The Elms, You Never Forget Your First

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cafeteria Lady

These were my salad days...

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued...

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

Que Sera, Sera-part II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Que Sera, Sera, part 1

Every day was the same. In a bleak and nasty winter there were no highs or lows. Just flatness. When friends would ask me how I was, I always said that I was fine, and I was. Anything new? No. Work, home, work, home. And it was fine. My life had gone off track somewhere. Not to a bad place, but not to where I wanted to be.
I remember when I first started the job, I told people that it was great working alone. I never had to deal with secret Santas or signing birthday cards for people that I really did not give a shit about. The downside was that I never saw anyone. The only people I saw were the dregs of society that ride public transit. Most of the time I was alone in a big drafty warehouse with no natural light. I was baking, but using mass production machines which basically took away the tactile joy that I get from baking.

I realized all of this when I went on vacation with my family in Sicily. Nothing like two weeks of bliss and bonding in my favorite place on earth in contrast to what my existence was.

I had been to Sicily many years before, with my ex-husband. It was where I had discovered that there was a culture that cooked the way I did. I had found my culinary roots, even though my ancestry is not Italian. One year later my husband and I split and I went to cooking school which was the beginning of a new life.

It was time to go back now.

I woke up on a sunny morning in Taormina. Stepping outside on the balcony that overlooked the royal blue Mediterranean Sea, breathing in the air that smelled only like Italy does, and nowhere else in the world. I had my first moment of joy that I could remember in a very long time. I outstretched my arms toward the sun and said,
"Buon giorno, motherfuckers!"
I had ten days stretched in front of me to spend with my grown children, daughter's boyfriend and my cousin. A dream I had for so long was now being enacted.
The trip was magical and nourishment for my soul. Climbing Mount Etna, walking and shopping in the open markets of Catania, Cooking pasta con le sarde at home for the five of us. Laying in my bed at night looking at the moon shining down on the sea, listening to the sounds of my daughter and her boyfriend playing the guitar and singing, and of my cousin bonding with my son over many glasses of wine. Peace and happiness flowed through my being.

Then I came back to New York in mid-March with grey blobs of icy, dog-piss, dirty snow still on the sidewalks. Dorothy, we were not in Sicily anymore. There were some days when the only person that I would have a conversation with was my doorman.
I started to have panic attacks that came from the isolation, lack of sunlight and from boredom.
This life just was not the one that I wanted to be living.
.
So when an opportunity arose, I jumped.


A former colleague of mine, Chef V, had occasionally reached out to me during the three years that I had known him, about opening a business. We had originally met at the vocational culinary school where we were both instructors. Whereas we had shared backgrounds of being restaurateurs who had to shutter our doors prematurely, I had moved on, he had not. He was still hungry to find that perfect spot and to have another shot at it, like the gambler who believes that the next roll of the dice will be the winning one. Over the occasional beer we would meet and I would entertain the thought but never enough to really pursue it and it usually faded away.
As fate would have it though, this time he caught me at the perfect moment.  He did have an actual venue and really was in the process of trying to open it. Was I interested in coming on board and possibly even a partnership? After a meeting in Manhattan with my boss that had a decidedly sour tone about it, it was becoming clear that my misery was affecting the job. I saw the writing on the wall of what the future would hold. I went to meet with the Chef V and see what it was all about.  I was much more open to his offer now.

It seems that Chef V was not only working at his corporate job full time but doing construction and trying to get the place open.  I was taken aback by the way he looked. He was a pale, sort of wimpy type to begin with but now he was emaciated to boot. He had worked himself to the bone, literally and had suffered with a serious UTI. He was getting desperate.
The place was a dump. A former pizzeria on the Upper East Side. There was potential though. I saw total discombobulation at the site. It was not very pretty, with a lot of orangey-brown tones. It was a small place that was taken up by a few ugly standard pizzeria type tables and counters. Part of the operation was in the basement which was accessed through a back door, and a creepy, narrow staircase. If the upstairs was a mess, it was complete order in comparison to the basement. There was used equipment everywhere, tools all over, it was dark and a haven for water bugs.
I asked Chef V if he had a business plan, which is the first step for any enterprise. He shrugged and gestured to the mess around us and said, "this is it".
He explained that his father owned the building, a small walk-up where the pizzeria was and a pharmacy that he also owned. They had complete access to everything, including a vacant apartment in the back that even had a patio. The patio is where we sat (surrounded by tools and a hacksaw) and talked turkey.
Would he match my salary? Yes. I was not afraid of long days and early morning starts.  I could continue teaching my Saturday baking class and take Sundays off.. I would be the Manager/Baker and run the place when he was at work.
I knew that it was risky, and in my gut I knew that they didn't really have their shit together. But I had to steer the vehicle that was my life back on to the road that I wanted to follow. I needed disruption and I wouldn't even have to miss a week's pay.
Alrighty then, I checked my parachute, put on my goggles,said yes and jumped.


The Shitbag Cafe

 I finished my job at the warehouse on Friday and started at the cafe on Monday. The place was in total disarray which I attributed to Chef V and his wife Mrs.Chef V both working full time jobs while trying to get the cafe up and running.
I set to work immediately trying to get the place jump started. I interviewed potential employees and lined up purveyors, I cleaned and tried to organize. Chef V's father liked to hang around and help too. He "helped" to fix the used convection oven that was for my baking. He had taken out the control panel and it hung by some wires. The doors did not close completely and had to be jeri-rigged with a piece of foil.
I worked longer hours than I had been doing, but I liked joking around with Chef V's nutty father and working on the upper east side was a much more pleasant commute than my trip through the Bronx had been. I was pretty happy for a while. It was good to be around people again, and to get my hands back in the dough.
Every time I made some organizational headway though, it seemed as if my work would be undone the next day. There were endless piles of stuff that needed to get put away or God forbid- thrown away. You see, what I learned about Chef V and his family was that they were hoarders.
One day as I was making my way through more tools and cords and junk, I found an old FedEx box with tape around it and holes in it. I shook my head as I tossed it in the trash.
The next day, Chef V asked me, with panic in his voice if I had seen that box. When I told him that I had chucked it, he got pissed because that was what he used for a knife kit.
A knife kit for a vagrant, perhaps.
Any piece of junk that I intended to discard, they would take because they said they could "re-purpose" it. Their drop cloth that they used for painting was the awning from their old restaurant. They had boxes upon boxes filling the back apartment, so that one had to walk through a narrow path to get through. These boxes were filled with years full of restaurant equipment from their old place and stuff picked up at auctions. Apparently there was even more stuff in Chef V's mother's garage in New Jersey.
One day I was to make a run to Restaurant Depot in the Bronx. I had to stop by their apartment to get the keys to their car. The hoarding thing was no joke, because their apartment was the same as the restaurant! Boxes of crap, magazines and stuff that only was useful to them filled the place. Then, when I got into the car, the trunk was full of mechanical stuff! (Where was I to put sacks of flour and cases of vegetables?). The inside of the car was not much better plus it was dirty.
Anyone who knows me, knows that I am a minimalist. I purge constantly and abhor clutter. Both of my own restaurants were sleek and beautiful. This was not me, but it was them and so I forged onward.
I set up a bakeshop for myself in a corner of the basement. It was my happy place. I brought my tools (kept appropriately in a toolbox and a sterilite container, not an old shabby box), arranged my spices, labeled my flour bins. I set up a great, efficient station so that I could make my scones, muffins and cookies.
After my day off, I came back to work only to find a huge, dirty, used air conditioner sitting on my work table.
Basically, this is how it went.
One step forward, two steps back.
They decided to open the doors for business one day, in a willy-nilly  type of way. We sort of had a menu that we kind of had  priced-out. We didn't really have a POS sytem because the one that they had bought second hand did not work. They picked up a little el-cheapo cash register at Staples and kept a calculator underneath it and there was our POS.
Wherever I am, I will take pride in my work and do my best to make the business succeed. I knew pretty early on that I would not invite anyone that I knew to come to this place. It was embarrassing. It was so ugly and so half-assedly put together that I did not need to mar my reputation. I opened up every morning, arriving around 6am. I baked my beautiful scones, muffins and Danish. There was nothing to display them on, we had paper plates and a couple of mis-matched china dishes that looked like they were from an old lady's post-mortem tag sale.
As paranoid as Chef V was about the health department, he would not run that kitchen in a way that was anywhere up to code. There was a walk-in box in the basement but it was inoperable and was basically another closet for even more junk. He had found at some sale, a few soda refrigerators, the type that say "ICE COLD BEVERAGES" or "COCA-COLA delicious, refreshing!". We had them in the basement and used them as reach-in boxes. These machines are meant for SODA and not for eggs, milk, and other temperature sensitive foods. Nevertheless, I kept my mise in place in my soda fridge.
The half-assery continued on. The prices changed every day, so of course the few regular customers that we did have would complain. We had one lovely young lady who worked the counter and other than her it was a revolving cast of characters. In any business, finding good labor is always the hardest part. So, it was me who had to pick up the slack when someone did not show up or was too slow to keep up for those very few and far between rushes that we had. There I was, making egg sandwiches and being a short order cook. Running up and down those creepy stairs to the soda refrigerators when we needed something. We did have one refrigerator near the line. It was a deli case. The kind where all of the deli meats and cheeses are stored, like at the grocery store when you want to buy a half pound of turkey and a pound of roast beef. We kept much of the prepped food in there. Again, this is a machine that is not meant to store so much food and the air does not circulate properly. We overworked the thing to death and it had a habit of the breaker popping off occasionally. Mr. and Mrs. V thought it was a good idea to paint the front of it with chalkboard paint to hide the ingredients and to write the menu on it. The menu that had spelling mistakes and prices that were never the same two days in a row.


Chef V got mean. Working at his job till late afternoon he would come to the cafe and shit on me. He'd call me during the day with all kinds of instructions in a very nasty tone of voice. I did not like it but I dealt with it. I felt kind of sorry for him. I had weekends off and was making part of my salary in cash so it was tolerable. The last straw for me though, was the pizza guy.
It had always been Chef V's intention to make pizza at the cafe. The previous tenants had left a double pizza oven and he wanted to make that a big part of the business. So far egg sandwiches, cappuccino, baked goods, weird salads and burritos were not doing much. Chef V tried working on some dough recipes but nothing that he was happy with. Well, he wasn't happy with anything pretty much at that point. So one weekend when I was off he brought in the pizza guy.
Pizza guy did not believe that women should work in a kitchen. From the beginning he was condescending to me, that is when he even acknowledged my presence. He baked some awful cake to show that he was a better than me, and some hideous burned biscotti. I was sure to tell the customers who were big fans of my stuff that I had most definitely not made them. It was his way of peeing on my tree. He took over my station when I was not there, left flour all over the place and got into my tools. I took to keeping my toolbox locked. He insisted on opening the door which left flies inside, he played loud heavy metal music on his phone speaker, regardless if we already had music playing on Mrs. Chef V's i-pad. He would speak in Spanish to the cook that he was training and say disparaging things about me, not knowing or for that matter, caring that I understood what he was saying.
His arrogance even spilled over to Chef V. He would talk about how shitty a place it was, how they didn't know what they were doing and be rude right to Chef V's face. Chef V would in turn dump on me. I tried to bond with the guy, I stood outside with him one day and let him talk about his favorite subject (himself), but it was to no avail because he was just a hateful man.
Chef V was a total wimp in this guy's presence. He stood there like a spineless schnook and took it, under the misguided notion that pizza guy was going to teach him the secret to making the best pizza in the world. While I would be admonished for accepting a delivery of some $10 item and facing the embarrassment of calling the purveyor back all day to pick it up, pizza guy spent literally a thousand dollars on cases of unnecessary food that we did not need.
The crooked shelves were sagging under the weight of #10 cans of artichokes and the soda refrigerators were overworked holding his vats of meatballs.
After being abused one too many times and being set up by pizza guy who tried to throw me under the bus with some lies, when Chef V got there he immediately started on me, I told him enough was enough. "I work my ass of for you and this place and I will not tolerate his shit any more. All I ask of you is to have my back and you don't."

I went home and left him to be yelled at by our tormentor. Who was the boss?

Even with all of this nonsense going on, it still did not get to me, in my core. Somehow there was a higher power that had me on a course. I've had my own business and had my own heartbreak. I have lost money and had to work to get it back. Over the years I have gained something very valuable, and that is humility. I am talented, I am honest and a very hard worker but I am disposable. I can always be replaced, just like any other employee. I was never fired from a job until I was 50 years old and since then I have made up for lost time by getting fired a few more times. It's always horrible but I know how to survive and I always do.
That trip to Sicily had changed me by reminding me of who I really am. The person who loves to cook and to bake, the teacher in me and the love for my family. Nothing else really mattered and was basically a big game of chess.

The first move had been to get out of the warehouse, which I did. Now, what would be my next move?

Hand sink and pot-washing sinks, with storage area above, all where the customers could see!

The Smell of the Grease Trap, The Roar of the Crowd

At the height of his career, my father was the CEO of a very successful advertising agency in New York City. Rising through the ranks via the mailroom, he was a true self-made man. He had a corner office on an upper floor of a Madison Avenue skyscraper with panoramic views of Central Park. The office was decorated in tasteful antiques alongside the memorabilia of famous ad campaigns that he had been involved with over the years. My father wore suits that were custom made by an Italian tailor, had his lunch brought to him on a silver tray by a butler on staff and a chauffeur to drive him to home.

My father loved what he did and never lost the passion for it. Sadly, his partnership with French investors in the business soured and one day he was locked out of his office in the sky and told that his services were no longer required. A humiliating and painful event to go through but with the help of shark attorneys he received an excellent settlement and at least in terms of finances, he was in very good standing.

For years after that he did some consulting work and sat on the board of other corporations. He always stayed current and kept up with his network of business associates. And though these were all stimulating it was never the same as being where he was. He did not miss the driver or the Cobb salad under the silver dome.  He missed the daily action and the people that he had built relationships with over the years. 

I have been blessed by having a father who has always taken great interest in everything I ever did. He always knew exactly where my brothers and I have been in our careers. He loves to give advice. Sometimes he can be a little heavy handed with it, and I don’t always agree with him but he always has my best interest at heart and I trust him implicitly.

When my partnership in my first business, a bakery/cafe went down the tubes, my father was my greatest supporter. He was one of our investors and had started questioning some of my partner’s ethics. When the whole thing came to a head and I took action to leave, my father was the ear that was there for me. Having been betrayed by partners himself, he knew what I was going through. His faith in me helped me through a horrible chapter in my life.

I still had the burning desire to have my own business. My father and I would have lunch at the diner and talk about it. He had liked that little taste he’d had with my prior business and was very gung-ho to help me get a new one going. We pored over ideas and started to write a business plan. Once he got his money out of the other place, he would reinvest it with me. I took out a home equity loan on my house and the seeds of my cafe began then.

I really didn’t want another partner. This was going to be my baby. I named the place after myself. I chose my colors that I love, my food, my atmosphere, my me-ness was everywhere. Aside from the money though, my father was that person I could always trust so we talked numerous times every day as this concept took shape. As it got close to opening, my father started saying that he “had too much skin in this thing to not be involved in the operation”. He loved to tell people that I was his boss. His new title that he proudly displayed on his card was “Business Manager”

My pops had been bitten by the bug.

The cafe itself was beautiful, the kitchen was fantastic. The office was the armpit of the place though. It was a room probably a third of the size of my father’s walk-in closet at home. Fluorescent lighting, a built in desk with two cheap office chairs from Staples and a file cabinet. Shelves above, computer on the desk and tangles of wires everywhere. When my father and Ann, our bookkeeper would be working in there it was comical if one of us had to get in our out, squeezing behind the chairs. It was a far cry from the corner office in the sky.

But he loved it. Loved it. He would pull up in his Audi convertible and walk in with his slight shuffle that he had developed with age. Gone were the Armani suits, replaced by a red fleece vest and his keys on a string around his neck along with his Stop ‘n Shop card. He was in love with the fact that he could make his own decaf espresso on our shiny machine. Grinding the beans, brewing and emptying out the handle, banging it on the knock box. No longer was he a civilian on the sidelines. He was part of the restaurant crew.

Then he would walk through and greet everyone. He had something to say to each person there. Always interested in what they were doing. Always looking for a taste of whatever they were working on. If it was lunch time he had his usual, so whether it was me or another cook on the line, he had his scoop of the curried chicken salad on romaine with Caesar dressing. If it was earlier in the day he would go next door to the bagel store, another family owned business. They always insisted on giving his bagel to him for free, while he would stay and shoot the shit about baseball with the guys.

In time though, he started to make me nuts. Forty five year old women really cannot spend that much time with their fathers. Sometimes when he was making that decaf espresso (slowly) it would be in the middle of a lunch rush. Servers would have to work around him, it was tight back there and he was really in the way. He would want to talk to them too, also not a good idea at the moment. If I was in the kitchen, I would shoo him away as I was inundated with tickets. That curried chicken salad would have to wait a bit. “Look, I cannot talk right now, ok?” became my response when he had some idea that he felt was of the utmost importance that just could not wait.

He loved to go through the dining room and talk to customers. Most of them thought he was wonderful and were very charmed by him. I however, would watch and see him standing in between our very closely spaced tables engaged in conversation with the diners. They would be looking up at him, talking while their food was getting cold. I invented the “five minute rule”. I had a little window in the kitchen and if I saw him hanging out a little too long, I would stick out my hand with my fingers spread, “five minute! five minute!”, like a mean old Cantonese housewife. He’d see the symbol and would reluctantly move on. From what I gathered, much of the conversation was about me. What a great cook I am, how I used to work for Martha Stewart, was on tv...Ughh. I felt like an embarrassed, whiny tween again. “Pop!”

Part of what tried my patience with him was how he seemed to treat this little cafe like a Fortune 500 company. We needed to place an ad to promote our catering. He sent me a draft that was about a quarter page in the newspaper, loaded with copy plus a large shot of me. It was a Sunday and I was on the line for brunch that day. I was overwhelmed by the ad. What we needed was a small box that would give a little information, logo and contact. He had “ Ten reasons why Margot should cater your next event”. I was mortified, and in between flipping omelets I was arguing with him on the phone. Finally, when service was over and we closed for the day, he and I got into a real screaming match on the phone. He threatened to quit if I did not need his services. I felt terrible. Partner drama, once again.

Within the next day, cooler heads prevailed but it left some bruises on us.

He didn’t play around when it came to communicating with employees. He could be brutally honest, whereas I was a little more diplomatic. Our prima donna pastry chef had been increasingly vocal with her little nitpicky complaints. I had gotten to the point that whenever I would pass by her station I would pick up my pace, cringing when if I heard her screechy voice call out my name.

It was two days before our sold out Easter brunch when she got into it with my father. She was relentless, following him up the stairs to the office bitching all the way. Finally he turned around to face her and called her a “fucking bully”.  She walked out moments later. Delicate geniuses do not like having swear words directed at them.

Though it was a challenge to get through that brunch, with the help of another chef buddy of mine, we pulled it off. When she came crawling back the next day, I told her to pack the rest of her stuff.

My father and I seem to do best when we face a common enemy. When the pastry chef filed for unemployment benefits, we challenged her and won. A small victory that was as sweet as her delicious cinnamon rolls.

Another time he was talking to our head waitress, about something that was minor and a matter of opinion like a preference for french fries. He said in a joking way, “well that’s just low-class!” I know that he thought he was evoking  Elvis Presley or Johnny Cash lyrics. This particular gal however, lived in a women’s shelter with her two small children and was a little sensitive to words such as those. Again, I had to talk someone off the ledge and back into the building.

With all the daily trials and tribulations though, we shared something that we had created. There were those nights when the candles were lit and the room sparkled, filled with happy customers dining on delicious food. The sounds of conversation, glasses clinking and Brazilian jazz in the background were heard. The wait staff would be on their game, smiling while they gently popped corks out of wine bottles or steamed milk at the espresso machine. I had designed that room to have flattering light for women and sound that was background and never overpowering. In the kitchen, we had our rhythm with enough tickets to keep us moving but not so many to overwhelm. The plates looked beautiful, with the colors that I had envisioned, framed by the white china- garnishes just so.

And my father would beam, if he was on good behavior he would observe the five minute rule. When he saw me humming away at cooking he would keep conversation to a minimum. We’d smile and share our pride. Later in the evening, when all was quiet and the only people left were myself and the dishwasher who was mopping the floor, I would call him to give him the day’s total. Those were good times.

When the economy crashed and our clients and customers all started to cut back on spending it hit us hard. Our landlord would not play ball with us and our rent went up while our profits went down. My father would dump money in to help cover payroll, and I had not seen a paycheck in some time. We knew we could not go on like this.

My father’s lack of diplomacy showed again when in a meeting with the landlord he called him a “prick”. Though I used gentler tactics, frankly the guy was being one.

What came to pass is how close my father and I became again in the face of adversity. With a bittersweet mixture of regret and relief, we started making plans to close the business. I made arrangements with a liquidator to sell all of the equipment. Though we would barely make any money, we made up for it in satisfaction. After we quietly closed our doors, the employees and I had a party where we ate all of the remaining food, drank some wine, smoked cigars and said our goodbyes. The next day I had everything disconnected, big trucks showed up and removed it all. It was our Pearl Harbor on the landlord, before he had a chance to lock us out. It was a Sunday, our lawyer came by on his motorcycle to give support. The look on the landlord’s face was worth the loss to see that he wouldn’t be able to get his greedy hands on our stuff. He eventually did get it back (he was building his own restaurant next door) but it cost him. 

The last day we were ever at the cafe, my pop and I were still going through stuff. He was shuffling along, bringing every single bottle of wine downstairs from storage. I was taking care of small wares. We were loading our cars and tying up loose ends. Suddenly the landlord’s lackey showed up and threatened us. It was time for us to get out of Dodge. I will always have that picture in my mind of my father, bagel in hand shuffling along as we made our escape.

“C’mon, Pop, we gotta get out of here!”, I urgently exclaimed.

An hour later we were sitting on the stoop of my home. According to our lawyer we were now officially locked out. My biggest regret was that I did not get the espresso machine out in time. Other than that, the landlord got butkus.

Our escape had brought us closer together. Within time, my father and I went back to our normal relationship. Looking back now we both see mistakes we made that perhaps would have changed the outcome of the business. While it cost us both financially and in our personal lives, it had been a gift that we had given each other. His support of me in the worst of times along with the funding, had let me live out a dream. It was time for me to move in a new direction in my career. Since then I have moved to New York City where I have become a culinary instructor and love what I do. Pop came home to my mother waiting with open arms and their dog with a wagging tail. My gift to him was making him feel important, vital, excited to be somewhere everyday again. The opportunity to be charming to customers and to swear at our enemies made him come alive for the first time since his Madison Avenue days. While it may not have been as elegant, it was excitement for a man who just loved the chance to be back in the game.

Not so fast, fast food workers!

I'm not someone who delves into political discussions. I don't know enough about politics in general and don't believe in giving my opinion on subjects that I am ignorant on.
One subject I do know about is having to support a family on wages earned in the food service industry.

This is becoming a hot topic because of the movement by fast food workers to raise their pay to $15. an hour. My feeling about this is a firm and resounding no. Uh-uh. Sorry, but I do not agree.

In the past year alone I have worked at jobs in the culinary world where the range of pay has been $14/hr to $1,250 per week each based on a 40 hr week. I am no kid either, I'm in my early 50's.
I have a culinary degree, an excellent and varied resume. My background includes, corporate chef, private chef. restaurant owner, culinary teacher. I have glowing references to show for all of this. Not too shabby, but sometimes I have had to take jobs that were not the pinnacle of my career. Life ebbs and flows.

As I always tell my students,  we do not go into this business to get rich but because we love it. We work very, very hard. We work some lousy hours and most holidays. We are extremely fortunate if we get health insurance or any benefits at all. And please, do not think you are going to be on tv as a "celebrity chef". Did I mention that my background also includes being a regular on a cooking show for five seasons?

However not everyone works in a kitchen because they love it. That talk really is for those who aspire to a career in cooking rather than it being just a job. Some people just have to make a living and this business is more lenient than many others when it comes to giving people a second chance.  For example,people who might have been incarcerated or addicted to drugs and are making a fresh start.  If they can do the job then they are welcome.
Some people work in the industry because they are not educated and cannot obtain a job in another field. Some cannot speak English, or read. Give us your tired, your poor, your hungry- we'll take them!

I know that whether I was freelancing as a prep cook for that measly $14 or I was working as a consultant for much more money, I always gave it my best. I like to look in the mirror at night and even though I see a tired and aging face, I can look myself in the eye. I work for my money. Many, many people in my world feel the same way.

But not all do. I am going to use the McDonald's across the street from a school that I teach at in New York City as an example. I don't eat their food, but I do buy the $1 coffee occasionally. During breakfast rush it is not uncommon for there to be only one register open with a long line of customers. Meanwhile I have seen other employees there meandering around and making jokes with each other. Real restaurant professionals understand the concept of teamwork, they know to jump in and help one another out when they are in the weeds (overwhelmed with orders). Even if you are not permitted to use the cash register, maybe you can help with some drink orders. If there is no one at the drive in window you don't have to just sit there and text on your phone.
The cashiers are often rude. They are often impolite. This is McDonald's. They have you by the short hairs. Where else are you going to go to get a meal for under $5?
If these lazy and obnoxious folks start earning $15 per hour, then there is something truly wrong with this picture.
I know, I know, not every fast food employee is this bad. There are working parents and students who are earnestly busting their butts to stay afloat in this world.

The problem is not with fast food, the problem is with the industry overall. We are severely underpaid as a whole. The prep cook who is making your goat cheese and arugula salad at a fancy restaurant is possibly making less than the rude kid at McDonald's. Chances are that he is working more hours and probably more than one job. Let's look at another example, say an executive chef that is making $60 grand a year. This individual may have graduated from the most prestigious cooking school, has a breadth of experience and whose job includes more than just being behind the stove. Working 14 hours a day, 6 days a week, do the math and you will see that this chef is working for less money per hour than the $15 the fast food workers are claiming they should get. And this is before taxes are even taken out.

McDonald's and its fast food counterparts have lower food costs and higher profit margins because of the way their food is centrally purchased, delivered and produced. They are huge, well-oiled operating machines. The small business struggles every single day. A snowstorm could kill a Saturday night and deeply affect their bottom line. McDonald's can afford to sell you a $1 hamburger and STILL make money. Small businesses can barely cut it with a much better quality meal that costs you more money.

For the parents who are struggling and working those fast food counters, I feel your pain. Unfortunately your image is tainted by your coworkers who take their jobs as a joke. I just cannot swallow the fact that those folks will be paid more money than the ones who have studied and sweat their way up the food chain. Until there is a way to pay everyone who cares about what they do a fair wage, I am not on the bandwagon. It's not an even playing field.  We need to up the wages for the pros before we up the wages for the amateurs.

Nobu Doesn't Work Here

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

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

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

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