Queen of the Jungle

In my last post I described the beginning of my day, the creaky ride up to eleven hours of ups and downs full of surprises.
Some days it's relatively easy. A lesson goes smoothly. Perhaps at the time I have a "good" class. Bright, motivated and hard workers. That's a pleasure, but not always the case.
Sometimes by pick of the draw I'll get a group that is, how shall I put this diplomatically...challenged?
One colleague sums it up as, "one French-fry short of a Happy Meal", or I've heard, "one firecracker short of a Chinese New Year". It's all the same meaning that overall they are just more work and harder to teach.
One repeat student, who had failed my baking class before stood right in front of me as I demonstrated how to mix a type of dough. I slowly went through the procedure, repeated verbally the very important steps, looked him straight in the eye as well as my other students (the ones paying attention). Literally two minutes after they were to do it on their own he asked me questions that I had just explained. The exact process I had just taken him through. Where the hell was his mind? Maybe the little squirrel who rides the bicycle inside his head that supplies the power to his brain had been on a nut break. I don't know. I take a deep breath and use all my most patient skills from being a mother and explain it once again.

Okay- so I have some of those to contend with.

The biggest surprises though that require split decisions and thinking are the outbursts. One must remember that our student body does contain some people with violent backgrounds. They have the tatoos and the piercings as souvenirs (unlike a lovely crocheted poncho given to a certain famous ex-boss of mine with a record). We have a security guard on premise and any type of incident is written up.
One afternoon I strolled into our hot kitchen ready to start the day's topic. Our class the day before had been the second part of a lesson where we iced and decorated the cakes we made on day one.
My class was seated around the stainless steel table in the back of the room where the board is. There was the usual buzz of conversation, getting their books and supplies out. As soon as I reached my place at the head of the table I looked up at the face at one of my students, enraged.
"Chef, why you give my cake away?!" Large brown eyes with long lashes, usually friendly stared coldly at me. The border of his black do-rag showing beneath his regulation white patisserie cap. Most days this guy was kind of goofy and I had to keep him focused on task. Today he would not get off it.
"Because", I said calmly,"you were not here yesterday".
"But Chef, that cake was mines!" , this is one word I really have trouble with. "Mines", and it's not the plural of an underground tunnel where coal is harvested.
"The policy is when you miss one half of the lesson you don't get to finish it. That was explained very clearly from the beginning of this module. We have to keep moving"
"Yeah but why you give MY cake away. I can't help it if someone else dropped they's! That cake was mines!"
His cake had been used as a replacement when another student had dropped hers yesterday. She's another story.
Back and forth it went. The class watched, a couple of people chimed in with a "let it go, man" or "you holdin' the class up". The student only became more agitated and loud.
I have learned in my short time there that there is something very primal in our teacher-student relationships. You have to let them know who is boss. You have to do it quickly. Because everyone else is watching and they will walk all over your ass if you don't. There are not a lot of white Jewish lady from Connecticut (now of Chelsea/Meatpacking) chef instructors, or for that matter probably anywhere in their lives.
I had a moment. A moment where I stood outside of my body and looked down at this stand-off. I didn't know what this kid's background was. I didn't know how far he'd take it over his stupid cake. I knew though that I had to put an end to this. This fire had to be put out immediately.
"OUTSIDE, NOW!" A very large and loud voice from within me commanded.
"You had no right to do that, Chef!", he would not drop it.
"NOW, YOU AND ME. OR I WILL CALL SECURITY. NOW!"
The room was quiet. He pulled away from the table, and swaggered toward the door.
I had won. I had conquered the enemy in front of the onlookers.
And it felt good. I felt empowered.
I walked out to meet him in the hallway. He started again about that damn cake.
"LISTEN. I WILL NOT HAVE YOU DISTURB MY CLASS ANY LONGER. I AM THE CHEF, I MAKE THE DECISIONS AND THAT IS FINAL. IF YOU HAVE ANY FURTHER PROBLEM YOU TAKE IT TO CHEF B.
I HAVE A CLASS TO TEACH.
The voice had spoken. Now I swaggered. As he went back into the classroom, muttering to collect his things, I went to Chef B. and gave him the heads up. He nodded and agreed with me.
I went back to my class and apologized for the delay. I explained the two day lesson policy again. Not only did they all say that they knew that but they gave me their full support. Apparently what he was really worked up about was not that the cake had been used but who had used it. He didn't have any love for her and it pissed him off big time.
A few minutes later the student returned to the classroom and apologized. I calmly accepted his apology and gave him directions on what he was supposed to do now.
The class went on without a hitch and he never f***ed with me again.

How Sweet It Is.

My story today is about my baking class that I just completed. It's only the second time I've taught the baking module. I've always said I'm not a pastry chef but I consider myself a baker. My ex-partner, the pastry chef, with whom I've since parted ways, was my mentor. I learned most of what I know about baking from him, and I have the experience of owning a bakery too (aka- nightmare on South Water street).
What I'm finding is, I love it. I love teaching it and doing it. Some things I had not done since I went to school like puff pastry or danish dough. I'm amazed by my own hands when I demo how to make pie dough. Those are experienced hands! There's joy when I crumble the cold butter with the flour, mix in the ice water and make a cohesive ball of dough. Rolling it out, showing them how to flute a crust. I'm damn good!
Then there's the part about seeing them try it. Most of them have not baked and they are intimidated by it. I always tell them that this is school and it's okay to make mistakes and that they are learning.
Cautiously they get their hands in there. I do it all by hand (as long as they are clean). There's a lot of calling out to me, "Chef, help!", "Chef, is this right?", "Chef, I'm scared!". Suddenly all these tough street brothers and sisters are like kindergartners. They become vulnerable. Some of them actually look like they are going to cry when their cake batter falls, or their dough turns into a sticky mess. Then there is the look on their face when they succeed, sheer pride.
Like a mother I go around and fix it, try to show them where they went wrong. My competent hands show them how to roll that pie dough, keep turning it so it does not stick to the table. Keep it moving, move quickly.
I fight another battle too. I want them to do everything from scratch. I know that most of them, it they go on, will end up in a corporate food service operation. They will used pre-made fillings and cheap shortenings. But not under my watch they won't. I insist on getting fresh fruit. I bring in some of my own recipes. I have a stash of Valhrona cocoa powder and let them use it. I show them how brown their chocolate cakes come out and how the flavor is deeper than the cheap stuff the school supplies. Most have never seen a vanilla bean, so I bring those in too. And they love my toolbox with the bench knife, the pastry tips and all my stuff that I've collected over the years.
There's usually a big guy with tattoos and a history who turns out to have a gift. This guy will have "the touch" as I call it. His puff pastry dough is perfect. It's smooth and pliable with perfect flecks of butter in it. He's amazed with himself as well as I am secretly.
I'm not going to go into the disciplinary events that took place in this class, because we had some rough days. But I will say this, I got through to them. Some very tough girls in that class. A couple of quiet ones too who barely spoke a word. My big guys who wore their do-rags underneath their baker's cap and when they wear their street clothes look like hoodlums. Somewhere I earned their respect and I got to know who they were inside. They gave me a card, a thank you card on Friday. Signed by them all, some saying that I actually got them to like baking.

I'm sorry readers, that this is so un-bitchy. I'll try harder next time.

I Can Take My Pants off with the Rest of 'Em

I jumped in to the teaching world with little training and a very special student base. I've talked about them before, some are on parole, some are from abusive home situations, or in fact having no home at all and living in their cars.
I like them though. Most of them try, are good people at heart. Even some of the loudmouths or wise-asses have their moments where you see them show some initiative or talent. I like walking through the hallways and they say, "Hello Chef M-", or even "Yo, Chef M-, how's it goin'?". I had to tell one student to stop calling me "Girl", but he learned.
I want to give them the best I have to give. I want them to learn the right way to do things, or to think about what they are doing. I get frustrated with our run-down equipment, or lack thereof. I see cans of pie filling being used, and it upsets me. They need to learn how to make a pie filling, later on when they get jobs perhaps they use that canned crap but it's my job to show them how to do the real thing. How to think seasonally, economically. What would make that pie filling taste good. What would be another way to use that product. Think, think, think.

There are some I can never see out in the world, working in a kitchen. You can't go off and talk back to your chef, yakking about "bein' disrespected". Or "Why we got to clean up after them?" Because you do. Because you answer "Yes, Chef" and you do it. When some of my students went on and on about this one night when a chef spoke sternly to me ( he was speaking chef shorthand and I knew this) I told them I'd taken plenty of this before, and it only made me stronger and better at what I do. And if you can't handle it, you're never gonna make it in this business".

When I was in business for myself I coddled too many people and I know why now. Because I lived in fear of them not showing up. Everyday held surprises, not good ones and I didn't need workers walking out. But in the end I did my cafe a disservice. They got away with too much and standards were not to my liking.
Now, I'm tougher. And, loving it.
Thing is, they can't walk out. Well, of course they can but they screw themselves if they do. I'm not saying I abuse them or humiliate them, that's not the point. But I give it to them straight, whether critiquing their food or correcting their behavior.
When I first came to this place I knew I had to be tough. This is a crowd that will walk all over you if you don't show them who is boss right away. I know there were eyes on me by the faculty to make sure I could do it. I'm a woman, softer by nature. Within a few nights though, I stood up and made the rules be known. Not "Girl", you call me Chef or Chef M-. Absolutely no cell phones, no sagging, no butt cracks, no whale tails (the upper part of thong underwear that sometimes shows above a girl's, or I guess it could be a guy's, pants). Come in late, I mark you down, talk back to me, I mark you down, work as a team, have respect for one another or- I mark you down.
Neat, clean, presentable. I don't want to send you out into the world with my name on you without being proud.
We have to give them a little sugar too. We need to make them feel good about themselves, praise them when they do a good job. Make some jokes. Bond.
I watch my colleagues and their different styles but I see that we're all after the same thing. Our systems or approaches may be different but we are here for a reason, to help our students make it in the world, perhaps a second chance for those who f-ed up the first time.
Another thing, when I first started,I was a little shocked how all the chef instructors, male and female stripped down to their underwear to change in and out of uniform. I'll be honest, I was intimidated a by this.
But as part of my journey, to teach, to learn and be part of this new direction of life, one night I slipped my jeans down and stepped in to my chef's pants. No one f-s with me, 'cause I can take my pants off with the rest of them. I'm Chef Mo, yo!

To Chef, With Love

It was just another day in the life. I was in the city, taking the servsafe test, having an interview up at the Dinex corporate offices and then lunch with my daughter followed by a little browsing at Sephora.
Around 5 o'clock or so we went our separate ways. I turned the corner on 14th St. to head east. In front of me outside of an old office building, next to some dingy scaffolding I saw some kids, young adults actually. They were wearing kitchen whites with an insignia on them, patisserie caps and were huffing on cigarettes, obviously on some kind of break.
"Hey!", I spoke up to them, "This some kind of culinary school here?"
They assured me that it was. Why did I want to know? I told them I was a chef. They asked me where I worked and I told them nowhere right now but that I was looking for a teaching job. Did they need anyone here? They might, they answered enthusiastically, the guy to call is Chef B., he's the one that hires here. "Okay, thanks!", I said as I bid them adieu. Could be a lead. Never heard of this place but I'd give it a try.
After a bit of telephone tag Chef B. and I scheduled an interview. Now I had to remember exactly what block it was that I met those kids. When I started to see checkered pants and cigarettes, I knew I was in the right place. The building is a pre-war with brass and dark paneling. The reception area for the school was directly ahead of me as I got off the crowded elevator. It looked a little chaotic, first thing I noticed was that I was probably the only little white Jewish lady there. There were students of all shapes and colors, a lot of Spanish being spoken, someone holding a little baby. And in the middle of all this was a mounted flat-screen tv with Ina Garten picking vegetables in her garden in the Hamptons to make a salad with. I wondered about that.
Chef B. came through like a strong wind that pulled me along behind him, trying to keep up. We spoke for a good 45 minutes and during this interchange I learned a little more about this place.
It's not a school that gets advertised in the back of glossy food magazines. It's not a sponsor of tv cooking shows. The walls are a little yellowed and the equipment is kind of run-down. What it does do is provide a possible future for people who might not be as fortunate as the rich kids whose mommy and daddy send them off to the CIA. Some are people who might have made some mistakes, done their time and now seek a vocation. Kids and adults who get subsidized from the state so that they may have an opportunity to support themselves and gain some self-esteem while they're at it.
I have always had the desire to teach. On tv I did it in a superficial way but the idea of molding someone into a real professional is exciting to me. I had a great teacher at my cooking school, the former humble Peter Kump's, now "ICE" (The Institute of Culinary Education). This chef made a huge difference in my life. He set high standards that I have held ever since. Whether in culinary or at my kids schools, I believe that the quality of education comes down to one thing- the instructor. That's the element that will make it or break it.
A couple of times in the past ICE offered me avocational classes. Basically those are classes like "Couples are Sushi Lovers" or "Shrimply Scrumptious". They told me to come up with a concept and we'd do it. Only, I just didn't think like that. I don't want to teach housewives who are drinking wine and talking the whole time. Or corporate team building. I want to help kids or adults learn proper technique, proper protocol, to be able to walk into any kitchen and learn how to give and get respect.

It's not uncommon that before being hired as a chef instructor that you must do a demo in front of a panel of the other chefs and field questions. Of my three choices I went with boning a chicken, cooking the breasts and making a pan sauce. I just pretended I was on tv, keeping it smooth and relaxed. I answered their questions and admitted when I did not know the answer. My biggest problem? The friggin' paper toque. I am not a hat person. When I'm on the line I wear a bandanna. Those toques never stay on my head or I bump into things with them. Halfway through my demo that toque was out of control but I just kept going.
After the chefs conferred privately, and after a mountain of paperwork, Chef B. called to offer me a job as a substitute teacher. I had one clog in the door!

I trailed a few nights with some other chefs just to familiarize myself and to get used to wearing that damn toque. I started getting to know some students. We have a chef's office that we share, which if this was a sit-com most of the action would take place. It's where the gossip is, the bitching, the friendly name-calling. And what really popped my eyes open is that apparently it is our co-ed locker room. You can take the animal out of the kitchen, but you can't take the kitchen out of the animal. Without a second thought, as they are casually conversing the chefs are pulling off their pants, changing out of their uniforms. One chef was sitting on her chair with only her bra on top, as if we were just hanging the laundry out together. As I took this all in I made a note to myself that if I'm going to join in the party here I'm going to have to keep up with waxing a little better.

I have now taught a few classes on my own. I hear my voice, I am trying to pass on the values that were passed on to me. Pants pulled up, no sagging here. Apron bib up or folded over and tied around the waist over the chef coat. No jewelry. Knife down when you walk. As I go on I see that some are probably not going to make it. They may not have the innate intelligence or skills. But others, I see the light bulb go on in their head and it is a thrill for me. One night we made tomato roses. Tomato roses are something I haven't done since school. It's not my style and I certainly never made them when I worked for M****a S*****t. My first instinct was to get a little snobby about them. But I realized yes, those kind of things are mainly done in hotel and banquet work. And there's nothing wrong with that. If one of these folks gets a garde manger job at a Hilton Hotel, I would be thrilled. So if we are going to make tomato roses, we are going to make the very best tomato roses.

The look on their faces when they saw what they did was priceless. The fact that in one night they learned to make those pretty things with their own hands. Suddenly the cell phone cameras came out and they started taking pictures of their own work.
That's called pride.

Now, I like where I am. I like the stripping chefs and most of all, I like the look in the student's eyes when they say, "Oh, I get it! Thank you, Chef".

Hey Buddy, Can you spare a Job?

Wow. It's bad out there.
I have never been out of a job. When my job was eliminated years ago, I had a job offer before I'd even had my exit interview. And they hunted me down, not vice versa.
When I left my bakery, I turned away work and could have my pick of the crop. My resume grew and became a really good one. Getting good salaries was also pretty easy. And after I closed the cafe I got a job in less than two months, of course it only lasted about two months. That's when I really got a taste of the famine.
The employers tell me that they literally get hundreds of resumes from a single ad. They are overwhelmed. They get the cream of the crop and can pay them measly wages because, in this economy, they can get away with it.
Since everything should be viewed as a learning experience, I'd like to share some of my adventures in job-hunting in the last year.
The Belgian Organic Bakery Chain-
They loved me. They loved me so much that they wouldn't hire me. I had replied to an ad and within minutes I received a reply, "I'll be in the Greenwich store tomorrow, can you meet with me then?" Oui, absolutement.
As a former boss, I know how to show up for an interview. Dress nice, neat, professional. Watch the cleavage or anything too tight. Floss teeth, check in mirror. No crazy jewelry or makeup. Bring a clean copy of resume and BE ON TIME. How many knuckleheads did I interview that didn't follow these simple guidelines.
This high-up on the food chain executive and I had a lovely meeting for an hour. We seemed to really hit it off. He wanted me to trail in a New York store and then interview with two other managers. So I did.
Then I went to the corporate office to fill out numerous forms and give permission for a credit check and criminal background check. Check. Check.
Nice e-mail from original manager, nice return e-mail from me. Then, nothing.
Okay, so I e-mail him again. Nothing. It's like having a really great first date where you think you hit it off and then he never calls you again. Hmm!
But, then he did call me, three weeks later. I was on my way into the city for another interview, which I'll describe next. He wanted me to meet with yet another manager in a new store in midtown. But of course I will.
I sit with this manager and have another very pleasant conversation. He then says to me, "I don't really get it, why do you want to work here? Why would you stock inventory and wait on customers? I'm concerned that you'd be the Ferrari in the garage."
I replied honestly that I understood that I had to pay my dues to work up in the company. I'm a hard worker and do my best no matter what. The fact that they could even transfer me from a CT store to a NY store was attractive too.
Never heard from them again and every day they still run the same ads in NY and CT.
The Personal Vegetable Cutter-
The interview I was on my way to when Frenchie had called me was for a "Personal Corporate Chef". Requirements were culinary degree, restaurant experience, French and Asian cuisine experience, and must be comfortable with high-maintenance celebrities (my specialty).
The address was way, way downtown. A shiny new office building right next to the hole in the ground known as "ground zero". Upon entering the lobby I was asked for numerous forms of ID, they don't kid around about security in that neighborhood. Finally, given clearance I found the appropriate elevator bank and went up.
Stepping off of the elevator I followed the light, where glass doors opened to the company reception area. The floors were a polished cement. It was devoid of anything warm, inviting or soft. At a small desk there was a young man in a high fashion black suit who pointed me toward two small black and chrome couches with a glass table between them. Beyond them was a completely glass wall that looked right into the hole.
Talk about bad feng shui!
Without even a ledge, straight down I could see the construction site, the cranes, the mounds of dirt. Because I was high up I knew that I was probably at eye level where on September 11, 2001 I would have had a birds eye view of desperate, flying people trying to escape the horror that was the end of their lives. Not feeling good about this place, not at all.
As I sat down, trying not to look at the window so I could keep my composure I saw that the office was completely partitioned by glass walls. There was no privacy for anyone. Where could one yank at their pantyhose privately, or sneak a couple of candy bars without looking like a pig? No where.
The HR woman took me back, I passed by the glass cubicles, where everyone had their faces in their Apple computers. No laughter, not even conversation, just clicking of keyboards and telephones ringing.
We sat in a small, glass conference room. I mean really, no privacy? A lip reader would have a field day working there. Here's what the job consisted of:

CEO had lost about 200 pounds and lived on an only raw-food diet. Chef was to provide fresh fruit breakfast and herbal tea in morning.
Cut up vegetables for lunch. Because this was a high-end design firm everything must be presented beautifully and artistically.
Afternoon snack of vegetables. Provide one for employees too, some healthy vegetables in the afternoon to give them some sustenance. (Again, where could you just sneak a Mounds bar?)
Provide healthy raw platters for client meetings.
Occasional dinners for evening meetings, consisting of...you guessed it, raw vegetables.

She showed me where I would work. The "kitchen" was what most businesses would call the "break room". Some counter space, a microwave (sheerly for the unhealthy types who ate their food hot), a Sub-Zero refrigerator and a sink. Oh, and I'd get a desk with an Apple computer on it, of course.
The pay was terrible, but they did offer benefits. We shook hands, we agreed to talk the next day. As I left I looked around again to try to feel the vibe. Miserable, skinny, well-dressed young people surrounded by glass. I said goodbye to the receptionist who nodded in reply. I turned my back away from the two holes, heading toward the elevator.
Let's see, commute from Connecticut to be there at 6am to cut up fruit for one person. Pretend to be busy for a few hours before cutting up his vegetables for lunch. Sit at my Mac and f**k around till cutting up afternoon vegetables and being on call till about 4pm until I was told I could leave because no night-time vegetable platter would be needed. Commute back home and make barely enough to pay for the trip.
Was I this desperate yet?

No, I was not.

The Belgian chain disappeared, I said no to the raw-food glass prison that looked out at the hole of horrors. I met with people at Dinex, Daniel Boulud's company, I interviewed at cafes, restaurants, bars. I just kept plugging away and draining my savings.
How did I finally get my job? I saw some young people standing outside of a building taking a smoke break wearing kitchen whites. I asked them if there was a cooking school there and they said yes. Did they need instructors and who should I call there?

One week later I had an interview. The week after that I did my demo where I had to de-bone a chicken, cook a breast and make a pan sauce, all while answering questions fired at me from various chef instructors.

The next week I was hired as a substitute teacher. Two months after that I got my own class, a month after that I got a second and became full time.

I never gave up, how could I? It's not like I had a choice. But I sure became humble. I drink the corporate Kool-Aid now. I had always wanted to try my hand at teaching and turns out, I'm good at it and enjoy it. I'm still in the kitchen but it's not restaurant hours and my colleagues are not spring chickens either. I'm not the old lady trying to keep up with the young Mexicans who can now run circles around her. And when I had to have an emergency operation I had benefits and sick-days.
I have my struggles and bad days. I'm not saying I'm living "happily ever after" but I'm living, I'm happy and it's true that things do happen for a reason.

The hired gun of St. Valentine

Valentine's Day, Mother's Day- we in the biz know that these are our big nets that we cast wide to catch all the little fishies with roses and romance. In other words, amateur night. Even those who never go to restaurants go out on these holidays. And we suck it right up. Would Macy's say, "oh no, we don't want your business for Christmas? We aren't going to provide Santa Claus and a photographer for lifelong memories of your family?" Hell, no. Someone's got to make some money and we do it off holidays.
And so, I am a free agent, double 0 chefmo, out to save the tired, the understaffed, the caught in a pinch brethren of mine who are in this insane business. On Christmas I worked at a kosher bakery/cafe for a colleague of mine. She ended up being incredibly busy and I was at her right hand doing whatever it was that she needed. She happily gave me some money and a bar of baking chocolate that I really needed. I wrapped up my knives and said, "my work is done here, Madam and good luck". My son and I finished our traditional Jewish Christmas by ordering in Chinese food.
This week, the sign of the bat was flashed over Gotham City for me by another friend, who's husband owns an Italian restaurant of 20 years here in town. Said husband had himself a little hunting accident (apparently it is "wabbit season") and cannot be on his feet for a while. She called me knowing that I would feel her pain. This man works all aspects of that restaurant, front, back, shopping for the food, wine, money, everything. And he's no spring chicken but he moves like one. Now he's at home arguing with the nurse as she tries to change the dressing on his wound. Meanwhile- you guessed it- it's Valentine's Day. And the phones are ringing for reservations. One other element in the equation, the acting chef was given his walking papers the week before the owner basically lost his walking ability. This was a problem.
So owner's wife, my friend calls me and says she thought of me, is there anything that I can do.
Honey, I can do anything. Especially if it isn't mine. I dusted off my Restaurant Depot membership card and foraged for food. I quickly learned my way around someone else's kitchen, learned the names and nationalities of my coworkers in the back of the house. The cook who had been handling pretty much everything up to now sat with me, we made a menu and decided who was responsible for each dish. We prepped, we organized and by 5 o'clock we were ready, willing and able.
Mrs. Restaurant Owner had a commitment concerning her daughter and college that could not be rescheduled so she could not be there either. Like the show that must go on with understudies,we friends and family members each put on our costumes, learned our lines, stood side by side with the regular cast and went on stage.
Working the line is like dancing. You get into a routine with your partner. You learn their moves, where to dip them, twirl them, stand back and let them solo. The first time cooking with someone is usually awkward (yes, it's not only like dancing, it's like sex but that's another blog). Generally it is very difficult to jump in to a kitchen, not knowing their moves or the menu for that matter. My approach is, "you are the lead here and I will follow". I'll stand back rather than get in the way. Fortunately for us the tables had been booked wisely. In Fairfield County everyone goes out to dinner at 7pm. Hands down that is the busiest time. We knew that would be crunch time but the hostess did not overbook us. Wisely she said she'd rather have less people and have them walk out happy than more people who get upset about lousy service. A very good move. The flow was beautiful that night.
For me, it was fun to be in the thick of things. This place runs on the old fashioned system of hand-written tickets and verbal ordering by the waiters. I'm from the world of printers, so I couldn't even read the tickets, let alone the fact that I don't really know most of the menu items. The rhythm began, with the swinging of the doors, the servers ordering, we reach for the pans and start cooking. Some are yellers, some are quiet. My partner got in the zone, moving quickly and quietly. I made my dishes, having to show the guy who usually does the veg sides the way that I do it. Overall though, it was a dance that we all knew how to do. When we lifted our heads up it was almost 10 o'clock and it was over. The hostess was beaming, every customer was happy and all orders were out in a timely fashion. We had done it. We started breaking down the line and cleaning.
I stepped out the back door for one minute just to get a blast of fresh air. The door faces a communal parking lot with some other restaurants. I saw a couple coming from ours, hand in hand, the lady carrying the red rose wrapped in cellophane that all the customers were given that night. Full and happy they strolled toward their car.
The air felt good. I'd put in 12 hours, like I used to do all the time. This is when I realize that I've been on my feet all day, haven't used the bathroom since I don't know when, even though I drank a whole bottle of Pellegrino water on the line. Can't remember the last time I ate either. It was a good feeling though. Tonight. Happy to help my friends, happy that I still have my mojo, that I can still get in there and dance if I want to.
But that's just it. I don't think I want to anymore. Not all the time. My career is heading in another direction now and it's all for the good. The restaurant world is the siren that calls my name but I am moving on. Time to pack up my toolbox and go home.

Et tu, Coli?

Those who know me well, really well, know that I am actually a real food safety geek. My kids were raised with having to sing their "abc's" when they washed their hands ( the alphabet song is the approximate amount of time it takes to properly clean one's hands). They were warned NEVER to eat burgers that were pink in the middle (E coli risk for children, elderly and the immuno-compromised), consequently they have both grown up with a taste for dry, grey hamburgers, but they are alive. Whenever I have gone to get re-certified for the NFSA servsafe food handler's license everyone has to put up with my come to Jesus attitude about health and proper sanitation. I've been known to get all Barney Fife up in people's grill too, "Now, whatcha got here (thumbs inserted into elastic waistband of chef pants, chest out) is yer 40-140 degree danger zone!"
Sure, I've had my health department issues in the past(see posts "The Health Inspection" and "Gotcha!") but my problem was more with the messenger than it was with the message.
Many people in the food service business are professional, educated, caring people with a conscience. But the ugly truth is- that they are the minority. Most of the people back in the kitchens of the places you eat at are ignorant, maybe uneducated, perhaps they just don't give a rat's ass (pun intended). It's a job and that's it.
Preparing and serving food is an awesome responsibility. We can kill people. We can do it and not even know it. So much of it is so simple too. Wash your hands. Wash your friggin' hands. You don't need "sanitizer" or "antibacterial" soap. Just warm water, liquid soap, vigorously rub your hands together and get your forearms too.
In New York now, the law is to wear gloves whenever you come in contact with food. But if you scratch your ass or pick your nose, fuhgeddaboutit. Gloves get contaminated too.

So this week I decided to get my re-certification and to go for the New York food handlers license too, in hopes of making myself a more attractive job candidate. I went completely prepared, arrived 20 minutes early, sat in the front and was ready to learn all the latest in biological, chemical and physical hazards, HAACP and FAT TOM (sorry civilians, but this stuff is for the professionals only).
The class didn't really get started for another hour and a half. I could not believe it. My inner Barney Fife was jumping up and down with his eyes popping out.
In dribbles they showed up. Late, texting or playing video games on their phones. they didn't have pencils, they didn't apologize for tardiness. They slouched in their seats and some NAPPED. A young lady behind me today actually was snoring!
In addition to this, the instructor went off on all kinds of cockamamie tangents. Why he voted for Obama, why he's disappointed in him. The health bill and how it's a scam. Black people, white people, how Americans get duped and believe everything they hear.
Where was my FIFO? (that's first in, first out, not as in Barney) What is the proper way to cool a roast over 10 pounds?
When the instructor stayed focused he was really knowledgeable and I learned a lot. But like driving a car with ultra sensitive steering, 1/4 inch to the left and you could run right off the road and get stuck in a ditch.
I bit my lip. I kept my pie-hole shut about him and my classmates. These are your future food handlers, people! The two kids in front of me that kept stretching and playing with their cornrows and rubber bands right over my desk, they'll be making your tuna salad sandwich. Or the kid in the back that texted the whole time might not quite have absorbed the material and will be serving you improperly heated or cooled food, so when you think you just have a 24hr "stomach bug", well, it's not.

All that aside, I did learn. I always pick up new stuff. And as a professional I take pride in doing a better job. Toward the end of the day, the instructor told me that if I were interested there was an advanced food safety course and after that there is an exam to become a proctor. It was a nice side job to have.
Me, a servsafe instructor? Oh joy!!
I've been on tv, I've worked for celebs and have done a lot of things but I've secretly always wanted to teach this course. Because I'm a believer. My kids and I get sick less than anyone I know and besides the luck of good genes, I know in my heart that food safety knowledge has helped to keep us this way.
If I were the instructor-
I'd ban the cellphones.
I'd close the door if they were five minutes late.
I'd whack 'em on the back of their necks when they fell asleep.
I'd stay on point and stress over and over and over again, the awesome responsibility that they are taking on.
I can just see it now, in my best Barney Fife, "Now, look-ey here! Whatcha got to look out for is yer hemolytic uremic syndrome..."