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.

Keeping it Simple.

Rome wasn't built in a day...

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago there was a lady who went to Italy and when she was there, she found out who she really was.

She was meant to have her hands in the food, washing, prepping, cutting, rolling, patting, baking, frying and finally designing it on the plate, giving it to people and watching their faces light up when they ate.

In Italy she smelled for the first time what young, unfiltered, virgin olive oil was.  Bread that had a crust that was crisp, an interior that was chewy with just enough salt to make your mouth water. Fish that melted in your mouth that only needed olive oil and lemon, perhaps some fresh herbs. Wine that was plain, served in a pitcher.

The lady pursued her new dream, to get behind the stove.

Of course, this lady is me. I've had quite a career with many ups and downs. In the last year I went from having a promotion and a great summer, to the fall where I was fired. Since then, there has been much time for introspection and questioning what the hell I'm doing and do I even want to do it anymore?

Besides being fired by people who were ignorant, I went on to work for some others who were pretty clueless too. Once you get to the level where I have gone, it's hard to work for knuckleheads, as I have written about previously.

And so I wonder, is this all there is? Did I reach the highest I can go? I'm feeling very over it all. I don't think about food all the time, I do not watch food tv or read all the food blogs and magazines. Not interested.  The whole business is just too precious. Food is getting so convoluted and away from what it is meant to be, nourishment for the body and soul.
Did the bastards win? Those who put me down, or my foolish choices get me to a place that I just can't seem to come back from?
I don't really know. But I do know that the last two weeks have been enlightening. Here is why.

First- I finally went back to Italy. It had been seventeen years since the last time. Though I didn't really have the money, I did have the time. My son and I went to Rome. It was there that I remembered what I was all about.
Simplicity.
Simple ingredients, simple preparation, simple presentation.
Rome is full of ancient ruins and people sitting at cafes eating pasta and drinking wine, out of pitchers. I remembered who I was and that there was a place that existed that had inspired me. I had just been out of touch with that spirit. I had been pushed around by horrible bosses, wacko clients, the restaurant business and simply being worried about making money.

On our last night we went to the Jewish Ghetto where we dined on carciofa alla guidea (artichokes in the Jewish style), something that I had never forgotten. The artichoke is fried so that the leaves are crisp and salty almost like potato chips. The choke is cooked through and tender. I had tried many times to make it, but it was never quite the same. It was so good, I ordered another.

We ate pasta that was truly al dente, ate that chewy bread, drank the grape-y wine. I drank sambuca, had gelato, drank more sambuca and got another gelato.  I was trying to get every last crumb of Italy in my mouth.

When we returned to New York, I still didn't know where I was going but I knew where I came from.

This week I am working for a private client of mine. They asked me to come to their family vacation home on the Chesapeake Bay in Maryland. These were clients of mine way back when all I wanted to do was open a bakery. Now, having been there, done that- I have a new appreciation for nice people who will pay to have me cook in their home.

No lie, I'm working my ass off. From the moment I got off the train I took what would be the first of many trips to Whole Foods. I have been non-stop cooking and baking.  Right now as I sit here, my knees and feet are throbbing. My hands are dry from washing them so much, the joints in my fingers are stiff.  But my heart feels wonderful. Here is why.

First, these people are truly nice people. Many wealthy people who hire private chefs are not. Now that I have been around the block a few more times I feel truly blessed to be working for them again. There is a mutual trust. They trust that I am going to make great food. They give me money, I make it happen. We discuss menus and ideas but I have a very long leash and get lots of creative leeway. Unlike the micro managers who ride you, which  ulimately kills off any creativity- these people believe in me and treat me with respect. This has made me regain some of the confidence that I lost.

Today I have run out to the store twice, driving the lady's Mercedes SUV, I work in a drop-dead gorgeous kitchen, brand new appliances and an open view of the water. Yesterday I went out shopping for some necessary equipment and dropped a cool $1500 or so.

I have baked bread, cookies, brownies, cakes, tarts. I have roasted, grilled and sauteed. I have bent over countless times, opening and closing drawers, the refrigerator, the oven.

Then, the payoff. The happy faces, the compliments. The food disappearing off of the platters. The group is happy, they love my work. Though working hard, I am relaxed. I know what I am doing. I'm a thoroughbred running around the track again.

Unfortunately, I don't work for this client enough to fully pay my bills. I still have many unanswered questions to face about the next chapter in my life. Happily though, I think I am finished with the last one. I will never forget my students and the experience of teaching, but the pain and anger with the politics can get filed away now.

When I get back on the train on Monday to go home, with my aching feet and grey roots that desperately need a touch up I will bring my rejuvenated outlook with me. Though to completely different places, these two trips have reminded me of that lady who found her passion in Italy, and the satisfaction of doing great work. The joy in keeping it simple.

May the wind be always at your back

I keep on saying it over and over. The wind has to be at my back. No more upstream swimming for this salmon. 

As we get older and gravity hits us, the collagen in our skin lessens, yet our brains get so damn smart. So here is my lesson learned.

1) I don't do toxic

2) I don't do crazy

and number 3:

The wind has got to be at my back. 

My bf doesn't seem to get it. He's worried about me. He keeps showing me help wanted ads for executive chef jobs. I repeatedly say no. No means no. 

It's not just the hours, the time spent on my feet, the burns, the cuts, the pressure.  Because frankly I can handle most of that. But not if it takes more effort than is really needed to do the job. I have now been fired twice in my life, which is not bad when you think about how many jobs I have had. It's a shitty feeling though and I don't want to have it again.

Sometimes I panic inside. Money- kid in college, health insurance, rent, I can go on and on. But I do know this; that any time I have faced adversity I always come out stronger and better for it.

When I was out of work two years ago, it led me to teaching. Teaching was something I found  great satisfaction in, I met people who became real friends and I grew a lot.

When I gave notice to Ms. Crazy last week regarding the private chef job I tried to put it in the most simple terms, "square peg, round hole". Does not fit.

I felt so relieved because though I was losing a paycheck, I was leaving an uphill battle that I would face every day trying to be the right person for that job. Truth be told I have only had one personal chef job where the people were really, really nice and not crazy. It was also my best paying job. Most of them are not like that.

I once wanted desperately to have my own business, something I fought for, worked at tirelessly, but being that so much was wrong, in the end gave me heartache both professionally and personally.  It did make me stronger, but that lesson has been learned and I'm done.

I live a good life. I got rid of so much that encumbered me. I now live in a small apartment with two dogs. My wonderful kids have grown into such amazing people. Great friends, love in my life and I am still young enough to have more adventures. Why should I be desperate?

Like marriage and partnership, both at which I failed at, I really understand now just how important it is to be the right one. I'll take any job out there short term but in the long run, I want that warm sun on my face with the wind at my back gently helping me go in the right direction. Wherever that may be.

May the road rise to meet you,
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
The rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of his hand.

May God be with you and bless you:
May you see your children's children.
May you be poor in misfortune,
Rich in blessings.
May you know nothing but happiness
From this day forward.

May the road rise up to meet you
May the wind be always at your back
May the warm rays of sun fall upon your home
And may the hand of a friend always be near.

May green be the grass you walk on,
May blue be the skies above you,
May pure be the joys that surround you,
May true be the hearts that love you.*

*Irish proverb (and quote from Johnny Depp in the movie "Blow")

I don't do crazy

I think at this time of my life I can make a few proclamations.  I have earned them.
First, I don't do toxic. If it's at all possible, I don't ever want to work in a toxic environment again. And by toxic I don't mean working in a nuclear power plant where any minute we could  have a meltdown.  I mean a place where there is poor management and backstabbing, that sort of thing. Been there, done that and I really don't want to do it again.
Next on the list-
I don't do crazy.
I have been a boss and I have been a worker-bee but I have never been a crazy (at least not in my professional life).  Some crazies are very successful people. I do think that creativity does require a little bit of loco and that brilliance can be tainted by meshugenah. Just look at Vincent Van Gogh.
I'm talking out and out mean, nasty, infantile, bossy, crazy. The kind of people that the movie "Horrible Bosses" was about. Which, by the way I went to see the first night it was out. I'd had one of those kind of weeks with my own horrible boss.
In my recent travels I had left toxic and felt the weight off of my shoulders. I no longer woke up to nasty e-mails every morning telling me what I did poorly or did not do correctly the night before. I wasn't someones bitch anymore and that was fine by me.
When I was called to a job as a private chef, I could not turn it down. The money was good and beggars cannot be choosers. So I traded in the field-hand's overalls and put on my clean domestic uniform. If you'll pardon the expression I went from being a field n----- to a house one.
When you move into the "big house" they make you sign a confidentiality agreement so there will be no mention of names or specifics here. That's not important anyway.
What is important is holding on to one's soul and dignity. I'm a class act. I am polite and gracious. I work hard, I'm honest and trustworthy. I know that most of these people are very rich and very spoiled and they are used to being pampered. It's all part of the deal.
At first there was a coolness factor being an insider on the lifestyles of the rich and famous. Shopping among the surgically altered faces of the upper east side ladies at Citarella. Being loaded into the shiny black Cadillac Esplanade (this is the vehicle de rigeur of the wealthy now) with a cooler containing thousands of dollars worth of ossetra caviar that I had to hold on my lap on the way to the Hamptons. The famous names that are all part of this circle that you will be feeding and waiting on.
What was not cool though, was being told one thing, then something different, then different again.  Being treated disrespectfully one minute and then treated like a bosom buddy the next.  Too many rules and regulations about a lot of minutia. A lot of micro managing. Insults.
I guess the one that pushed me over the edge was being berated over a piece of meat that I had little to do with. This berating took place in front of a guest who was also someone who works at a famous four star restaurant in New York. That clicked a switch in me.
After that I realized I was not dealing with someone who was rational. She pulled a really rotten move on me last minute and took away time I was supposed to travel and work with them and gave it to another cook. She had been begging me to hold off on taking any other work while she made her plans. I had rearranged my whole life around that two weeks for her, counted on that income and on a whim, she changed her mind.  Then when I called her on it, she lied and said she had merely suggested that I hold off on taking any other jobs while she solidified her plans. This is also a person who when she walks in the door looks at me and says, " I CANNOT EVEN THINK ABOUT FOOD RIGHT NOW. I AM MUCH TOO BUSY!!"
Cooking has to be done with some love and creativity. Unless you are just emptying a box of something, adding water to it and setting a timer- your brain must be involved. When I got crazy flying around my head it sucks those abilities right out of me. I tried to be invisible. Like writer's block, I could not think of what to make. She had a comment for everything and you never knew when she would fly off the handle.
I worked for one of the most famous crazies for a long time, but she was truly brilliant and as painful as the process was sometimes, the outcome was always spectacular and I was proud of what I produced. In this case I was often embarrassed by what we put out thanks to her input. One minute she's screaming at me about not touching the special $100 piece of meat, the next she is putting her "special barbecue sauce" (read- ketchup and mustard) on it.
So when the misery factor was just getting too high, and she last minute changed the work schedule that I had counted on, I knew I was done. Just like the $100 steak that she had burned.
She was just another crazy-ass mofo.
Really, I would rather be baking in a basement somewhere. Crazy breeds crazy and the more you are around it, the more you pick it up. Everyone runs around in these households trying to keep the king or queen crazy from going off the deep end.
Being a hair past the half century mark I gotta have some principles and I think that I have earned them. Maybe I won't have a pot to piss in, but I ain't  crazy and I don't work for them either.

Queen of the Jungle

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

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

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

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".