-friggin'-on, and you can't go wrong with thinly-sliced potatoes slathered then baked in cream, white wine and a good dose of garlic. The beans were a nice compliment as well. A very heavy main -- four elements on one plate is a lot to eat. But when you're cooking for a wine-tasting, you're serving tipsy-doodles who are going to end up eating a lot. Plates came back clean.
Dessert was a lemon Shaker tart with huckleberry sauce and fresh cream. I enjoyed it -- the tart was fragrant, lemon and huckleberries are lovely together, and the whipped cream balanced all that acid out.
Many of the waiters were on the same page, but the diners were split. The most common complaint: too much rind in the tart. C'mon -- that was my favorite part! The pith (white part of the peel) lends a slight bitter taste, but the tart had a hefty, hefty, hefty (read: hefty) dose of sugar. I thought the rind provided a beautiful fragrance the tart wouldn't have otherwise had.
I knew who the Shakers were, but didn't know they also had a tart to their name (smitten kitchen goes into the tart's history a little bit). The Shakers were a thrifty bunch, who were apparently so thrifty they didn't even depart with their lemon peels. So the tart includes whole, paper-thin slices of lemon, macerated in sugar and mixed with eggs.
Deb at smitten kitchen notes that the pie should be "part marmalade, part curd." I didn't notice any curd-y qualities in our tart -- would that have made it more palatable for fickle adults? Would adding more eggs to the recipe have yielded a unanimous crowd-pleaser?
The kitchen was so hot that I had to re-whip the cream with the fridge door open, in the fridge (no, not the walk-in), by hand, my right elbow constantly knocking against the door. Thump, thump, thump, wasting kilowatts, thump, thump, thump...
Kitchen conversation had nothing to food. But we did talk about military involvement in Syria, DUH! My conversations need plenty of dimension, so I was happy.
Oh goodness, audience: so sorry I didn't take pictures of anything plated. Ack, I need to get better at this.
You see, a good practice that I have nearly abandoned was keeping a daily culinary diary -- of food conversation, of what I made that day, of what I could improve upon, injuries, etc. I do take notes, but they're miserable. It'll be better if I write with the pressure of an Internet audience on my shoulders, that way I'll be able to make sense of my thoughts easily.
I work for a large catering company, typically at events. Thus the segment name that contributes to this good practice, "On site..."
Yesterday, we arrived on site at 8 a.m. to the view below. Seeing this, you just had the sense that the day was going to go smoothly.
Ah, I love it when positive premonitions are on-the-money. The only big hiccup was the fact that the kitchen was a needless 110 degrees Fahrenheit. We weren't doing a whole mess of hot cooking, but an ill-placed skylight in a home kitchen made the room way too warm.
But, I mean, when this is your view... um, yeah... who cares?
The gorgeousness above the fog is from the Thomas Fogerty Winery in Palo Alto, high up atop the Santa Cruz mountains on Skyline Blvd (one of my favorite roads to drive, by the way). The climate is perfect for producing Pinot Noir and Chardonnay. Would love to come back when I find the free time.
Later I prepped these:
And these Armenian cucumbers:
for our infamous panzanella, which is basically bread salad (wrap your low-carb diet around THAT). Panzanella is a good way to use up your stale bread, especially with the bounty of ripe, lovely Heirloom tomatoes August has on offer. I took the leftover 'loomies home and made some myself.
The catering company I work for makes their panzanella with tomatoes, cucumbers, mandolin-thin or minced red onion, toasted cubes of bread, fresh basil and a fantastic vinaigrette, whose secrets I have yet to discover (that's definitely at the tippity-top top of my to-do list. I'd like to accomplish this task before October comes around and tomatoes become cardboard.) For this event, we plated the salad with burrata cheese and a deep-green basil oil. If it sounds lovely, that's because it is. There's no much acid in the salad that a cheese as rich as burrata is the perfect compliment. Easily one of my favorite things to build.
Note: experiment with infused oils. Probably something a child could do.
In between prepping the lovely, lovely panzo' and plating it, I built hors d'oeuvres. This is where I like to work on one of my weak spots: speed. People who arrive at a catered event and begin drinking usually want something to nosh on... pronto. If you're me, you'll inhale these bites of food, because, after all, they're soooooo tiny. Only a snack, or two... or three... or ten.
Success! Got through hors d'oeuvres for 32 people 15 minutes before the meal started. Timing was exactly what I wanted.
Being passed around the room: Caesar salad bites in frico cups and mini corn tacos. First time I've built the tiny tacos, even though they are always on the menu in some form or another (duck confit tacos, for example). My manager had set-up the station, making an aluminum foil stand for the iddy-biddy taco shells. I'll be swooping on that method, kaythanks!
Most people love the Caesar salad bites. It's a diminutive version of a common fave, making clients squeal at its cuteness. There are even wee-liddwle croutons, OMG! The mini corn tacos were also yummy -- they're served with cilantro corn, red pepper brunoise, chili aioli and an little slice of avocado. People: corn is LUSCIOUS right now. Go do something with it!
My Kitchen Manager had built a paper cone to dollop the aioli, which made me remember, "Crap, I kind of forgot how to make those. Have to re-hone my skills." Maybe I'll practice chocolate writing while I'm at it...
The entrée was prepped by a badass cook (no, not I. I don't get to touch hot food yet): airline chicken breast with potatoes dauphinoise, green- and yellow beans in herb butter and fresh mustard greens. The chicken was spot-friggin'-on, and you can't go wrong with thinly-sliced potatoes slathered then baked in cream, white wine and a good dose of garlic. The beans were a nice compliment as well. A very heavy main -- four elements on one plate is a lot to eat. But when you're cooking for a wine-tasting, you're serving tipsy-doodles who are going to end up eating a lot. Plates came back clean.
Dessert was a lemon Shaker tart with huckleberry sauce and fresh cream. I enjoyed it -- the tart was fragrant, lemon and huckleberries are lovely together, and the whipped cream balanced all that acid out.
Many of the waiters were on the same page, but the diners were split. The most common complaint: too much rind in the tart. C'mon -- that was my favorite part! The pith (white part of the peel) lends a slight bitter taste, but the tart had a hefty, hefty, hefty (read: hefty) dose of sugar. I thought the rind provided a beautiful fragrance the tart wouldn't have otherwise had.
I knew who the Shakers were, but didn't know they also had a tart to their name (smitten kitchen goes into the tart's history a little bit). The Shakers were a thrifty bunch, who were apparently so thrifty they didn't even depart with their lemon peels. So the tart includes whole, paper-thin slices of lemon, macerated in sugar and mixed with eggs.
Deb at smitten kitchen notes that the pie should be "part marmalade, part curd." I didn't notice any curd-y qualities in our tart -- would that have made it more palatable for fickle adults? Would adding more eggs to the recipe have yielded a unanimous crowd-pleaser?
The kitchen was so hot that I had to re-whip the cream with the fridge door open, in the fridge (no, not the walk-in), by hand, my right elbow constantly knocking against the door. Thump, thump, thump, wasting kilowatts, thump, thump, thump...
Kitchen conversation had nothing to food. But we did talk about military involvement in Syria, DUH! My conversations need plenty of dimension, so I was happy.
Oh goodness, audience: so sorry I didn't take pictures of anything plated. Ack, I need to get better at this.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Roadblock overcome, let's grow this blog
Writer's block... cook's block... it's been a strange month, and not particularly creative. What was very fruitful this July: Tablehopper has a late-night dining app out. You should go download it, because I put a lot of hard work (with a good dose of pavement-pounding) into that sucker. And Marcia's reviews are pretty spot-on. Wonderful to see that done, done, done!
But otherwise, I didn't do as much imaginative cooking as I'd have liked. Well... I shouldn't say that. I didn't do imaginative cooking in a way that was appropriate for this blog. No photos when I made my first tagine; no photos recounting my quest to prepare the very best roast chicken, one of Thomas Keller's obsessions; no photos of the gorgeous salads I made with my killing from the farmer's market. And let's face it: a food blog without photos is just odd. It's my Mazda without the insanely awful GPS on my Android: no reference, no direction, and just a little ugly.
So thank goodness for that farmer's market produce. It's amazing just how good good product can make you feel if you're in a cooking funk. Lemon cucumbers, Summer squashes, the very first tomatoes (they'll be even better this month), peaches, Dirty Girl strawberries (which I, like a brute beast, inhaled upon getting home. Yup, the entire basket). What's my point? I finally have inspiration. I am fully aware of all the wonderful food I can create. Thus, it will be easier to catalog. So, for the few readers that I do have, this blog will have material soon -- a Weekly Market segment for sure, other segments that I haven't quite fleshed out, and maybe I will record, frame-by-frame, my insane desire for a near-perfect roast chicken, with epic, paragraph-long footnotes.
Think there's not much to write about chicken? Oh, how I will prove you wrong. That one's gonna take a while to put together.
I'll also be making a little pit stop at the SF Chefs Grand Tasting tent this Saturday. Do expect a report, with photos and everything. Ooooh, look at me go!
I promise: I will become a proper Blogger!
But otherwise, I didn't do as much imaginative cooking as I'd have liked. Well... I shouldn't say that. I didn't do imaginative cooking in a way that was appropriate for this blog. No photos when I made my first tagine; no photos recounting my quest to prepare the very best roast chicken, one of Thomas Keller's obsessions; no photos of the gorgeous salads I made with my killing from the farmer's market. And let's face it: a food blog without photos is just odd. It's my Mazda without the insanely awful GPS on my Android: no reference, no direction, and just a little ugly.
So thank goodness for that farmer's market produce. It's amazing just how good good product can make you feel if you're in a cooking funk. Lemon cucumbers, Summer squashes, the very first tomatoes (they'll be even better this month), peaches, Dirty Girl strawberries (which I, like a brute beast, inhaled upon getting home. Yup, the entire basket). What's my point? I finally have inspiration. I am fully aware of all the wonderful food I can create. Thus, it will be easier to catalog. So, for the few readers that I do have, this blog will have material soon -- a Weekly Market segment for sure, other segments that I haven't quite fleshed out, and maybe I will record, frame-by-frame, my insane desire for a near-perfect roast chicken, with epic, paragraph-long footnotes.
Think there's not much to write about chicken? Oh, how I will prove you wrong. That one's gonna take a while to put together.
I'll also be making a little pit stop at the SF Chefs Grand Tasting tent this Saturday. Do expect a report, with photos and everything. Ooooh, look at me go!
I promise: I will become a proper Blogger!
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Welcome to "A Little Heat!"
I am a culinary student in her very last semester. For the next six months, I'll be interning at a popular SF spot -- a gig that I have been after since I started school. Before I made the hair-brained decision to become a cook, I graduated with degrees in International Relations and German. I have also been writing short stories, essays and newspaper articles since high school.
So why did it take me so long to begin writing again? Because I have an irrational fear of conformity. As I've told every one of my friends who's encouraged me to start a blog, "Everyone who thinks they can write, already has a spot on the Internet." So, here I am, just another jerk with a laptop, going to culinary school because the economy's tanked (who knew?!).
Hopefully, ladies and gentlemen, you'll happily tag along on my journey as a developing cook. In this blog, I'll catalog my internship, document some adventurous (or stupid) recipes, post pictures from local markets, recount stories from journeys within and beyond the Bay Area, and address any salient food trends and San Francisco happenings with the fumbling, witty commentary only I am capable of. Food is my life, and I want to share it with you.
Please, take a seat.
So why did it take me so long to begin writing again? Because I have an irrational fear of conformity. As I've told every one of my friends who's encouraged me to start a blog, "Everyone who thinks they can write, already has a spot on the Internet." So, here I am, just another jerk with a laptop, going to culinary school because the economy's tanked (who knew?!).
Hopefully, ladies and gentlemen, you'll happily tag along on my journey as a developing cook. In this blog, I'll catalog my internship, document some adventurous (or stupid) recipes, post pictures from local markets, recount stories from journeys within and beyond the Bay Area, and address any salient food trends and San Francisco happenings with the fumbling, witty commentary only I am capable of. Food is my life, and I want to share it with you.
Please, take a seat.
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