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.