The Food Factory

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Difference Between You and Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

New-style Sashimi
with asparagus and
shaved cucumber salad

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

Why I am over catering

Recently I have found myself avoiding catering gigs as if they were an obnoxious relative who says that they love you, gives you a check for $5 on your birthday which then bounces and you get charged $25 from your bank. It ends up costing you more than it's worth and you have to deal with their annoying personality traits.

I used to look forward to catering jobs. Sometimes I had a chance to stretch my skills and perhaps get to show off a little. For a while I had a regular group of people that I worked with. I had a partner who shared the responsibility. Sometimes the client came through his connections, sometimes mine. We planned out our menus, divvied up the items, worked our asses off and always excelled. When we needed servers or helpers we had some good ones. They were dedicated to the job and were fun to be with. Nothing like that cold beer at the end of a good gig when you're counting out the cash tips.
We cooked for political figures, celebrities and some just plain old rich folks. We did Rosh Hashonah and Yom Kippur for a family on upper Fifth Avenue. The owner's brother is a famous state Senator who came into the kitchen to chat with us and compliment us on the meal. When he heard that we were opening a bakery in South Norwalk, Connecticut he said, "Connecticut-Schmonnecticut! We need you in New York!"
How many vans and SUV's we loaded up. One time my Saab  9-3 was able to hold everything for a cocktail event at Ernst & Young. Luckily the gal working with me was about 5 feet tall because there was so much stuff in that car, even she had to keep her knees bent while sitting in the passenger seat.
We laughed a lot. One time at a swank Park Avenue pad we had gotten everything prepared early. The kitchen was immaculate. With nothing left to do, my partner and I were hanging around and somehow ended up with him sitting on a chair in the laundry room while I trimmed his ear hair. We looked like apes grooming each other in the jungle, it occurred to us how ridiculous we would look if someone walked in.
We used to prep catering jobs at the television studio that we worked at because it had beautiful professional kitchens. He was always popping out a wedding cake or two on the side. He had tubs of butter cream hidden away, or ganache discreetly tucked behind a rack. We had keys to the place and sometimes on weekends literally forgot that it was not in fact our own. Even the company vans were unofficially at our disposal.
Our team made fun of the guests and teased one another. There were some incredible homes and apartments. Lots of neurotic women with designer kitchens who were terrified of anything getting messy. My crew was always good about keeping things tidy, my pet peeve is seeing glasses and used cocktail napkins laying around. I did take a little pleasure out of a drunken guest vomiting on an expensive rug though. The hostess's face was priceless!
Hours upon hours of prep work. The packing up and last minute details that had to be addressed. Always forgetting that one thing that someone had to go back to the store/bakery/restaurant or studio for. Calming the nerves of the clients. The oven that died minutes before a wedding party and the hurricane that ensued at the same time, forcing us to relocate all the outdoor setup to the basement and tent. Lugging tons of dirty and used stuff back to our kitchens and having to clean it at some point. Being so exhausted that our feet and hands ached. Somebody was usually nursing a burn or bandaging a cut. Realizing that we never ate a proper meal, and had only picked at some hors d'oeuvres and a few cookies at the end of the night.
Bottom line, we had some good times, made some good money and our reputation was excellent.

So what has happened since the days of Park Avenue and ear-hair trimming?

For one thing, I am tired of haggling with people over money. Everyone wants the best but they do not want to pay for it. If I get my hair cut, I pay for what the service costs. If I go to the dentist I don't ask if they can charge half of their price to do a filling. What if I provide my own Novocaine, would that bring the price down?
All of that food we make is hand-crafted. If you hire me it is because I make my own pastry dough, I don't use pre-made tart shells. I take very few shortcuts because of the pride that I take in my work, it's just how I roll. Even some of the wealthiest people I have worked for insisted on serving frozen pigs in a blanket from Costco, and that I did. The customer is always right. But when they started also bringing cheap-ass cakes from there and Stew Leonard cookie platters to save a buck, you are starting to hurt my reputation.
I don't want to feel guilty and have to struggle with charging you what I am worth anymore. Take it or leave it.
Gathering ingredients in New York is extremely challenging. In Connecticut where I had my own vehicle it was one thing. In the city, unless you have a driver, it can be overwhelming. To go to Union Square and handpick the watermelon radishes and squeeze the tomatoes at the farmer's market then go to the upscale fancy butcher or fish market, or cheese monger, then an actual grocery store, etc., etc.. using taxis to get around all over an overcrowded metropolis. Ugh. No thanks.
Over the years I am working with different groups of people and have found certain stereotypes everywhere.
Some examples are the waiter who never shuts up. He makes the same jokes over and over again.  He is not funny nor clever. His diarrhea of the mouth is exhausting to me. During the event, the servers that stand around and do nothing while the kitchen is sweating and in overdrive.
Then there is the overworked/underpaid martyr- in the kitchen there will be one person who when you ask them a question will roll his/her eyes and say "well, I'm not paid enough to tell you what do do/where to go/how to do (fill in the blank), it's not my job!" But it is  because he/she does it everyday so just shut up and give me the info. I'm a freelancer here and don't give a shit about the politics that go on at this place. Show me the walk-in then show me the money.
Rude party guests. Bitch, listen up- I know more about food, entertaining, travel and culture than probably most people in the room. Because I am in a uniform and you are in Versace with Laboutin pumps and Botox pumped into your forehead does not make you a higher form of life in any way. Guests who wave you away with the back of their hand when you are offering them food or rudely command you have no class. Please and thank you are still appropriate.
My bones are tired now. I run when I work. I never sit down. I don't smoke so I don't take breaks. The body does not quite keep up with it anymore. When I am looking for something on a bottom shelf and I used to bounce right up, it now takes a moment and a slight grunt to do so.
I find myself working for other people often and they don't do it like I do. They don't set up nicely, the stations are dirty. The waiters and everyone are picking off the trays in the kitchen and not washing their hands. It disgusts me. Recently I was handed a wrinkly, stained chef coat to wear at a party. I was mortified.

Overall, I think that basically I moved on in a new direction. Yes, my team was probably cleaner and more professional than many that I work with now.  Chances are though, that our jokes were stupid to other people and were only funny to us. Money was always a hassle.
Catering just does not come to me naturally anymore. I always preferred to be behind the scenes anyway. As I get more and more into teaching and mentoring young cooks, I find that my experiences are a tool to pass on to them. If I teach them strong skills and values, maybe they will work clean and make beautiful food. When they get to a point when they walk through a room and see a cocktail plate with crumbs and a crumpled napkin on it they must pick it up. I want them to count those wads of cash out to their servers, pack up the greasy hotel pans into the coolers- organize the rentals for pick-up and feel pride that they did an amazing job. It's their turn now. That's just how I roll.

Mean Girls Part II or The Devil Wears Chef pants.

The first time I met her, she was merely another instructor at school. I was in the chef's office entering some data into a computer with only about 2 minutes to go before class time when she came bursting through the door. I had never had any kind of exchange with this woman, good or bad prior to this moment but she came screaming like a banshee (in a Southern accent, so from here forward anything I write that she said you must imagine in a Southern drawl) accusing me of unplugging a computer in a classroom. Being that she was so rude about it, I didn't even lift my gaze from the screen and merely answered, "Okay."
In a matter of months though, management canned my boss, the head instructor and in his place put her.
She had been in another department. Turns out she was supposedly trained as a pastry chef.
Oh great.
I gave her the benefit of the doubt because I am a professional. I shook her hand, congratulated her and offered my help with anything she might need. A week or two  later, her father passed away. I took up a collection, purchased flowers and all the chef instructors signed a sympathy card. I placed it on a table in her office so that she would see it when she returned to work.
She never mentioned a bloody word about it. No "thanks y'all" or anything.

Still- the boss is the boss. I forged forward. I tried to be the best that I could be. Soon enough though I noticed that this woman had all the social skills of a wet fart in a sleeping bag. They stunk. Morale went spiraling down among the staff. We started to wonder if our office was bugged or if there was a snitch in there because she seemed to know more than she ought to and constantly berated us for complaining. Now one of the reasons that a faculty lounge exists is so that teachers can blow off some steam from what is a very high pressure job. And if we weren't bitching before, we certainly started to now. She repeatedly told us how lucky we were to even have our roach infested office.

I have been the big cheese before and I know fully well what a difficult job it is. There are a couple of things that are important to remember when you have a staff.

•  Listen to them. Get both sides of the story. Start out with the assumption that your team member is right and have their back. It is really important to workers to feel that their boss respects them, believes in them and thinks that they are valuable.
•  Admit to being wrong once in a while. To err is human, remember?
•  If an employee is valuable give them a warning before firing them. Sometimes a situation can be rectified.
• Try to treat people equally and don't pick favorites. You may like some of them more than others but the playing field should be level for all.

Our leader screamed at us. Humiliated us. I kept a secret list on the whiteboard above my desk hidden behind some papers that I called the S.O.W. (Shit of the Week). I will always try to find humor in a bad situation. It did seem as if every week there would be one particular instructor whom she would dump on especially hard. Once she'd finish hounding that person and stormed out of the office, I'd slide the papers aside and say, "well Chef so-and -so, looks like it's you this week" and enter their name.
Not only was she just downright mean but it was hard to respect her professionally. If she was this great pastry chef it would be a real asset to show her stuff a little. The students always asked and she would snap at us when we would approach her. She made up all kinds of excuses why she couldn't or wouldn't do a demo for them. Her predecessor also used to substitute teach once in a while, a great way to be in touch with the students and to understand the perspective of the teachers. She never did, except for one class that was lecturing only. It became clear to us that she knew nothing. Worse than this was her refusal to listen the the chefs about how lousy the syllabus's were or how the requisitions for food were inadequate. If a chef was caught at the stewarding department trying to get a lemon and she was there, God help you!
Morale sunk deeper and deeper. The students were low priority. Shoddy equipment was put in the kitchens and she would get mad at us when it didn't work. Certain chefs could breeze out the door leaving a disastrous mess in their kitchen, others who were not favorited would get chastised if they left a rolling pin on a table. We never felt supported or like a team.  Once in a while her predecessor used to take the department out for drinks and a meal together for a little bonding. Now staff would run out of there to hide in a bar and bitch to one another, commiserating about our jobs. We never felt secure. People were getting fired constantly, management would lie to our faces, we started mistrusting one another and altogether it became a dysfunctional working environment.
When I was promoted to a management position for the evening shift, she zeroed in on me even more. Every morning I woke up to really nasty e-mails about something that I missed the night before. No matter that the place was cleaner now, in better order and overall a good feeling at the school at night, I'd get a snippy note that there was an open container of mustard in the reach-in in K-5!!!!  I started to dread looking at my  messages in the morning.
Eventually she had a hit put out on me. I know it had to do with the fact that another chef and I were dating on our own time and discreetly. She made it look performance oriented. The cowards started blacklisting me. They wrote up reports that were full of untruths so that they could start a paper trail.
Instead of perhaps approaching me and discussing management's disapproval of my relationship with the coworker, together we might have come up with a solution. Something honest would have been the high road. Instead they threatened us, we lied, they lied and it was ugly. We both got fired.
I had been trying to get out of there, I had been interviewing and doing tastings for other jobs. In the long run it had been my plan to leave because of the abuse. What really hurt though is that she badmouthed me, without my being there to defend myself. I became the scapegoat for everything that had been wrong at that place. There is one problem with that though. I don't want to toot my own horn but, everybody liked me. Toot.  Frankly I don't think they believed a word about what she said in connection with me. The outpouring of support that I got from students and coworkers was great affirmation and truly touching.

Now I live a peaceful existence without a tyrant over me. And I may not be perfect but I'll tell you one thing, if you sent me condolence flowers, I would sure as hell say thank you.

Mean Girls part I

In my last post I gave my spiel on male chefs. I stand by my opinion.

Now I need to let loose on some of my sisters. Ironically the ones I am speaking of are both pastry chefs, which reverts back to my theory (see "Chefs vs Pastry Chefs" post).

It's women like these who give us a bad name. Whether they are just being the stereotypical bitch, or just plain mean, it's totally unnecessary and unprofessional. Here lies the tale of the first one:

I hired a pastry chef for my cafe. Very attractive, smart and talented. Her work was beautiful. She was expensive but if I could get the mileage out of her in terms of production she would be worth every penny. That was my strategy, but not hers apparently.

Before we opened officially, she came in to test recipes and start building a pastry menu. Light, flaky Danish, good cookies (truthfully mine were better) and an astounding chocolate mud cake. The cake was a show stopper. Once we opened it became a number one request by customers both by the slice and to order a whole one.

Though her large ego loved the fact that her cake was very popular, her artiste mentality did not like the idea of producing more than one cake at a time. "The Princess", (which became my code name for her) preferred using the 6 qt. Kitchen Aid mixer as opposed to the 20 qt. one that I had bought specifically for making quantity. She liked to decorate the top of the cakes with the fudgey chocolate frosting and squawked when asked to write Happy Birthday on anything. One day she had an order where she had to make three of them and one would have thought that I had asked her to run barefoot over hot coals. She bitched and moaned, complained and was incensed that she had to stay two hours late to make the deadline. May I add that I had a fully loaded car outside with the rest of the order with the motor running waiting for the last masterpiece to be completed?

I was taught that a pastry chef should earn at least equivalent to what they produce daily in terms of dollars. For example, if they are being paid $100 in a day, they need to sell a minimum of $100 worth of product. This gal needed to bump up her yield to in order to earn her fat salary.

So while people were raving about the baked goods, she only made what she felt like making. When the customers would discover and fall in love with one item, she would stop making it and replace it with some esoteric experiment. I had built a kitchen that was set up for production. The cafe was where we could hook customers on our food, the kitchen was built to make enough for special orders and hopefully even, wholesale. I had restaurants and caterers starting to come see me about possibly supplying them. Instead of complying, I got whining from the Princess when I approached her on this.

I will also add that she became very unpleasant to work with in general. The other cooks avoided her like the plague. She did nothing but complain and bitch at them, accusing them of laziness constantly.  She did not like having to share an oven with them, or the fact that she had to walk around the wall to get to it. She would comment and make suggestions on how they did everything, but would screech when I did so with her. After a while even I scooted past her area as quickly as possible before I would hear my name called, upon which I would wince as if someone was pinching me.
Why didn't I just fire her, you might ask? Well, I was starting to consider replacing her with someone less expensive and lower maintenance, but something prevented me from doing so.  Her husband was diagnosed with testicular cancer. She cried understandably, I gave her time off whenever she needed it. One day she started making cupcakes with ugly scoops of icing on top of them. Not only was it too much icing but it looked weird and unappealing. She said they (the ball shaped scoops) were in honor of "the boys". Ew.
You can't fire someone who's got a loved one with cancer. So we all continued to tip-toe around her. I also gave her credit on everything she did out of respect for her talent. I went so far as to introduce her to the famous "Domestic Doyenne" who was her idol, and my former employer. I was making an appearance on the DD's national television show and brought the Princess to New York along with me and a tray of her goodies, including the mud cake. The DD was visibly impressed and the Princess swooned, her ego filled up like a Humvee with a full tank of gas.
Shortly after this, a producer for the DD's show called me to do a segment about me and the cafe. This was a wonderful piece of publicity for us and caused great excitement among the staff, most notably the Princess. On the day of the shoot, a whole chunk of time was devoted to showing how she made her delectable sticky buns and the no-knead bread that we featured at the cafe.
Easter came along, I had to pressure Her Majesty about creating a menu for our Easter brunch. She hemmed and hawed, bitched and stalled. Finally she came up with 3 choices for our prixe fixe that were very simple and would certainly not require her presence for service.
A few days before Easter though, a crisis occurred. While I was running around, greeting customers, jumping into the kitchen to expedite, managing the usual lunchtime rush apparently there was a cock/hen fight in the coop. My father, who was my partner spoke up to the naked empress. She was complaining about something while he had other business to attend to. She followed him up the stairs to the office,continuing with her nagging rampage when he turned to her and said something to the effect that she was a "fucking bully".
Whoa.
The Princess did not like that. Not one bit. So when I came back into the kitchen, there she was sniveling and red-eyed, packing up some of  her stuff. She would absolutely not stand for this treatment, no one had ever spoken like that to her and she walked out. Three days before a fully booked Easter brunch.
In the immortal words of Winston Churchill, "If you're going through hell, keep going", which is exactly what I did. My Pops and I decided that enough was enough and that we were done with her. She had told me she need a few days to think, well not over Easter you're not. Adios. I told her she was not welcome to come back when I spoke to her later on the phone.

Next, I jumped into gear and put on my baker's cap. I called my friend Chef Dave to come in and lend a hand. Together with the rest of the staff we started knocking out the Easter menu. While service continued in the cafe we worked  so hard until we were punchy. I just remember that by Saturday night when all prep was completed and it was only Chef Dave and myself left we were so relieved that we cracked open a couple of beers and he did his famous pole dance on the supporting beam in the kitchen. Nothing like a goofy looking 6'4" guy in baggy chef's pepper pants doing the twirl. Brunch went off beautifully, without a hitch.

The following Tuesday as I was working the pastry station, the Princess walked in all refreshed. "Well hello there, Baker!" she chirped at me. I looked up from rolling my dough and asked her what she was doing here. She was there to do her job, she said. I told her she did not have a job anymore and to finish packing her things. Goodbye and good luck.

Not long after, the segment on the cafe was to air. I contacted the producer to tell her that the Princess was no longer with us, how would that affect the piece? So much had been devoted to our baked product. The producer said it would be no problem because her part had been shot with no sound and in the edit it would work out fine.

I can  just imagine, the Princess serving pretty little pastries whilst her family (not too many friends, for I don't believe she had many) gathering around the television to watch herself on her favorite program. How I would have loved to have seen her face when the wonderful piece aired with me demonstrating a signature dish, various shots of me interacting with the customers, other staff members smiling and doing their jobs. Oh, and with a voice-over narration by the DD, a scene of a pair of women's hands making cinnamon buns and bread. No face and no voice. Especially not a high pitched screechy one!

America's Testosterone Kitchen

A very large toque is not unlike the long front of a sports car, if you catch my drift. Perhaps compensating for something lacking?

Gay, straight, fat, thin, tall, short, American, Italian, Mexican- they can't get enough of themselves.
The male chefs are big, they're loud.  When you get a bunch of them in a room together they call each other "dude" or "man" or "bro". This is usually in a conversation where they are one-upping each other. Who has worked more hours straight in a row, who gets the best weed, who has the worst burns, on and on. If a female so much as tries to open her mouth during one of these brag-fests, she will be completely talked over. There is no room for her in this jungle.
Male chefs bark orders out. They bond with other male chefs, even if they hate them. I've seen young, inexperienced and kind of dumb guys get accepted into the fold before a female would. Often by opening their mouth and bragging about something (i.e. secret bbq sauce, the most expensive wine they ever drank or how much weed they could/would/should/ smoke).
Even the nicest ones can't help themselves when it comes to being overbearing to their female counterparts. It's genetic.
I've seen women chefs who are mean, perhaps compulsive, downright nasty or crazy but it's just not the same thing. Not to say that female chefs don't have egos. Some of them have terrible ones and they get branded "bitches" of course. These gals aren't a picnic either.
Male chefs might call you "honey" or "sweetie" or "darling". Or I've gotten "Miss" from time to time.
No, that's "Chef" to you, buddy.
It's not mean spirited, it's really not. They are not being cruel. These guys are just full of themselves. The kitchen is the jungle, they are warriors who are sent to kill. They must do the tribal dance to impress one another. They must pound their chests and yell. They rattle their spears (knives) and see who has the biggest peace pipe and who has the best weed in it.
A female chef comes to the jungle in a different capacity. If she is a single mom like I was, she carries her babies on her back, quietly washes the laundry in the river, kills an animal, butchers it and cooks it. When she is done for the day, she cleans and goes to her hut. She does not have the time nor the need to show off.
The male chef must be heard. He needs underlings to be spellbound, colleagues to be impressed. The female has mouths to feed and is efficient in how she does it.
In my early days as a cook, I know that I missed out on possible promotions because I did not have time or frankly the need to hang around. In my first post-school job a way less qualified cook cut in front of me on the line. I worked pantry/salad station in the day, he did in the night. I constantly came in to find that he had used all the dressings without replenishing and left the low-boy a mess. Overall he wasn't that great but he just kissed up to the chef constantly.  If I had done the same, as a female employee it could easily have been misconstrued and would have been the cause of gossip. He was lazy and a putz but he was accepted into the tribe.
My former partner the pastry chef ( male plus artist = super ego) did not talk to me for two days when I suggested that though he was more experienced than I, since I would be putting in the same ungodly hours that maybe I should be paid the same amount of money as him.
Some of my best friends are men. I've gotten pretty tight with a number of male chefs. I have always enjoyed the camaraderie of the kitchen. Horsing around, crude jokes. I've been known to be just as bad as the guys are. It's just that like the proud peacock with his feathers fanned out, the male chef has a lot of bravado and can be very insecure down deep. He'll squawk if you threaten him. You must be careful when criticizing men. Truth is they have very delicate constitutions and can be crushed easily.
When it comes to strength, yes they can lift the 60qt stockpot or work with a bloody hand wrapped in side towels because they are too macho to go to the emergency room and later have 12 stitches and a wicked infection.
But it would be refreshing if just once in a while, during a who's got the biggest, bestest or greatest session, one of them might turn to the lady in the room and say, "What do you think?"

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.