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.

.
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.

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.

How Sweet It Is.

My story today is about my baking class that I just completed. It's only the second time I've taught the baking module. I've always said I'm not a pastry chef but I consider myself a baker. My ex-partner, the pastry chef, with whom I've since parted ways, was my mentor. I learned most of what I know about baking from him, and I have the experience of owning a bakery too (aka- nightmare on South Water street).
What I'm finding is, I love it. I love teaching it and doing it. Some things I had not done since I went to school like puff pastry or danish dough. I'm amazed by my own hands when I demo how to make pie dough. Those are experienced hands! There's joy when I crumble the cold butter with the flour, mix in the ice water and make a cohesive ball of dough. Rolling it out, showing them how to flute a crust. I'm damn good!
Then there's the part about seeing them try it. Most of them have not baked and they are intimidated by it. I always tell them that this is school and it's okay to make mistakes and that they are learning.
Cautiously they get their hands in there. I do it all by hand (as long as they are clean). There's a lot of calling out to me, "Chef, help!", "Chef, is this right?", "Chef, I'm scared!". Suddenly all these tough street brothers and sisters are like kindergartners. They become vulnerable. Some of them actually look like they are going to cry when their cake batter falls, or their dough turns into a sticky mess. Then there is the look on their face when they succeed, sheer pride.
Like a mother I go around and fix it, try to show them where they went wrong. My competent hands show them how to roll that pie dough, keep turning it so it does not stick to the table. Keep it moving, move quickly.
I fight another battle too. I want them to do everything from scratch. I know that most of them, it they go on, will end up in a corporate food service operation. They will used pre-made fillings and cheap shortenings. But not under my watch they won't. I insist on getting fresh fruit. I bring in some of my own recipes. I have a stash of Valhrona cocoa powder and let them use it. I show them how brown their chocolate cakes come out and how the flavor is deeper than the cheap stuff the school supplies. Most have never seen a vanilla bean, so I bring those in too. And they love my toolbox with the bench knife, the pastry tips and all my stuff that I've collected over the years.
There's usually a big guy with tattoos and a history who turns out to have a gift. This guy will have "the touch" as I call it. His puff pastry dough is perfect. It's smooth and pliable with perfect flecks of butter in it. He's amazed with himself as well as I am secretly.
I'm not going to go into the disciplinary events that took place in this class, because we had some rough days. But I will say this, I got through to them. Some very tough girls in that class. A couple of quiet ones too who barely spoke a word. My big guys who wore their do-rags underneath their baker's cap and when they wear their street clothes look like hoodlums. Somewhere I earned their respect and I got to know who they were inside. They gave me a card, a thank you card on Friday. Signed by them all, some saying that I actually got them to like baking.

I'm sorry readers, that this is so un-bitchy. I'll try harder next time.

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".