You know things are going awry when a restaurant holds a "staff meeting". And you know it's even worse when the rather cutting-edge vegan restaurant that's hold this staff meeting introduces a new chef who is decked out in a leather vest and leather pants. How happy will Moonbeam be when she finds out that it was Joan Collins in a fur coat flipping her lentil loaf? It felt like time to move on, but of course, I made the wrong decision. Again.
Getting the gig at Counter was a dream come true. I had faxed them my resume, and on account of the fact that the "hiring" sign in the window had been there for weeks, I didn't expect much. I was going through a phase, and therefore continued on to Angelica Kitchen to fill out their application. But, for some reason, Eric (the chef) called me a few days later to come in and trail for a position in garde manger. This was before I had tools, so I showed up empty handed to peel parsnips.
Eric was, and will remain until further notice, the best chef I've worked for. He held is shoulders back straight and demanded respect without making everyone walk on eggshells. They kept me in the back prepping a stew until I spoke to the line cooks in Spanish. Then I was shown to the line.
That line, while horribly inefficient, was a blast. I had about ten dishes to put up, but as I took notes and follwed Sergio, the saute cook, around with my eyes, I thought "I can do this", and proceeded to rock that line till almost the end of service, when a smiling Eric sent me off with a smile and "I'll be talking to you". And certainly, he called immediately to tell me the good news.
I learned a good deal of important things about the New York kitchen there. Make friends with everyone. The only thing you can drink without getting caught is the sangria in the giant tubs in walkin number two. Keep the nice pans under the stowaway rags in your cabinet. Never give the dishwasher a non stick pan to scrub. Sergio and I did well together. It wasn't a macho kitchen by any means, but we still sweated and drank our share of beer. It was fun getting slammed there, listening to Carlos's stories about the Paradise Garage (AND he was from Grand Island!), blasting the Kiss 98.7 Dance show on saturday nights, learning how to expedite and getting good at it, yelling at the waitstaff.
It was in the middle of all of this fun that I started seeing the bad things. Late paychecks, low wages, micro-managing owners, and the ever present kitchen problem of alcohol built up an anxiety in me. I never knew if Sergio was going to show up to work on time. The owners were obsessed with getting reviewed by the Times, so everything was always changing in the stupidest and inconsequential ways. When they called a meeting, we assumed we were going to be told something new about where to put the beets in the Beet Salad, or we're using too many macademia nuts in the "cheese". Instead, we were introduced to this "new guy" fancy pants chef, who had worked at Heartbeat in the early eighties, on the cusp of a new age in tempura, and "you'll be in good hands". Over whiskey at DBA between the meeting and service we swore we would get him out of there soon, raising our glasses to Eric and ordering more.
In the end, he was just as awful as we all thought he would be, and I left a month or two later, for a job as the opening pastry chef at a restaurant in Park Slope with no oven. It was the beginning of a rather depressing time in my life, mostly my kitchen life, which in turn lead me to the job I have now, and therefore, finally, to the jaws of the French Culinary Institute. I try not to be upset about it, not to think about what would have happened if I just stayed put.
So Eric, if you're reading this, thank you for teaching me about ramps, salsify, white truffle oil, and house music forever.
With love,
John
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Cesar and The L
Picking flowers had gotten old.
My first job here in the city involved a crew of five slipping into abandoned lots in New Jersey to collect flowers and plants for sale at the now defunct wholesale Chelsea Flower Market. The job consisted of long drives into the alternating scenery and horrifying chemical waste dumps that make up that diverse bountiful wonderland just across the Hudson. Sure, my boss did the flowers at Studio 54, and spending my Wednesdays driving through Manhattan blaring house music and making deliveries made for a very epic summer, but the job would wind down with Mother Nature, and food and music were more of what I had in mind while emptying out a 3 story house in the dead of winter by candlelight to move 350 miles away with a day's notice.
I faxed out some resumes, crossed my fingers, and smoked as many cigarettes as I could manage. And one cold November night, the phone rang with an unfamiliar number on the Caller ID screen. It was Gene calling from the L Cafe in Williamsburg. He noticed that I was from Buffalo, and wanted to know if I could come in and trail. It was the usual Buffalonian banter, blue cheese dressing and all. We bonded right there, Gene and I. I would be happy to trail on Monday with Juan and Cesar.
I will go so far as to say that in spite of being a clunky and doofy gringo, I did Cesar proud that day. I was to be Juan's replacement, and I had better live up to his legacy. Juan was fast. He and Cesar worked like champs, effortlessly picking up all of the slack of the pot-smoking, beer-smuggling night staff: a tattooed and "free-thinking" bunch who waited until an order came in to waltz into the kitchen, their "The Postal Service" cd in hand, ready to pump out sub-par fish and chips and any and all variety of sandwiches slathered in avocado and chipotle but never made the same way twice. Inconsistancy is my enemy,
I wanted to save the place. I wanted to show them that boiling chicken for chicken salad sandwiches was as effective as boiling ice to make water. I wanted to get them past the very much passe portobello mushroom, sundried tomato, and goat cheese thing. Apple slices on a sandwich? Dill in the tuna salad? Whole cumin seeds? Small changes with big results. Maybe I could even eliminate the need for the microwave.
For about a solid year, I became Cesar's right hand man. I took over Gene's day shifts, much to the relief of the entire restaurant, as Gene's Pabst comsumption began at about 9 AM and lasted well into the slurs, slips, and occasional falls by dinnertime. My once lost Spanish fluency came back, moving from scattered high school Spanish to the full-fledged Mexican inflected kitchen Spanish so essential to the line cook's life in New York. Cesar taught me everything I know about brunch. He taught me the technique of making hollandaise (however unlike hollandaise it was). He taught me when and when not to pitch a fit, and who to pitch a fit at. He also taught me a Bible's worth of Mexican hangover cures.
Like clockwork, Sunday morning would come, and as I walked from the serenity of an empty Bedford Avenue into that filthy, roach-infested hole of a kitchen, my hangover would dissipate into the accordions of the Ranchero music that played as we worked up our mise-en-place, bad-mouthing whomever we could aim and fire at. And when the day was in full swing, the board overflowing with tickets, the pancakes and breakfast burritos would hit the heat lamps to the beat of the old-school salsa that Cesar and I both loved (i'm not too crazy about ranchero myself), and the feeling of being in complete sync carried us effortlessly through one hellish rush after another.
Lunchtime was a breeze for the two of us. I carried a dream come true of what was basically a nice-to-five job. It was the hideously homophobic but undeniably funny "La Mega" morning show for a few hours while we dealt with our regulars, most of whose orders I could still probably produce on cue. I would get reign over the music during the lunch rush, mostly disco at the time. Things like "Just A Touch" by Slave, and "There But For the Grace of God" by Machine. We would dance around making sandwiches heaped high with potato salad. Making soup became an adventure. And night shifts, though Cesar-less, meant my best kitchen friend Jesse and I would pump Evelyn "Champgne" King and sing along, slugging beers in the walk in cooler, putting out orders faster than the waitstaff could keep up, and transforming a vermin-ridden restaurant on the brink of extinction into the best disco in town one dinner rush at a time.
But as the the scent of death in the air grew and grew, our tempers shrank and shrank. Cesar, God love him, had himself anger issues like no one I have ever worked with. Full saute pans would often land forcefully on the rubber mats, thrown out of terrifying anger, only to be increased as penne splattered the oven door and Mexican expletives spewed forth from that dear sweet man''s mouth. And as I realized the prospect of a lifetime of breakfast sandwiches loomed ominously on my horizon, my mood dropped as well.
And so, almost exactly a year and a half after prouldy marching into the place promising tapenades and asiago cheese, in the midst of one of Cesar's signature explosions, I gently placed my eight dollar serrated knife on the cutting board and permanently excused myself. To say that I left Cesar in a lurch would be an understatement. To walk out of a Friday lunch service at 11 AM is to subject one's self to a lifetime's worth of bad kitchen karma. And though my Catholic upbringing taught me to feel guilt and shame, I spoke frankly to our poor illiterate dishwasher that "yo no puedo trabajar con El Enojado", put on a fresh shirt, and walked proudly out into a grey February day with the weight of the world off my shoulders. And aside from screwing poor Cesar for a day, I never looked back.
And mysteriously, days later, I received an offer to trail at what was my "dream restaurant" at the time.
Here's an ode to Cesar, with my own twists. A nice, warm, brothy soup.
Cesar's Pozole
1 bag dry large White Hominy (Pozole) Corn, soaked overnight and germ removed (Goya is best)
Fresh Water to Cover
2 cans or about 1 liter homemade chicken stock
1/3 bunch fresh whole thyme
2 bay leaves
1 T whole black peppercorns, tied in cheesecloth or a teabag
1 chicken, preferably a small organic bird
sea salt and pepper
2 T butter or oil (not straight olive, blended okay)
1 jalapeno pepper, seeded
2 medium yellow cooking onions, small dice
3 cloves garlic, smashed and minced
1/2 bunch fresh cilantro leaves, chopped
3 avocadoes, ripe, amd sliced at the last minute for garnish
lime wedges, for garnish
1) soak hominy and remove brown germ at the base of each kernel. (time consuming). Rinshe and boil in fresh water unti fully cooked.
2) meanwhile, season chicken (whole or quartered), and poach gently (just below a boil) in chicken stock. Skim fat and foamy impurities off occasionally. Remove chicken to rest and cool to touch. Reserve broth and strainif possibility.
3) Replace broth to pan and begin to reduce slowly to develop flavor Add thyme, bay leaves, peppercorns. Meanwhile, when chicken is cool to touch, remove skin and pick meat off bones as if for pulled pork. Shred meat with fingers.
4) Heat fat to low heat and add onions, garlic, and jalapeno. Sweat down as much as possible without color or browning.
5) Add cooked pozole, chicken meat, and enough stock to cover. Cook without a cover, replacing stock as needed, being careful not to overseason as flavor will intensify as it reduces. Add cilantro during last 5 minutes.
6) Serve pozole and chicken in bowls with broth, topped with avocado slices and with a lime wedge or two.
My first job here in the city involved a crew of five slipping into abandoned lots in New Jersey to collect flowers and plants for sale at the now defunct wholesale Chelsea Flower Market. The job consisted of long drives into the alternating scenery and horrifying chemical waste dumps that make up that diverse bountiful wonderland just across the Hudson. Sure, my boss did the flowers at Studio 54, and spending my Wednesdays driving through Manhattan blaring house music and making deliveries made for a very epic summer, but the job would wind down with Mother Nature, and food and music were more of what I had in mind while emptying out a 3 story house in the dead of winter by candlelight to move 350 miles away with a day's notice.
I faxed out some resumes, crossed my fingers, and smoked as many cigarettes as I could manage. And one cold November night, the phone rang with an unfamiliar number on the Caller ID screen. It was Gene calling from the L Cafe in Williamsburg. He noticed that I was from Buffalo, and wanted to know if I could come in and trail. It was the usual Buffalonian banter, blue cheese dressing and all. We bonded right there, Gene and I. I would be happy to trail on Monday with Juan and Cesar.
I will go so far as to say that in spite of being a clunky and doofy gringo, I did Cesar proud that day. I was to be Juan's replacement, and I had better live up to his legacy. Juan was fast. He and Cesar worked like champs, effortlessly picking up all of the slack of the pot-smoking, beer-smuggling night staff: a tattooed and "free-thinking" bunch who waited until an order came in to waltz into the kitchen, their "The Postal Service" cd in hand, ready to pump out sub-par fish and chips and any and all variety of sandwiches slathered in avocado and chipotle but never made the same way twice. Inconsistancy is my enemy,
I wanted to save the place. I wanted to show them that boiling chicken for chicken salad sandwiches was as effective as boiling ice to make water. I wanted to get them past the very much passe portobello mushroom, sundried tomato, and goat cheese thing. Apple slices on a sandwich? Dill in the tuna salad? Whole cumin seeds? Small changes with big results. Maybe I could even eliminate the need for the microwave.
For about a solid year, I became Cesar's right hand man. I took over Gene's day shifts, much to the relief of the entire restaurant, as Gene's Pabst comsumption began at about 9 AM and lasted well into the slurs, slips, and occasional falls by dinnertime. My once lost Spanish fluency came back, moving from scattered high school Spanish to the full-fledged Mexican inflected kitchen Spanish so essential to the line cook's life in New York. Cesar taught me everything I know about brunch. He taught me the technique of making hollandaise (however unlike hollandaise it was). He taught me when and when not to pitch a fit, and who to pitch a fit at. He also taught me a Bible's worth of Mexican hangover cures.
Like clockwork, Sunday morning would come, and as I walked from the serenity of an empty Bedford Avenue into that filthy, roach-infested hole of a kitchen, my hangover would dissipate into the accordions of the Ranchero music that played as we worked up our mise-en-place, bad-mouthing whomever we could aim and fire at. And when the day was in full swing, the board overflowing with tickets, the pancakes and breakfast burritos would hit the heat lamps to the beat of the old-school salsa that Cesar and I both loved (i'm not too crazy about ranchero myself), and the feeling of being in complete sync carried us effortlessly through one hellish rush after another.
Lunchtime was a breeze for the two of us. I carried a dream come true of what was basically a nice-to-five job. It was the hideously homophobic but undeniably funny "La Mega" morning show for a few hours while we dealt with our regulars, most of whose orders I could still probably produce on cue. I would get reign over the music during the lunch rush, mostly disco at the time. Things like "Just A Touch" by Slave, and "There But For the Grace of God" by Machine. We would dance around making sandwiches heaped high with potato salad. Making soup became an adventure. And night shifts, though Cesar-less, meant my best kitchen friend Jesse and I would pump Evelyn "Champgne" King and sing along, slugging beers in the walk in cooler, putting out orders faster than the waitstaff could keep up, and transforming a vermin-ridden restaurant on the brink of extinction into the best disco in town one dinner rush at a time.
But as the the scent of death in the air grew and grew, our tempers shrank and shrank. Cesar, God love him, had himself anger issues like no one I have ever worked with. Full saute pans would often land forcefully on the rubber mats, thrown out of terrifying anger, only to be increased as penne splattered the oven door and Mexican expletives spewed forth from that dear sweet man''s mouth. And as I realized the prospect of a lifetime of breakfast sandwiches loomed ominously on my horizon, my mood dropped as well.
And so, almost exactly a year and a half after prouldy marching into the place promising tapenades and asiago cheese, in the midst of one of Cesar's signature explosions, I gently placed my eight dollar serrated knife on the cutting board and permanently excused myself. To say that I left Cesar in a lurch would be an understatement. To walk out of a Friday lunch service at 11 AM is to subject one's self to a lifetime's worth of bad kitchen karma. And though my Catholic upbringing taught me to feel guilt and shame, I spoke frankly to our poor illiterate dishwasher that "yo no puedo trabajar con El Enojado", put on a fresh shirt, and walked proudly out into a grey February day with the weight of the world off my shoulders. And aside from screwing poor Cesar for a day, I never looked back.
And mysteriously, days later, I received an offer to trail at what was my "dream restaurant" at the time.
Here's an ode to Cesar, with my own twists. A nice, warm, brothy soup.
Cesar's Pozole
1 bag dry large White Hominy (Pozole) Corn, soaked overnight and germ removed (Goya is best)
Fresh Water to Cover
2 cans or about 1 liter homemade chicken stock
1/3 bunch fresh whole thyme
2 bay leaves
1 T whole black peppercorns, tied in cheesecloth or a teabag
1 chicken, preferably a small organic bird
sea salt and pepper
2 T butter or oil (not straight olive, blended okay)
1 jalapeno pepper, seeded
2 medium yellow cooking onions, small dice
3 cloves garlic, smashed and minced
1/2 bunch fresh cilantro leaves, chopped
3 avocadoes, ripe, amd sliced at the last minute for garnish
lime wedges, for garnish
1) soak hominy and remove brown germ at the base of each kernel. (time consuming). Rinshe and boil in fresh water unti fully cooked.
2) meanwhile, season chicken (whole or quartered), and poach gently (just below a boil) in chicken stock. Skim fat and foamy impurities off occasionally. Remove chicken to rest and cool to touch. Reserve broth and strainif possibility.
3) Replace broth to pan and begin to reduce slowly to develop flavor Add thyme, bay leaves, peppercorns. Meanwhile, when chicken is cool to touch, remove skin and pick meat off bones as if for pulled pork. Shred meat with fingers.
4) Heat fat to low heat and add onions, garlic, and jalapeno. Sweat down as much as possible without color or browning.
5) Add cooked pozole, chicken meat, and enough stock to cover. Cook without a cover, replacing stock as needed, being careful not to overseason as flavor will intensify as it reduces. Add cilantro during last 5 minutes.
6) Serve pozole and chicken in bowls with broth, topped with avocado slices and with a lime wedge or two.
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