Nobu Doesn't Work Here

This is the first in a series about some of my experiences as a private chef.  I have signed confidentiality agreements with my clients, therefore no names or specifics shall be mentioned...

Thank goodness for rich people who do not cook. For various reasons- perhaps they don't like to, don't know how to, are too busy or simply do not want to. That is their privilege and for the professional cook an opportunity to make some dough.
First, there is a subculture of the "downstairs" employees. That would consist of chef, nannies, housekeepers, chauffeurs, property managers, laundresses, personal assistants, gardeners and tutors (in one home, only to be referred to as "homework helpers", not exactly sure why).  The chef is in the kitchen and is responsible for that most important currency, food. The chef can charm anyone by giving them a cookie, or some extra chicken salad. I always make friends this way. However, there were times when I also became the priest where they would come to profess their sins or to vent about one another. One household had two nannies, one for the weekend, one for the weekdays. They overlapped on Fridays every week. Somehow it fell on me that I had to hear from each nanny about how the other one was doing everything wrong. Like a good priest, I merely nodded my head, and using as few words as possible tried not to get involved. In that particular household the staff loved to camp out at the island in the kitchen and gab on and on. It did not occur to them that I was actually working and had a deadline. They managed to scramble pretty fast though if the lady of the house came home. First place she headed for was always the kitchen too.
They told me the story about the former household manager/driver who took it upon himself one day while the family was away to invite his mistress over for a little swim au naturale in the pool, followed by doing the nasty in the boss's bed. He was caught because they had left the dirty sheets- yechh.  The current driver apparently was always saying inappropriate things to one of the nannies. Again- I'm just trying to make some tuna fish! Would you please get out of my office?
On a positive note, it's also a bonding experience. One PA ( in domestic employment that means personal assistant) was hilarious in the stories that she'd relate about our boss. Her commentary kept me going, during the week when our boss had no way out having to go on a vacation alone with her husband. With no servants, no kids and private plane, it was inevitable that she was going to have to have sex with him at some point. As the trip got closer and closer, her excuses to get out of it multiplied. But for once, she did not get her way and with a long face and expensive luggage, glumly left on their romantic weekend for two.
This lady of the house was always to be addressed as "Mrs.--". The truly wealthy let you call them by their first names. They don't waste time with faux formality. These days only the nouveau rich think that's what fancy people do. She also had a huge portrait of herself hanging in one of the upstairs landings. It was very traditional, straight on portraiture sitting with her hands clasped in her lap. Something one would expect of the queen of England perhaps. All she was missing was a tiara. On the other hand at one home I worked in, an incredible Manhattan townhouse, hanging in the stairway there was not one, but two portraits of the man of the house, by Chuck Close. The Chuck Close. Now that, is the real money.

About the Chuck Close portrait guy- I only did a tasting for them, I was not hired. A tasting is when a chef comes and cooks for the potential client. The client gets a chance to taste their food, assess their talent, and see how they work. Usually a tasting is paid, but the food is always paid for by the client.
It's a very high pressure situation, especially if it's only one meal. I did one for a family where I actually worked for four days for them. This was paid, and very handsomely so although ultimately I did not get the job, I walked away with two grand in cash. No hard feelings there!
Before a tasting I always try to get a read on the client's likes and dislikes. I ask what their favorite restaurants are, and do they have any chefs who's style they like in particular. Of course I have to ascertain diet restrictions, allergies or foods not allowed by religious beliefs or foods that they just don't like.
I was sent from a family assistant in one case, a three page document on their particular food preferences. First was the wife's, then the husband's, then the kids. Now to make a meal that is acceptable for all of these and not overlap anyone's dislikes was truly challenging to put it mildly.  After serving one dish that overall was liked very much, the Mrs. did feel it necessary to remind me that there were cucumbers in it which she hates. I had forgotten that. On the other hand, would it have been such a big deal to just pick out the one or two cucumber slices? I know that she was just letting me know that I wasn't pulling anything over on her, but really? Besides, what's there not to like about cucumbers? Capers, onions, anything assertive I might understand but the mild and lowly cucumber?
Anyway, the answer to my question about favorite restaurants of the wealthy always is always the same, Nobu and Le Bernadin.
So let's break this down. Nobu, the groundbreaking, at one time the most innovative Japanese restaurant in America (now world-wide) founded by the great chef Nobu Matsuhisa. Gleaming, fresh sushi, jaw-dropping presentation along with jaw-dropping prices.
Le Bernadin, the 4-star legend successfully taken over some years ago by Chef Eric Ripert. One of the greatest experiences in dining from the pristine food, elegant presentation and service that is off the charts. With prices that are off the charts too.
Um, no problem.
Like the man who wants a woman that is a whore in the bedroom and a lady in the boardroom, these people want it all. To work in someone's home where they need the table set, the food served to them, the courses (even on say, a typical weeknight we are talking about appetizer, entree, dessert), diet restrictions taken into consideration, a possibility of a separate kid's meal needed on the fly- oh and can we just make a little pasta for the homework helper too? And by the way, he's a vegan, but don't make him anything fancy. A three course meal also takes a lot of pots, pans and  utensils and if the chef does not have a helper, that's a lot of dishwashing for the Nobu du jour. Part of working in a private home is making sure that the kitchen does not look like a bomb went off in it. At least not the way I work. It means removing trash. One crazy that I worked for got very upset if the trash ever looked full, maybe she owned stock in Hefty because we went through an inordinate amount of bags.
Another extremely important element is shopping. I think shopping is the part of the job that I despise most of all. In restaurants a big truck pulls up and the food comes to you. Or, a lower-level cook can go pick up the order at the farmer's market, etc.  In private chef world it's all on you. I had one client in Connecticut who was very insistent about where I bought everything. Most of the food was from Whole Foods, but the garbage like Gatorade, which had to be the BLUE flavor for one kid and GREEN for another one, could not be purchased there, thus entailing a trip to the grocery. Seafood had to be from the fish market and bagels from a particular bagel store and the muffins (which I could have easily baked and would have been far superior) from another place over the NY state line. Back then at least, I had a car which helped. I was paid for my time and mileage too.
Shopping in New York City is a nightmare without a car if the family does not have a driver who will pick you up. Out of necessity I started taking taxis even if I was only a few blocks away. Not because I was lazy but it was just too much to carry. Hopefully there is a doorman who will whisk the bags away and bring them to the elevator. Depending on the building you may be required to ride in the service elevator. My favorite places though are those swank pads where the elevator simply opens up right into the foyer in the apartment.
The main reason that I hate shopping though is when a store does not have that one little thing that is a must have, thus requiring having to go to yet another place. If I'm in Balducci's with 7 bags of stuff and I have to get almonds with the skin on and no salt which they are out of that day, I now have to go find them elsewhere. Do I schlep the bags? Do I take a cab, bring them up to the apartment, unload- maybe I will get lucky and there will be an agreeable housekeeper who will unload for me, go down the elevator again walk to another store or two to find the nuts and by the way the housekeeper asks me if I can pick her up a pack of Mr.Clean Magic Sponges. Hopefully I will find both in a timely fashion and not have to waste any more time so I can get down to the business of cooking.
I don't think I've seen Eric Ripert chasing down nuts on the Upper East side.

Hopefully you work with a diligent and agreeable housekeeper. This means when you arrive and can finally begin preparing a meal you can start with a blank slate. The sink and dishwashing machine should be empty and clean. Garbage cans also empty with a fresh bag. In other words, ideally there should be nothing that needs cleaning or putting away before you start work. Sometimes this is not the case, again taking up more of your time, when you've got to prepare a meal that must be on the table by 6 o'clock. Nobu can fire someone who does not do their job before you enter the kitchen. I, cannot.
Although the pay can be really, really good, it is a high pressure job.  It is different from the high heat, chaotic life in a restaurant kitchen. Yet sometimes the private chef job is awesome. In the words of Dr. Seuss, "Oh, the places you'll go".  People you meet, the things you can see are amazing. Bottom line though, it's all about personalities. You must mesh with the people you work for. If not, it will never go well.
I will end on this positive note. Over the years I have cultivated one client, that is my plum, my cherry picked favorite. We have a trust and a bond that makes my job easy. It's physically draining, the shopping is a pain in the ass and all that. But the lady of the house will say, "oh, you know what we like", and mean it. They are nice, appreciative and treat me well. When a client believes in you, you can really excel. They've been to the four-star restaurants and enjoy them as much as the next person. But at home, they don't need Eric or Nobu. They want me.

The Food Factory

At one point I got into a circuit of freelancers who work at some of the larger venues, such as the Jacob Javits Center, sports arenas and casinos in New York. It was through a couple of former students, so luckily I had them there to usher me through some really confusing situations. My first time at Javits was like being thrown into a stormy Atlantic ocean where someone yells out "Just start swimming!". Flailing my arms and getting mouthfuls of saltwater, trying to stay afloat until finally getting my bearings and not drowning.

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Working at the Javits Center is about as far away from working at my private chef job as possible. First of all, it is huge. I'm talking about all the behind the scenes stuff, not the exhibition area where the public goes. Because on the other side of that area where conventioneers gaze at the displays, lie kitchens, hallways, storage areas, loading docks. Like on an ant farm, a maze made up of corridors with the workers running to and fro, carrying trays, pushing carts or riding on silent vehicles that only make sounds of, "beep, beep, beep!".  I found myself constantly having to dodge and weave around pallets loaded up with cases of food.
The first time I worked there, I was given a menu to execute that included sandwiches, like a million of them. We dragged some banquet tables out of the hallway and set them up in a corridor of the kitchen to lay out all of our mise en place. This area was directly across from an enormous doorway that sent in a huge draft like a wind tunnel. I wrapped my neck in side towels and tucked them into my chef coat to keep some insulation from the tundra. Assembly line style we had our baguettes sliced open, each cook laying down the layers of meat and cheeses. On and on, wrapping them, labeling them and storing them, tray after tray.  I developed a new empathy for Chinese workers making i-phones.
It's not my favorite place to work by any means. Why do I do it then? A number of reasons. Most of the people are pretty nice. It gets lonely working in the fancy houses of the rich and famous. It feels good to work with a multi-ethnic group again. I like seeing former students, former colleagues, and making new connections. It's kind of cool to see how a place like this works that produces so much food. And, I like the car show.
This is their biggest event of the year. They knew to staff up. They brought in a ton of freelancers plus had the full staff on. We chefs were each assigned a pavilion or brand of car. This was during the week while the show was being set up and there were events for the press before it was open to the public. In the beginning it seemed nice and organized. Once we had our parties assigned we were also given a team of cooks to execute the menu. I had nothing to do with the creation of this menu. It had been predetermined and ordered by the client already. I just had to make sure that it was done.

The mornings start out pretty orderly. After going through tight security and a bag check, you make your way down the winding corridors to the nexus of operation, the kitchen. At this time of day it is relatively quiet and organized. Only a few hours later though, it will be surging with activity. Table after table of prep cooks with baseball caps and surgical gloves packing box lunches, making salads, cheese platters, fruit carvings or dessert plates. A huge conveyor belt over in the pot washing area grinds through a tunnel where the dirty utensils get washed. A dishwasher wearing a black rubber apron and gloves stands over a steaming sink with giant pots that he is scrubbing. Waitstaff in black pants and white button down shirts go by pushing carts with crisp tablecloths on them. Perhaps they are carrying coffee set ups or pastry platters wrapped in plastic. There's an office where the hospitality managers (who aren't very hospitable!) sit and look out through a glass wall and watch over their staff. There are industrial sized soda dispensers, coffee dispensers and an ice machine. The servers are constantly filling up coffee urns. There are racks with all sizes of hotel pans, pots, stacks of banged up sheet pans, fifty of each. More tables set up, with workers in chef uniforms cutting, searing, mixing or doing whatever stage they are in at the moment of preparing the task at hand.
As the day goes on, there is stuff laying around and it is total chaos. There are clogged prep sinks full of pasta, dirty used sheet pans with leftover grease on them. Food is on the floor and there is a trough of running water that is draining somewhere. Meat left to cool, garbage containers overflowing. People don't clean up after themselves here. They expect the porter or the dishwasher to do it and he is not scheduled to come in till noon. That's not the way I work, but what the hell- when in Rome. I find myself saying "when in Rome" a lot this week. I try to keep my mouth shut. I'm an ex restaurant owner and teacher so that's hard for me to do.
There are two tilt skillets near one another. These are large heated units that are basically used for anything that a skillet might be used for but for massive amounts of food. You can make 20 pounds of rice at one time in there. Or do a stir-fry for 50 easily. The bottom of it heats up and when you need to empty it, you tilt it forward hence the name. There are giant steam kettles used for everything that needs to be boiled, with a spigot on the bottom for draining. They get drained into the aforementioned trough. Occasionally that one porter comes through, dragging a cart about 10 feet long to pick up some of the dirty wares. At this rate, he can never keep up. He's yakking with the rest of them anyway and seems to be in no rush. Problem is that we start running low on equipment and before I know it, I'm at the steaming sink washing off a sheet pan or three that I need.

A line of convection ovens are side by side top and bottom, the fans whirring away noisily. In fact everything is noisy here. There are 5 walk-in refrigerators, not counting what the hospitality group has on their side. We have two walk-in freezers as well. For a venue this size, that pumps out this much food, this is actually not enough refrigeration. After the deliveries arrive, boxes are everywhere. There is no order and no organization. I could not for the life of me figure out how they could possibly keep track of inventory or food cost. If you decided that you wanted to use red bell peppers for a dish you were making, you just went and took a case of them. No red peppers? Hmm...these yellow ones look nice, I'll take them instead. Then when the cook who actually needs a case of yellow peppers (which incidentally tend to cost more than the red ones) can't find what he needs is forced to take something else. It was survival of the fittest. One party that had beef tenderloin on the menu (the most expensive cut of all) found that the whole case had been used by another team and so they had to substitute the top sirloin, which not only was not serving the tenderloin client but screwing the party that needed the top sirloin, and on and on....

There's a fat guy who always manages to be standing in a place where I need to get through. He's got a mouth on him. "Hey! Who the fuck left this here? I gotta get into the ovens!" They call him the Muffin Man because he bakes off the frozen muffins, 350  or so at at time. He's a cross between the Pillsbury dough boy and Joe Pesci.  I've got one guy working on my team and a) everything he does is wrong and I have to do over and b) he keeps touching his face or his beard and I ask him to wash his hands but he does it again right away again without thinking about it. I start giving him tasks like chopping parsley which takes him about an hour and keeps him out of my way. Tired of babysitting him after a while, I ask the executive sous chef to reassign him elsewhere. Now my team can stay focused and rock.

My assignment was the Nissan pavilion. They had two press events that we had to cater. I went to inspect the area which requires me remembering how the hell to get to the elevators which are about 5 times the size of my bedroom. If you get off at the wrong level, suddenly you are hit with a rush of cold Hudson River wind coming through an open construction area. The sun feels pretty good though since the kitchen is like a cave, but I get back on. Finally, I get off on the right floor. I make my way between black curtains and step over electrical cords. I can hear the sounds of drills and nail guns. Suddenly I am bathed in bright lights and am walking through where the displays are all being set up. Audi, Jaguar, Ford...all the signs are being hung. Some of the cars are in place and are being dusted and shined. Workmen are everywhere with their tool belts, shouting out to one another. After getting lost for a bit, I finally find the Nissan area, where I check to see the staging area in the back and check for electrical outlets, the possibility of running water and tables available to me. After I get an idea of what I have and do not have, I make my way through more black curtains to find the closest elevator.

The day of our first party we are jammed up and jelly tight. We are golden. We are ready. We start loading our warm food into rolling hot boxes with lit sternos in them and our cold food in thermal Cambros to keep it chilled. I've got a gal on my team who is awesome, she's the list keeper and we review everything we need to have.
I grab a few more bodies and we all start pushing our carts to the elevator. At this point, it's now a different kind of bedlam. There are caravans like ours that are loaded up to go serve, and in the opposite direction are the used utensils and empty vessels rolling through. We nod at one another as we pass by. "How'd it go?" for the returning warriors, and "Good luck" to the ones setting off.
The elevator is slow and takes forever. Finally it lands on our floor and we roll on. We find it's not easy to roll all of this heavy shit through those curtains and over the ropes of cords. At one point we almost lose a speed rack. As we get to our area, there is a staging table set up for the waitstaff for Nissan. There are crates of glasses, ice being scooped into buckets and of course, coffee.
We set up our spot. Order must be made and systems devised. We have to prepare the passed  hors d'oeuvres  plates first, to be followed by platters of food. This is a buffet luncheon, not a plated affair. Awesomegal speaks fluent Spanish, so she can push along the busboys to get us things we may need. I do a final walk through in the lounge where the lunch will be served. There are members of the press mulling about, sipping on white wine or Diet Coke. The show is now completely set up and looks like the Auto Show that we all know and love. There are the skinny models (when did they get so young??) with too much makeup, in their sparkly dresses and fuck-me heels standing on rotating platforms. Various voices are heard on microphones extolling the virtues of each brand of car. Everything is shiny and bright, perfumed with the new-car smell.
And we are right behind the curtain, doing our thing. Our gloved hands, expertly filling and refilling platters and bowls. Wiping off the rims and garnishing them, I nod to the waiters to pick up. I also push them to walk through and get dirty glasses and plates and bring them back. I feel a responsibility not only for the food, but for the whole look and cleanliness of the party.
Silently we empty each tray from our hotbox. When you have good people, you don't need to talk. Awesomegal and I have that rapport instantly. She also takes direction beautifully and anticipates. She's a keeper, I take her phone number for future reference.
Finally, it seems the pace has slowed down and the lunch is over. Desserts are plattered and gone. It's the point where you look up and realize that you have been in the zone for an couple of hours, totally focused. My team is now loading up the empties and dirty utensils for the trip back down to the ant colony. The racks are rattling, we try to keep them quiet and giggle when we almost spill one on the same damn bunch of wires.
Now we are returning triumphant with our spent order, passing by the fresh ones. "How did it go?", one of my fellow lead-chefs asks. "Great!", I say. Awesomegal and I smile at each other, now fully bonded in the camaraderie of the kitchen.

Here's the thing, I realize now in retrospect- even if it was at a food factory and not exactly the pinnacle of my career, that success just feels good.
Our team gelled. That was number one. Even though I had to make that poor soul disappear, I was fortunate enough to have a good group otherwise. Not just Awesomegal, but my former student, D., who knew the ropes and guided me every step. Our food was prepared on time and though it might not have been my menu per se, it was executed properly. It was a lot of work and each stage had it's own set of stresses but we took it a step at a time. We had the rush of service, which comes with it's ups and downs. Bottom line- plates looked great, hot food was hot, cold food was cold and everything was paced just right.
We had one more party left to do. This one was sent up and we did not need to go with it so it was a little less intense but we made it happen easily. Nissan was done. On the other side of the kitchen was a knucklehead that I used to work with who was totally in the weeds on a cocktail party for 700 people for Ford. Other cooks were scrambling around trying to help his sorry ass. I jumped in with a friend of mine who was taking on the guy's appetizers. After a while though, I decided it was time to get out of there and split.
On my way out, a very tall gentleman in a suit was walking briskly through the hallway and as we passed each other he stopped, "Are you Chef M.?", he asked me.
"Yes Sir, I am."
He extended his right hand to shake mine. "I'm Bob, the executive director of food operations. I heard great things about the job you did for Nissan", he said, "Thank you".
"You're welcome". I replied with a smile. "My pleasure".

And all bitching aside, in it's own way, it really was.

The Difference Between You and Me

Because I am a chef, people expect an awful lot of wisdom and expertise from me on just about everything related to food.They think that I know about all the good restaurants, including the latest "eatery" (my newest least-favorite word). They think that I know how to cook everything under the sun. They think that I am an endless source for information about cheese, wine, meat, organics, nutrition, on and on, ad nausea...

Now, I cannot speak on behalf of all chefs out there because we are each different, so this is about me.
I've always felt like a bit of a phony when I am faced with questions that frankly, I just do not know the answers to. Dealing with the constant expectations, I finally came up with the term that describes what it is that I do:
I am a Technician.

I do not enjoy reading about food or wine. My attention span has gotten very short. I glance. I make notes in my head. I save recipes online. Cookbooks are too expensive and I don't like a lot of clutter in my apartment.

I like to read restaurant reviews. However, I never remember the names of places and don't have a lot of coin to spend on them either. I make some mental notes on places that I would like to try. Time and time again though, when asked for a recommendation, I give the deer in the headlights look. I don't know!
I don't get to the Farmer's Market as much as I'd like to. I live alone so I really don't cook too much food on a daily basis. The stuff I do cook is very simple.
Honestly, I know about as much as the average person about organics and processed food. I've seen the same documentaries and read the same scary articles.
I would not know the first thing how to butcher a cow.
Truth be told, there is a lot of stuff I just do not know. So quit asking me!

What do I know? There are many, many great cooks out there but this is what separates the pros.

I have a good and developed palate. I can taste food and identify if a dish is correctly seasoned, what it might be missing or have too much of. I am excellent at balancing flavors.
I know when I fuck up, and can usually fix it.
I have a great eye. I am a very visual person. I make beautiful food and I enjoy doing it. I have my own style. It's clean. It's rustic. It's feminine.
I have good hands. I can tell if dough is ready to be rolled, is overworked, or if a cake is done by touching it. I handle food well and assertively.
I can plan in advance and organize properly. I know what to prep, how to prep it and hold it. I know how to work efficiently, how to set up systems.
I know how to do production. I can make 30 dozen cookies without breaking a sweat. You probably cannot.
I know how to produce a lot of food or a little bit of food, on time, that looks great, served at the appropriate temperature, hot or cold, depending on what it is.
I shop fast. Really fast.
I know how to do and keep inventory. I live to organize refrigerators and dry storage areas.
I work clean.
I know how to buy, use, store, cook and serve food using proper food safety methods.
When something screws up and I have to change ingredients suddenly, say something is ruined, dropped, burned or an ingredient is unavailable (and yes, even the pros make these mistakes too upon occasion)  I am excellent at coming up with a substitute. Same goes for tools. Improvisation is my middle name.
I can do all of this with my mouth shut, remaining calm and focused.

New-style Sashimi
with asparagus and
shaved cucumber salad

I will now make no more excuses. When people ask me some chef-foodie related thing that in the past I felt pressured to know the answer to, I'm not going to sweat it anymore. I know what I'm doing, but I don't know it all. Look it up on some foodie site, or call one of your foodie friends because they probably will know the answer.
If you need the job done, and done well, call the technician and I'll take good care of you.