The Elms, You Never Forget Your First

This quaint New England inn was my first stop before I went to work for Martha...

 My first job after externship was at The Elms Restaurant and Tavern. I'd toiled away my summer in the basement of Mario Batali's Po Restaurant with his Mexicans and when my time was done he said to me, (because I needed to work in Connecticut)  "you have to work for Brendan Walsh." Chef Walsh was a superstar before they called them "celebrity chefs". In his early twenties he was rocking NYC at Arizona 206 and Gotham Bar and Grill. When our paths crossed he had recently taken over the restaurant component at the stodgy old Elms Inn. He put that place on the map, so much that even Chef Mario had heard about it. He called Chef Walsh on my behalf to get me an interview with him.

After leaving Po and saying my goodbyes, it was time to start my new career back in Connecticut and to be a working single mom near my kids and to find our new normal.
I remember that I could not find the pair of khaki shorts that I wanted to wear on that warm August day, so I had to grab another pair that was just a tad shorter than I would have liked to wear on an interview. I wore a button down short sleeved shirt and fisherman's sandals to go with it. I raced up to Ridgefield to meet with the chef.
The Elms was an old New England Inn, with an adjoining restaurant. Chef Walsh had divided it into two separate parts, the Tavern which was cozy and casual with a large stone fireplace serving rustic food, and the Main Dining Room which had a more elegant and pricey menu. Chef Walsh lived right behind the place with his wife and four kids. She was his high school sweetheart and all of the PR for the restaurant focused on how they had met long ago in Ridgefield and now were back with so much talent to shake up the stodgy old inn. She was pregnant with their fifth baby when I met them.

I will always be grateful that Chef Mario called Chef Walsh on my behalf. Especially since I was starting out my career at 36 years old, I had no time to waste. I decided that I would only work for the best. Mario Batali was my first move, going to the Elms was my next one and Chef Mario facilitated that for me.
I must mention the fact that Brendan had no idea who Mario was when he called him. This was a little before Mario became a household word, and Brendan did not watch the Food Network so he had not heard of "Molto Mario". It was interesting to hear on both ends about that conversation between male chef egos, but again...I'm grateful.
So I got to the Elms and went up a wooden staircase in the back of the restaurant. After spending the last three months in a basement in Greenwich Village, in a tiny kitchen and a stairway in between where one couldn't stand fully without whacking their head and a windowless basement/prep area/locker room/storage area, this was quite a difference.
There was a smoker with a side of salmon inside it on the landing of the stairway. The aroma was enticing. I opened the screen door to a large spread out kitchen. It had windows!
It was kind of old-fashioned in some ways and needed a little updating but it was pleasant and and had lots of light. There was a full dishwashing area on one side, a hot line that included a wood-fired grill. This was where the main pass and expediting area was. To the right of that was the pastry/pantry area. There was a good size work table in the center,surrounding that was a couple of reach-in refrigerators, a 20 qt. Hobart mixer and the line for the garde manger. When I first got there there, the unit was so old that instead of lowboy refrigerator units, it was stainless steel shelving with a trough above. This trough had to be filled with ice before every service to keep the mise en place properly chilled. A step up from the whole kitchen area was a tiny makeshift office and double doors that led to the Tavern.
When I  arrived I was told by a server that Chef had to leave because a cook had sliced his finger pretty badly and he had to take him to the emergency room. Hopefully he'd be back soon.
So I waited, kind of awkwardly for a good half hour or so, till Chef came in wearing a white t-shirt and checkered pants with a guarded smile on his face and greeted me with a handshake.
Right away he told me that he had no idea who this "Mario-guy" was and that that Mario seemed kind of annoyed and shocked with him when he drew a blank. But because he had spoken so highly of me, he did want to meet me.
Chef Walsh was one of those chefs who was a snob about The Culinary Institute of America. It was where he had trained and most of his cooks had trained. I was from Peter Kump's New York Cooking School. It was a boutique little school in a brownstone on the Upper East Side. If the CIA was Harvard, Peter Kump's was Sarah Lawrence.
Even though I was not from the CIA, Chef Walsh liked me. I think what got him was that I said that I was a single mom and because I wasn't a kid I was focused on working and learning. I would hit the ground running, didn't smoke or need breaks. I wanted to work for the best and that he wouldn't be sorry. He offered me $11 an hour, made a shift from 9am-2pm Mondays through Fridays. It was perfect.
The only cloud was that he said in a very straightforward manner that his sous chef, Ryan was very tough, particularly on women. The last female pantry cook couldn't take it any more and had quit. Pretty much every female in the kitchen had quit and he'd made a few of them cry. Thing was, he needed Ryan. "He's my boy", he said. "If I don't have him here, I can never take a day off and see my family, so he's not going anywhere".
I'd worked as the only woman in a basement with the Mexicans all summer and had charmed the hell out of them. Prior to that, I'd had a very tough marriage that had recently ended and I'd survived. Nothing was going to stop me now. Some 24 year old guy who might yell at me was nothing. I could deal. We shook hands and I was to do a trail the next week, more to observe than anything else.
When Chef gave me the tour, he walked me through the kitchen where I met some of the guys. It was a Sunday and they were actually closed for that week so it was pretty relaxed. I later heard when I got to know them all, that after walking through with my tanned legs and my slightly too short shorts, once I'd left they all told Chef that he should hire me.

I went in on a Saturday night. I was in uniform but basically was there to observe. There were three guys working the hot line which included saute, fry and grill. There was a guy working in the pantry area. He made salads and plated desserts. JB was the pastry chef, his shift started in the wee hours of the morning till about noon. There was "the Dude" who worked the afternoon/evening shift who was just supposed to plate them. The cuisine was traditional New England with some modern updates. The desserts were outstanding and they were very involved as far as how they were served and what they were garnished with. The Dude smoked a lot of weed and talked kind of slowly. In fact he moved pretty slowly all of the time. JB was from Brooklyn, moved super quickly and sounded kind of like Bugs Bunny when he talked. Before he would leave for the day, he would show the Dude the dessert specials. For example, the Indian pudding was in a ramekin that had to be flashed in the convection oven then topped with a scoop of corn ice cream and topped with  candied corn kernels and a sprig of mint. JB would talk at the Dude, peppered with "are you listening???" and the Dude would say, "yeah man, I heard you, caramel ice cream...".
"No! Corn ice cream. Take notes, you dumbass! Write this down!"
And so forth...
On this night I witnessed something that I never forgot and for years I have described to students. It was the true definition of being able to call yourself a chef. The restaurant got very busy. The waitstaff was flying through, wearing their black and whites carrying their large trays and setting them on the stand. Chef was expediting the food as it came through the pass from the hot line. One after the other, coordinating, checking the temps on the meat, "this is medium, it's supposed to be rare! Take this off!" Every order had to be just right before it went out. When it seemed that the line cooks were just not keeping up, Chef called the GM to come over to expedite as he stepped in. He bounced from grill to saute and got those orders out. After a few minutes, there was a call for a couple of salads. The Dude had disappeared (most likely to the walk-in downstairs which was a popular place to light up a bowl). So chef stepped in to make salads. They were all perfect. The greens were mounded high with the colorful components and just the right amount of dressing. When dessert tickets came up, Chef plated them. Of course, he had the Indian pudding with the corn ice cream and the candied corn kernels, and the mint sprig. He didn't miss a step.

The lesson is that the Chef must be able to step into every position if needed. He (or she) has to know how to work all stations and to do it better than the person hired to do that job. You are a hired hand and therefore dispensable. Whether it is dishwashing or arranging a salad on a plate, Chef can do it easily. It was like watching a jazz combo and the chef is the guy who can sit in on each instrument and blow everyone away.

My days at the Elms began like this- I would take my kids to the bus stop. Once they climbed aboard, I would race in my little Saturn through the back roads from Stamford to Ridgefield. Once I parked in the large rear parking lot I would run up those wooden steps to the kitchen. I was usually in uniform already, so I'd punch in and start setting up my station. I shared the area with JB, who would be doing the last few items for the dessert menu. I liked that time of day because it was basically him, myself and Chef Walsh for a while until the other cooks and Ryan the screaming-sous chef would come in. JB and Chef Walsh had actually been roommates at the CIA so they had a good twenty years of history. Their relationship was kind of a hate/love competitive one.
The first thing that I had to do to set up the station was get ice. Being that the inn was probably over a hundred years old, the layout was not easy to work with. There was a skinny spiral stairway right next to the fryolator. This led to the basement storage area. Part of it's New England charm was that the ceilings were pretty low. I am only 5'4'' and even I had to crouch a little. For the taller guys this was very challenging. However, I had gotten used to this from the hundred year old basement in Greenwich Village. There were rows of shelving with all of the dry goods. If you kept going there were was a chest freezer, a double reach-in freezer and and ice machine. Just past that you stepped outside and into the walk-in. It was a pretty long haul.
So every day I had to fill up two huge buckets of ice and carry them through that maze and up the spiral stairway. Next to the fryolator, remember? This of course meant that the steps were always greasy and slippery. I had visions of myself as the broom in the Mickey Mouse movie, "The Sorcerer's Apprentice" as I carried my sloshing, heavy buckets of ice through the treacherous course. Once I made it upstairs I dumped the ice into the trough at my station.
After about a month or two of my Sorcerer's Apprentice routine, Chef bought a lowboy unit. It had two sets of double doors and the place on top where all of the mise en place was to go. These guys were so excited when this thing arrived. I don't think that Chef had bought a new piece of equipment for some time. They reminded me of another movie, this time is was "2001, A Space Odyssey" and they were the monkeys screaming and beating on the television monitor. They pulled the plastic wrap off of it and turned it around. They turned the switch on and beat on their chests when the condenser started up. I shook my head and thought to myself, silly men... The good news was no more schlepping the ice anymore. That was fine by me.

The sous chef Ryan was just as rough as Chef had warned me about. He berated everyone there and not just me. He yelled at every little mistake and if you dropped something on the floor, God forbid, he would shout, "THERE'S YOUR RAISE!" My worst tangle with him was when I had to poach some fish for my station and the water temp was too high and it was boiling. His tirade at me summed up with him demanding that I write a paper on the theory of poaching and to hand it in to him the next day.
I steamed in my car on the way home. Fuck you! I thought to myself. Fuck you! When I got home I searched through textbooks to find the theory of poaching. I was determined to find one thing that would prove him not to be 100% correct. "THE LIQUID HAS TO SIMMER, NOT BOIL!" He had said. The best that I could do was to find a source that said that the water should be brought to a boil first, because once the fish went in the temp would be reduced to a simmer. Humph! Take that!
The next day he had pretty much forgotten about our scene and I brought it up to tell him, just so I could mention that part about the boiling liquid. It was a cheap victory but I needed it for my own psyche.
When Thanksgiving came along, it would be the first one that I would ever spend working. Typical of the business, but a new blessing in disguise for me. I am not a big fan of holidays, only made harder when your young children are not with you, which mine were not that year. What better way to spend it than working your ass off and making a little extra dough?
There were three seatings and we were booked solid. It was a prixe fixe menu with limited items. We had everyone on duty including the Dude and me sharing the station. He and I did the salads, plate after plate and assembling the desserts. I loved the feeling of being part of the band. That was what it was like and as a team we all made beautiful music. We jammed all day long and into the night. After the last customer left, the staff sat together and shared a wonderful family meal with good wine in the Tavern. The Walsh's cared about us and it showed.
A few months before, Martha Stewart came to do a shoot for Living Magazine at the Elms. Though it was September and still warm out, everyone was dressed in their sweaters and woolen scarves to simulate a New England traditional Thanksgiving at The Elms. We were closed for business that day as we only prepped on Mondays. There was photo equipment all over and bright lights in the dining room. There were charming carved pumpkins and candles lit, wreaths hanging on the doors. I quietly let it slip that I had actually known Martha. She had catered my wedding for my now defunct marriage. The guys were impressed. I felt shy about it though. I never did get to see her that day but little did I know that our paths would cross again soon.

Toward the end of my time there, we had an intern from the CIA. His name was, and I am not making this up- Charlie Brown. Charlie Brown annoyed me for numerous reasons. One was that he worked my station in the evening. This meant that after spending my whole morning prepping- washing all the greens in freezing cold water and spinning them dry, making all the salad dressings by hand, dicing and slicing all of the various garnishes, when I came in the next day it was gone. Maybe a spoonful of my carefully confetti'd red, yellow and orange bell peppers in the #9 pan. Half full (or empty) greasy squeeze bottles of vinaigrettes. The extra greens would be gone. I was robbed!
This is an age-old battle between night and day shifts. All of these years later I cannot say how many times I have heard bitching from the night guys about the day guys and vice versa. I have walked in their shoes though and it sucked. Not only was he messy and lazy, but Charlie Brown was a dick too. He wormed his way into being buddy-buddy with the guys in a way that I never would be able to. Working a lunch shift is just not the same as working a dinner shift. The dinner shift is the show, it's where the action is. The food is more complex, the pressure is more intense. The end of the night usually culminates with a beer or two and camaraderie that does not happen after lunch. So Charlie Brown got his ass in tight with them and the one that bugged me the most was his brown-nosing of Chef Walsh. Instead of doing his prep work he was always sucking up to him. He would offer to do other projects like transfer recipes on to the computer. It was 1997 and dinosaurs like Chef Walsh and myself were not so handy with technology yet. Charlie Brown was only twenty or so, it was second nature to him. I volunteered to standardize recipes. I worked at writing everything down so that there would always be continuity of flavors. The more Charlie Brown insinuated himself into Chef's good graces, the more I tried too.
It occurred to me though that I just wasn't going to win this one. I was a female and I would only be able to get so close before it would seem inappropriate. While Charlie Brown was just a dumb, spoiled extern from the CIA- he was a guy and he could get all up in Chef's inner circle and ultimately surpass me no matter how hard I worked. I had to let it go. I heard that eventually Charlie Brown did make it to sous chef number two.
One snowy day I came into work and Chef was in my pantry area, making a cake. This was weird, so I asked him where JB was. Chef made up a story about JB having to go take care of some problem with his son. It was not long before it got out that JB was gone and it nothing to do with his kid. His giant box of tools and his beloved ice cream machine had left with him. As I had mentioned before, these two had a very complicated relationship. Both immensely talented but Chef Walsh had been the more famous of the two. JB had always resented him. Chef Walsh had a happy marriage with his high school sweetheart, while JB had stumbled through a couple of marriages already. The Elms was very successful and had a lot of coverage in the press. JB had previously had a bakery in Brooklyn but his partner who was also his cousin had stolen from him. Now here he was working for Chef Walsh and the resentment was palpable at times. He once said that Chef had "the palate of a dog". Well it must be a pretty sophisticated dog because Chef's food was great.
I will always wonder what the truth was behind their final split that winter. JB never came back to the Elms. When Chef stepped in as pastry chef, it was great working side by side with him and getting to know him better. Though I could never get quite in like Charlie-fucking-Brown, we shared stories about our youthful adventures. I'll always have a soft spot and great respect for him.
A few weeks later, JB surfaced. He called me on the phone. He was working for Martha Stewart at her brand new television studio in Westport. He was the Commissary Chef there and they were looking for more good people. He wanted me to come work with him over there.
It would be more money and more room to grow. With my limited schedule I would not be able to go much further than pantry cook at the Elms. Ryan was one thing but I'd die before I had to say, "Yes, Chef" to Charlie Brown.
I agonized over the decision. I loved the Elms and I loved Chef Walsh. But it was time to move on. JB was also a talent that I could learn from. I went to visit the incredibly impressive studio, interviewed with the head of facilities and did a trail in the test kitchen. It was intimidating but attractive at the same time. When I was formally offered the job I said yes. I agonized for days about giving my notice. JB would call me every day to see if I had quit yet. He started nagging me and finally I did it.
Chef Walsh was a gentleman to the end. He offered to help me if I ever needed it and wished me luck. Once again, I had made my way through an all male kitchen and gotten the respect of every one of them. Even Ryan bent over, wrapped his long arms around me and gave me a big hug, and he had never made me cry.

The next week was the beginning of a whole other world. Working with women, working with tv production and working with Martha.

Cafeteria Lady

These were my salad days...

Years ago I had the privilege of working at the television studio of Martha Stewart Living in Westport, CT. When I was hired as an assistant to the Commissary Chef the place was just coming to life. This was 1998 and though Martha had become a fixture on tv and in the media in general she was moving into a whole new level with this place. Located on the border between Norwalk and Westport, 35,000 square foot main structure, set on 6 acres of impeccably landscaped property. All surrounded by a fence, for privacy and to keep curiosity seekers out.
Though the original portion of the building was built of stone and leaded glass, the newer portion was mainly built for function with the nondescript appearance that is typical of a production facility. It housed two kitchen sets that were meant to replica Martha's homes, a set that was for intimate interviews, table, chairs and bookshelves. There were editing suites that would eventually accommodate 10 editors. There was a fully equipped gym with state of the art exercise equipment that was open to all. There was even a huge room of crafting materials stored in hundreds of plastic sterilyte bins, all perfectly p-touched to state what the contents were. There was a massive kitchen of shiny commercial equipment with two work islands and every kind of tool that one could ever think of to use in the preparation of food. There was a whole wall of neatly stacked Le Creuset and All-Clad pots and pans in every conceivable shape and size, the envy of any guest chef who saw it. This was the test kitchen, where recipes were developed and all food to be shot on the show was prepared. It had a huge, glorious window that looked out to the property. A mural of green lushness in the summer, a snowscape in the winter. Around the corner from there was a small laundry room, then the storage area for the props, which included tablecloths, napkins, dishware, glasses. Some were antiques, eventually more and more would be produced and sold through the "Martha by Mail" catalogue. Flowers were cut and arranged there, anything that had to do with the look and set design. There was an area that had numerous pastel colored button down work shirts on a clothing rack, next to an ironing board. Then casually behind this area was a large corner office. It too was filled with windows. There was a very plain desk that was white with "Martha green" accents. In fact everything was industrial looking. One might think that where Martha would be producing her lifestyle media would be full of antique prints and chintz and depression glass, but actually it was downright stark. Most of the chairs in the place were aluminum. The desks were parsons tables with small cabinets underneath. It was clean and minimalist. The office had it's own private bathroom where she would have her hair and makeup done.
The "bullpen"  was an area of desks in the center of a large room, surrounded by small offices where mainly producers sat. In the early days we would have a weekly meeting, where everyone stood and we'd talk about company news. It was informal, there were not that many of us then. If there was a new employee it was there that they would be introduced to the team. When I was first brought on and introduced, Martha jumped right in because we had known each other in the past. This was my introduction:
"I've known Margot for years, her father and I were good friends. In fact I catered her wedding which was beautiful (accent on the "beau, pronounced "byooo-ti-ful"") at Waveny House in New Canaan. and was in the original "Weddings" book. But- she is one of my failures because Margot is divorced now!"
It was a little TMI, but you had to have a thick skin to work there as I learned early on.

At this point, I must share my own opinion concerning Martha...
For all of these years, I cannot tell you how many people have said in these exact words, "What was it like to work for her? Is she a bitch?" My answer is this, she's tough.
Nobody who is a self-made success is going to be a pussycat. I don't care who they are. "Bitch" is a sexist term. No, Martha was not easy to work for in many ways. There were some very hard days and many challenges. She is also brilliant. Creative. Strong as an ox, with non-stop energy. She's up at 4 am and her brain is on full blast. At her estate in Maine, I would be working in the kitchen and she would be in the there at 6am on a Sunday morning in her  wet-suit, cappuccino in hand, speaking into the intercom to all of her guests to get up NOW if they were going to go kayaking with her. She reads everything, she loves movies, she goes to all of the great restaurants and knows all the great chefs. Being in her orbit is a fascinating place to be. Sometimes a little scary, her expectations are high. I have always said though, that if she gives you a compliment it is for real. She has no reason to blow smoke up anyone's skirt. She let me know if she didn't like something I made, and she let me know when she did.
When you work as a private chef, which I did upon occasion for her, you must be a little bit in love with your client. Being a private chef is a very personal, in fact intimate relationship. You are in someone's home, privy to their arguments and conversations. You see them in their pajamas, in their bathing suits. You see when their kids act like brats and talk back to them. You are behind the scenes, feeding them, perhaps travelling with them. There must be an element of trust. When working for hideous and nasty clients- the hours are long and miserable. You talk back to them inside of your head and your spirit is bruised and beaten.
When you are a little bit in love with your client, you come away feeling accomplished and happy. With Martha, I usually did. There might have been moments during the weekend when my heart was in my throat and the pressure was on. It was tempered though, with seeing beautiful places and dealing with interesting and famous people. Flying on the private jet, along with the dogs, the luggage, the food and her friends was fascinating.

So no, not a bitch. She's tough and a bad-ass. As stressful as that job was, I was paid well, had lots of creature comforts and perks. It was an amazing period of my life and a great opportunity.
Beyond the bullpen and offices was my domain, my world, The Commissary. A simple area with heavy duty white picnic style tables and benches, six of them. Plain cement floors as was the rest of the building. There was a pass through counter where meals were served buffet style. There was a very expensive cappuccino machine that was for anyone to help themselves to. Actually, everything was free. There is such thing as free lunch, at least there was at the studio. There was a large reach-in refrigerator that was stocked with beverages. Coffee and hot water dispensers next to that.
The whole idea was that because the studio was in a somewhat remote area and the fact that many employees came up from New York (transported from the train station by a complimentary shuttle van) and the time allotted for lunch was limited, particularly for the crew, that there would be lunch provided every day. On shoot days with an early call-time there would be breakfast too.
Behind the dining room was the commissary kitchen. It was about a quarter of the size of the test kitchen. The walk-in wasn't even in there, I had to go across the building to get to it. But my kitchen had everything else.Two stoves, ten burners, 20 qt Hobart mixer, reach-in refrigerators and a freezer. Plenty of storage space and eventually our own convection oven. Prior to that I was pushing speed racks through the facility with dozens of hot trays of cookies after baking them in the other kitchen where they had a double stacked convection oven. People would follow me, well not me- but the delicious scent of fresh baked "Alexis's Brown Sugar Chocolate Chip Cookies".
We produced a lot of food out of that small kitchen. Early on I was the assistant to the head chef and we had a dishwasher/prep cook. We only had about fifty employees to feed. The chef who was very talented and an Italian from Brooklyn only knew how to make large amounts of food. He would make fresh lemon-meringue tarts, or home-made ice cream sandwiches composed of mint ice cream (not green, but flavored with fresh mint leaves) between two cookies, Chilean sea bass baked in a puttanesca sauce, among other outstanding dishes.
However, this abbondanza displeased Martha. Her concept was that it should be simple. Soup, salad, sandwiches and perhaps a dessert, such as cookies. There were always bowls of fresh fruit on the counters for the taking. We were to make unsweetened ice tea, or lemonade with simple syrup on the side so that people would sweeten it themselves. Only 2% or skim milk available, not whole milk. She didn't want to fatten any body up. She herself would spend a lot of time trying to keep herself in shape. That's not easy for someone who loves food and is around it all of the time.
It was a really tough job in some ways. We had to cater to so many different demands.It seemed that everybody had an opinion on lunch. I could never figure out why is was SO important to so many people. I mean, it was just lunch after all.
For example- we were given a daily budget of approximately $2.50 to spend on each person. This included cappuccino. As stated before, Martha wanted simple. Not fattening, not expensive but with great presentation and must be delicious. We were encouraged to use recipes from the Living Magazine or from the show, but many of those ingredients were very expensive. Though she did not want us to bake bread in house, our bread had to be up to par. She was a fan of Eli's Bread, and finally I sourced a distributor who would bring it up to Connecticut for us. To Martha, a perfect lunch would be a simple tuna salad on Eli's Health bread, perhaps a light soup, a green salad with fresh in-season vegetables and a bowl of cherries along with an iced tea made of a recipe from her housekeeper Luisa, that was a blend of red zinger and citrus fruit. No sugar of course.
Now for big, burly men who worked on the crew with their bulky utility belts, in their cargo shorts and construction boots- a tuna sandwich was not gonna cut the mustard. You're looking at meatball sandwich kind of guys.
It was a constant battle.
The worst part was the group of female executives, Martha's minions who made it their life's work to suck up and to second guess Martha. These women could be downright nasty. The comment made most often was "Martha would hate that".

It always blew me away how much "the coven" (a name we later came to call them privately) focused on lunch. One would think that if they were producing a national television show there might be more important things for them to spend their overpaid time on. I mean, it wasn't like we were serving franks 'n beans every day. And when you are limited to only one entree-it is hard to make something that everyone likes. On days that they didn't like whatever it was that was served (again, FREE), there was a buzz that could be felt throughout the building. One day we were even summoned along with our facilities manager to endure a meeting with an executive producer to discuss lunch. Her brilliant idea was chicken salad with dried cranberries. Fine, but what about every other day? DON'T YOU HAVE A SHOW TO PRODUCE??
Eventually I got smart. I would find Martha if she was on premise that day. I'd go back to her office, perhaps she might be in her bathroom under the bright lights getting her makeup done. I would just ask her what she thought of a certain dish. Never mincing her words, I always got a straight-up answer. She might add a twist to it but I got a yes or a no. This way when the coven would start up about what Martha would hate, I would chime right in and let them know that it was Martha approved. Ha!
Within two months of my working there, the aforementioned Commissary Chef was sent to Siberia (the New York office). He wasn't fired, as Martha recognized his talent but his excessive, fattening and pricey meals were spoiling the staff and she'd had enough.
Next chef was a woman that was a flavor of the month in the Martha-sphere. I'll call her "Sally", a short name for salmonella. Not a compliment.
Sally had also catered for Martha in her home. (this was before I got fully into that circuit). As I said, when you work in someone's home it is pretty intimate. Sally had made one major mistake though. She thought that she and Martha were friends. Important lesson here, the client is NOT your friend. You may talk, joke with them, upon occasion dine with them, but it is a business relationship. Perhaps this is another reason why I did not take criticism from Martha personally. She was the boss.
I think one of the things that Martha liked about Sally was that she worked in small batches. In Martha world, food should be delivered in wicker baskets, herbs freshly picked and gently wrapped in cotton cloth. Brazilian gardeners mind the plants and trees, the gardening tools are kept at hand at all times.
The truth of the matter is that when you are working in a commercial kitchen making a lot of food for a lot of people and on a budget, it is kind of hard to carry it all in baskets. More likely it is in cardboard boxes brought in by a truck. It's more economical and efficient.
Sally would meander in, with baskets and grocery bags. She would have stock pots going and every utensil out, every bowl in use and dirty. She used portobello mushroom stems in her vegetable stock...unwashed with the dirt chunks on them. "Oh it goes to the bottom anyway and the germs will just boil off!".
Thinking that she was a "friend" and not just an employee, she would chat with the coven and everyone else. The kitchen was always a mess and lunch was never on time. The whole point of that kitchen was to be ready so that when lunch was called on the set, immediately there needed to be food out and ready to go. The crew had a half hour only, so time was of the essence.
She would make five little sandwiches at a time, rustic and just so. She knew nothing of production and frankly not much about technique. She said that she had been trained at a culinary school in England. All I can say is that I had the most horrific food poisoning experience of my life in London. Coincidence? I think not.
Of course, the complaints started up. Food was too slow, food was not enough. Food was weird. Food was dirty and people felt sick afterwards. Sally would sit down at lunchtime with the guys on the crew that she thought were cute instead of overseeing lunch service. She was threatened by me, so I laid low and let her hang herself.
Sally went to work up at Skylands (the Maine estate) for a few days and I had to cover. I had never been the lead chef before. I was to say the least, a little terrified. Luckily I was coming off of the heels of Sally so the threshold had gotten pretty low. My taste level was more like that of the original chef except that I understood what it was that Martha really wanted. I got the fact of keeping it simple.
That first day on my own I had a freelance cook to help, along with our dishwasher/assistant. I grilled chicken, made a platter of grilled vegetables, an arugula and tomato salad and fresh baked cookies for dessert.
Lunch was on time and when I came out of the kitchen they gave me a standing ovation!

When Sally got back, still under the impression that Martha was her friend and couldn't understand why she had gotten yelled at for a)bringing her badly behaved dog with her b) serving meals late c) being incredibly messy- she was fired shortly after.
I was formally offered the job of Head Commissary Chef. I had only been out of culinary school for a year. This had happened very fast.
On one hand I wanted it. The money would really make a difference in my life. It was prestigious and took me to a whole new level.
On the other hand, I had two young kids that I was raising as a single mom. They needed me. The hours would be longer now and very unpredictable. I wasn't ready for that. The pressure was high and my experience was very limited. The honeymoon was over quickly, I got in trouble for "insipid" bread one day. And for having a bowl of bananas on the counter because they were a "useless fruit". (I said she was a genius, I did not say that she was always easy to deal with). I was very torn.
I sat on the front stoop of my house one afternoon after a long day. I kind of wanted to cry. It all had happened too fast and I didn't know what to do.

To be continued...

This is a segment of the show where Martha proudly shows off the beautiful new studio. Look carefully around the 350 mark where you can see me whisk by carrying a tray of my career-building chicken.

Que Sera, Sera-part II

I knew that I had to make my next move. I was living in Loser-town and it was not a happy place.

Jeri-rigged combination hand sink, paper towel holder and cutting board rack.....sigh.

While I was still making the donuts, getting yelled at by the pizza guy and dumped on by Chef V, out of the blue an opportunity rose.
Over the past couple of years I had become close with another chef instructor from the first school that I'd taught at, and been fired from. ( See post, Mean Girls Part II or The Devil Wears Chef Pants. Part of our bond was having a mutual torturer, but the she-demon was long gone now and my friend had managed to survive the many changes in management since. In fact my friend had encouraged the new regime to revisit my performance as an instructor and the possibility of letting me come back. This felt like nothing short of a miracle.

 As soon as Chef V had stepped foot into the place, I was outta there to get to my interview at school. It just so happened that there had been a major water pipe burst in the one hundred year old building downtown where the school is located, so classes had been cancelled and there were no elevators running either.
I walked into the lobby for the first time in three years, since that sad, rainy November day with all of my stuff in boxes after the unmerciful hatchet job they did on me.
I looked at the stairs and started my ascent up eleven flights.
All of those days of running up and down the stairs at the shitbag cafe had paid off. I paced myself and just kept going. I was reminded of those last three years of going to interviews, taking any job and talking to anyone who might be a lead. Fact was in those years I had learned a hell of a lot and met new people. To get anywhere, you must keep on going. One foot, then the other.
Now as I approached the last landing before 11, I had come full circle. I was coming home.

They hired me part time to teach an evening class. That was the same way that I had started just five years before. It was going to be killer, doing my long day at the cafe and then running over to teach my class from 6:30-10:30. I did not care, I was determined to do it. 
I told Chef V about my plans and perhaps we could discuss cutting back my hours and thus my salary. I had said many times to him and Mrs. Chef V that I knew that they couldn't afford me. I was willing to work with them and promised that I would never leave them in the lurch. He scrunched up his little sour face and said that they had been thinking of putting me on at nights now so it could be a problem but they would think about it.

The first night of class was so comfortable, like truly stepping back into your most favorite pair of shoes and finding that they still fit. The chef's office was basically the same, still run down and loaded with everyone's stuff. I thought that I would feel sad and miss my old compadres who had suffered the same fate as I had by the she-demon. Strangely enough, it was ok. It was virtually a new staff since my days (my friend taught in the mornings, so we only met in passing). The new people were nice and I had a great class. The new boss was ok- he was not brilliant but he wasn't evil either.

I decided that I would turn over a new leaf with this second chance. I would not participate in the bitch sessions or gossip. I would do my job, concentrate on becoming a better teacher and remain positive.

A week later, after another long and crazy day full of drama and stupid-stuff when Chef V came in to work he asked me to come into the "office" (the back apartment with all of the hoarder crap all over the floors). When I got there, he asked his sister to come into the room too, as he needed a witness. And just like that he said,
"So we've decided that this little experiment of our is not working out", and I was let go.

He handed me a wad of cash along with my last paycheck. I walked out of there to get to class with a new-found spring in my step. With each step I took, it soaked in a bit more. I was free! No more scrunched up little mad-face Chef V! No more arrogant asshole pizza guy! No more crisis after crisis and getting up at 5am to run the most fucked-up business I had ever had the misfortune to set foot in!
As it faded away, this job would merely be remembered as a pimple on the ass of my career.*

I started going to yoga religiously. Now, I had a bit too much time on my hands but I had a really good feeling that all was heading in a positive direction. Breathing, stretching and learning to pace myself. I had faith that part time would eventually lead to full time. Ever since Sicily, my renewed belief in myself, my talent and my choices kept me going. Within two months after starting my class, I was offered an additional one and went on salary. Not making as much as at my most recent gigs, but loving what I did.

Not long after that, our culinary supervisor was let go. He was just not cutting it and management had had enough of him. They came to me and asked me if I would be interested in the position.

I had really gone full circle this time. From being kicked out of this place, to being offered the big-cheese job.

Since Sicily, it had been a chess game of sorts, with each move very well thought out and not without risks. Left the cookie company, opened the shitbag cafe and then stepped into school. Now, I was about to have checkmate.

I interviewed with all of the levels of management. It was such a feeling of vindication to be listened to and have my opinions matter. My passion showed and it was clear that I was ready for the job. Shortly after, I was promoted to department chairperson.

I write this now one year after taking the position. I have not been without my battles and my frustrations. This job is no joke and I do work 12 hour days sometimes. Only, unlike the restaurant biz, it doesn't feel like it. I am energized and stimulated and never, ever bored. I love what I do. I am home and it is where my heart is. Que sera, sera! What will be, will be.

*The "shitbag" cafe closed for good within 4 months of being open.