I am a Chef, too......
When you are a trained soccer referee at high levels, inevitably..... at the end of viciously competitive matches.....some prick will come up and say: "I am a certified ref, and I have to take exception to.......blah, blah, blah....."
Translation: "I have a daughter/son on the team that lost; I took the basic exam 2-10 years ago and passed/failed, and you made a mistake on the call that caused my son/daughter or my son/daughter's team to lose the game. I don't actually WORK as a referee, or hone the skills implied in the basic course, and expose them to public/instutional criticism on a daily basis.......but YOU ARE WRONG!!!!"
Yah.....Well.....
I woke up this morning after a six hour nightmare about rocket backpacks and flying over the wedding to the afterparty, and the backpack didn't fit, and I was scared to light the rockets because I figured the landing would be hard and my ankles are kinda weak........and there was no real bartender at the wedding.......and I hadda get there or else.......
When I fully awoke, and Amanda brought my coffee, and I faced my real day: Sunday Brunch at The Store: prep for Lubow's jazz party....and a bride interview.....I calmed way the fuck down. No Rocket BackBacks.....No worries.....just omelettes and eggs bennie and get over it.
First....since Vioxx has been butt-slammed, I have to take a really hot bath to loosen up the tendons, ligaments, muscles, etc and face the day. The ten minute soak is always accompanied by a read of the 100 magazines we subscribe to. This morning was The New Yorker.....a piece by Bill Buford about a dessert place in Manhattan run by Will Goldfarb.
First off.....if you don't read The New Yorker.....Fuck YOU. Check it out online....go to the library, or read it at Borders and not pay for it.....whatever. Not subscribing to The New Yorker is like being gay and trying to get by on Barbra Streisand videos.....
Anyway, Buford goes to work for Goldfarb, who is a truly insane person. Kind of like being the studio sweep up guy for Van Gogh. The most important thing for Nathan at the start of the day is folding the work towels ever so: Thomas Keller (of French Laundry, Per Se, and Bouchon fame) really admires Will Goldfarb's towel folding......No, really. Towel folding is the kind of attention to detail that brings all the rest of the greatness/insanity to home to roost.
Then we move on to substantive isssues. One of Nathan's desserts is called "St. Barts, May 2001". It is served on a beach towel, and accompanied with a spray bottle of Caribbean sea water......He was also famous for a dish that required the customer to be blindfolded and bound with leather straps.....the waiter would feed them spoonfulls of stuff.....Another dish was enjoyed through a gas mask, with the hands tied behind the chair. But he is calmer now....and the meds seem to be kicking in.
Buford the writer jumps into the breach at Goldfarb's new dessert bar as bartender. Trying to please: six secretaries come in and don't know what to order. He advises chocolate and champagne. Will remonstrates: Dessert is different....they must deal with it on their own. Don't help them." The guests need to tell US what they want. Give us a color, for instance.....and we will give them a dish. Red. Black. White. Dessert is not a necessity....it is a social construct of the last couple hundred years......Dessert is just a stall before you have to go home to the wife......so drag it out.
Will worked for 20 months at El Bulli in Spain. The place is only open during the warm months, but the crew works like dogs the year round. They were bored with peeling and seeding tomatoes for normal food dishes, so they made a dessert from the peels and seeds that captured the entire essence of the tomato in an ice. They made mango gnocchi by dropping mango purée in calcium chloride baths to make crunchy mango/caviar balls to go with.......Whatever. In the 20 months Will worked there, he averaged 6-7 hours a WEEK sleep. They lived in dorms in tiny rooms....and breathed the true fire. (And inhaled massive amounts of cocaine.....but don't quote me.....inside information, not part of the New Yorker article......but really, who gets by on 6-7 hours a week beside Paris Hilton?).
My Brendan worked in this same environment (sans cocaine for the little people) at Mugaritz........Rare herbs, grown by the staff....take standard dishes, deconstruct them, put them back together in challenging ways......30 chefs for 30 diners......intense competition. Actual bloodshed competing for spots on the line.....which was called the snakepit.
Cachagua and our crackheads.....and Pebble Beach are NOTHING by comparison.
Did I mention all our stuff we either grow.....have people grow for us.....or is completely sustainable and organic in every way/shape/form? Brendan has even got the tiny specialty herbs and greens thing going outside.
Anyway, this morning, we dealt with it..... I did brunch......Brendan prepped and packed Lubow's party and took off. I dealt with the bride and her family....Temperatures hit 102 at The Store......not totally conducive to romantic food talk, but whatever......
I dragged my lame ass to Lubow's by 3pm... Brendan was doing his high tech appetizers: jicama and blood oranges, goofy crab balls, ceviche spoons, etc. Funky grilled cheese things with five wacky basil clones: purple, lemon, cinnamon, chocolate......like that.
An hour into it some chick shows up with a flexible portable cooler. Half a pineapple....skewers with shrimp from Costco swrapped with prosciutto and pineapple parts......and randomly chopped pineapple pieces. Think "Fargo" pineapple......
"Hi.....I am a chef, too....you won't mind serving this for me, will you." Not a question, a command.
We had store bought prosciutto, in a Costco prawn with the tail on, and store bought pineapple cut badly in random pieces.......sitting out at room temperature (102 degrees in Cachagua)......and we have to sit by watch this certainly toxic, possibly carcinogenic shit being displayed by an illegal, unlicensed pretend caterer.
On my watch!
We wondered: "Which is better: throw her shit in the creek and have a conflict with the host (she was a guest, after all); or let people eat this funk and shit and barf for hours and think it is ours?"
The conceit of: "I am a chef, too......" is what really ground. No serious kitchen in the known universe would ever think of using frozen, farm raised Bangladeshi tiger prawns with the horny tails still attached. This chick had clearly learned her shit from Alton James, or half a failed California Culinary Institute course.
She was introduced to us as a great caterer: "She does all the parties in Pebble Beach....."
We are really dumb. We have cooks who have spent months and years working for free with genius maniacs like Nathan Goldfarb, Feran Adria and Andoni Aduriz. We have a licensed kitchen inspected by Monterey County Environmental Health, and insured by C.I.G for two million dollars. We pay actual rent every month on our kitchen, and have full time guys who clean it in detail, and aggressively maintain all the shit that constantly tries to break down......
And there are still quantities of people with money that think that rotting frozen unpeeled farm-raised Bangladeshi tiger prawns stuck on a stick with store bought Canadian prosciutto and canned pineappe is comparable to real food?
I am relishing in the realization that the stupid motherfuckers that ate that shit.....are now trying to figure out which is worse: projectile vomiting or projectile shitting. I just feel sorry for the El Salvadoreans that have to clean up the results of their indecision. And apparently this group is "all the people in Pebble Beach....."
If I wasn't smarter........I might be led to believe that these same people would have voted an ignorant, draft dodging corrupt thief to be our President and lead a charge to systematically destroy all of the values that 200 years of hard work by ingenious, hardworking working-class people.......and had finally led us to the brink of the abyss of world respect.
Nah.....that couldn't happen. Rich people are blessed by God, for their essential goodness. If they weren't Good, they wouldn't be Rich. People who work hard at a craft are inherently flawed.....or God would have made it easy for them, you see.........
Nah.....I am a dumb fuck. Anyone that works sixteen hours a day in kitchen can't know anything about real civilization........
My advice for the chef's patrons is: the bathtub: Barf towards the drain, splatter towards the back. Try to get the hair products out of the way first. And the loofa. It is really helpful to hang onto the knobs while you are shitting/barfing....but don't bang your head, and don't turn on the knobs.......
The burns and cuts are really unfortunate, and hard to explain at tomorrow's cocktail party.....
Translation: "I have a daughter/son on the team that lost; I took the basic exam 2-10 years ago and passed/failed, and you made a mistake on the call that caused my son/daughter or my son/daughter's team to lose the game. I don't actually WORK as a referee, or hone the skills implied in the basic course, and expose them to public/instutional criticism on a daily basis.......but YOU ARE WRONG!!!!"
Yah.....Well.....
I woke up this morning after a six hour nightmare about rocket backpacks and flying over the wedding to the afterparty, and the backpack didn't fit, and I was scared to light the rockets because I figured the landing would be hard and my ankles are kinda weak........and there was no real bartender at the wedding.......and I hadda get there or else.......
When I fully awoke, and Amanda brought my coffee, and I faced my real day: Sunday Brunch at The Store: prep for Lubow's jazz party....and a bride interview.....I calmed way the fuck down. No Rocket BackBacks.....No worries.....just omelettes and eggs bennie and get over it.
First....since Vioxx has been butt-slammed, I have to take a really hot bath to loosen up the tendons, ligaments, muscles, etc and face the day. The ten minute soak is always accompanied by a read of the 100 magazines we subscribe to. This morning was The New Yorker.....a piece by Bill Buford about a dessert place in Manhattan run by Will Goldfarb.
First off.....if you don't read The New Yorker.....Fuck YOU. Check it out online....go to the library, or read it at Borders and not pay for it.....whatever. Not subscribing to The New Yorker is like being gay and trying to get by on Barbra Streisand videos.....
Anyway, Buford goes to work for Goldfarb, who is a truly insane person. Kind of like being the studio sweep up guy for Van Gogh. The most important thing for Nathan at the start of the day is folding the work towels ever so: Thomas Keller (of French Laundry, Per Se, and Bouchon fame) really admires Will Goldfarb's towel folding......No, really. Towel folding is the kind of attention to detail that brings all the rest of the greatness/insanity to home to roost.
Then we move on to substantive isssues. One of Nathan's desserts is called "St. Barts, May 2001". It is served on a beach towel, and accompanied with a spray bottle of Caribbean sea water......He was also famous for a dish that required the customer to be blindfolded and bound with leather straps.....the waiter would feed them spoonfulls of stuff.....Another dish was enjoyed through a gas mask, with the hands tied behind the chair. But he is calmer now....and the meds seem to be kicking in.
Buford the writer jumps into the breach at Goldfarb's new dessert bar as bartender. Trying to please: six secretaries come in and don't know what to order. He advises chocolate and champagne. Will remonstrates: Dessert is different....they must deal with it on their own. Don't help them." The guests need to tell US what they want. Give us a color, for instance.....and we will give them a dish. Red. Black. White. Dessert is not a necessity....it is a social construct of the last couple hundred years......Dessert is just a stall before you have to go home to the wife......so drag it out.
Will worked for 20 months at El Bulli in Spain. The place is only open during the warm months, but the crew works like dogs the year round. They were bored with peeling and seeding tomatoes for normal food dishes, so they made a dessert from the peels and seeds that captured the entire essence of the tomato in an ice. They made mango gnocchi by dropping mango purée in calcium chloride baths to make crunchy mango/caviar balls to go with.......Whatever. In the 20 months Will worked there, he averaged 6-7 hours a WEEK sleep. They lived in dorms in tiny rooms....and breathed the true fire. (And inhaled massive amounts of cocaine.....but don't quote me.....inside information, not part of the New Yorker article......but really, who gets by on 6-7 hours a week beside Paris Hilton?).
My Brendan worked in this same environment (sans cocaine for the little people) at Mugaritz........Rare herbs, grown by the staff....take standard dishes, deconstruct them, put them back together in challenging ways......30 chefs for 30 diners......intense competition. Actual bloodshed competing for spots on the line.....which was called the snakepit.
Cachagua and our crackheads.....and Pebble Beach are NOTHING by comparison.
Did I mention all our stuff we either grow.....have people grow for us.....or is completely sustainable and organic in every way/shape/form? Brendan has even got the tiny specialty herbs and greens thing going outside.
Anyway, this morning, we dealt with it..... I did brunch......Brendan prepped and packed Lubow's party and took off. I dealt with the bride and her family....Temperatures hit 102 at The Store......not totally conducive to romantic food talk, but whatever......
I dragged my lame ass to Lubow's by 3pm... Brendan was doing his high tech appetizers: jicama and blood oranges, goofy crab balls, ceviche spoons, etc. Funky grilled cheese things with five wacky basil clones: purple, lemon, cinnamon, chocolate......like that.
An hour into it some chick shows up with a flexible portable cooler. Half a pineapple....skewers with shrimp from Costco swrapped with prosciutto and pineapple parts......and randomly chopped pineapple pieces. Think "Fargo" pineapple......
"Hi.....I am a chef, too....you won't mind serving this for me, will you." Not a question, a command.
We had store bought prosciutto, in a Costco prawn with the tail on, and store bought pineapple cut badly in random pieces.......sitting out at room temperature (102 degrees in Cachagua)......and we have to sit by watch this certainly toxic, possibly carcinogenic shit being displayed by an illegal, unlicensed pretend caterer.
On my watch!
We wondered: "Which is better: throw her shit in the creek and have a conflict with the host (she was a guest, after all); or let people eat this funk and shit and barf for hours and think it is ours?"
The conceit of: "I am a chef, too......" is what really ground. No serious kitchen in the known universe would ever think of using frozen, farm raised Bangladeshi tiger prawns with the horny tails still attached. This chick had clearly learned her shit from Alton James, or half a failed California Culinary Institute course.
She was introduced to us as a great caterer: "She does all the parties in Pebble Beach....."
We are really dumb. We have cooks who have spent months and years working for free with genius maniacs like Nathan Goldfarb, Feran Adria and Andoni Aduriz. We have a licensed kitchen inspected by Monterey County Environmental Health, and insured by C.I.G for two million dollars. We pay actual rent every month on our kitchen, and have full time guys who clean it in detail, and aggressively maintain all the shit that constantly tries to break down......
And there are still quantities of people with money that think that rotting frozen unpeeled farm-raised Bangladeshi tiger prawns stuck on a stick with store bought Canadian prosciutto and canned pineappe is comparable to real food?
I am relishing in the realization that the stupid motherfuckers that ate that shit.....are now trying to figure out which is worse: projectile vomiting or projectile shitting. I just feel sorry for the El Salvadoreans that have to clean up the results of their indecision. And apparently this group is "all the people in Pebble Beach....."
If I wasn't smarter........I might be led to believe that these same people would have voted an ignorant, draft dodging corrupt thief to be our President and lead a charge to systematically destroy all of the values that 200 years of hard work by ingenious, hardworking working-class people.......and had finally led us to the brink of the abyss of world respect.
Nah.....that couldn't happen. Rich people are blessed by God, for their essential goodness. If they weren't Good, they wouldn't be Rich. People who work hard at a craft are inherently flawed.....or God would have made it easy for them, you see.........
Nah.....I am a dumb fuck. Anyone that works sixteen hours a day in kitchen can't know anything about real civilization........
My advice for the chef's patrons is: the bathtub: Barf towards the drain, splatter towards the back. Try to get the hair products out of the way first. And the loofa. It is really helpful to hang onto the knobs while you are shitting/barfing....but don't bang your head, and don't turn on the knobs.......
The burns and cuts are really unfortunate, and hard to explain at tomorrow's cocktail party.....
posted by Txacoli at 9:00 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home