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".