Saturday, February 19, 2011

Never Say Never

At times I contemplate where this idea originated. Perhaps, long ago in a land far far away a bigger boned chef had a restaurant that wasn't doing so great anymore. He was focused on the fact that just a mere six weeks ago his restaurant was packed; why the sudden change? He walked out of his establishment to see across the street, another restaurant packed to the gills. He walks in to see a tall and slender chef in the pass, slinging plates as fast as he can, with the authority of a ballerina. This larger chef turned around and slowly went back to his kitchen grabbed a tub of marshmallow fluff and ate the entire contents of it's jar before moving on to the sticks of butter. The following day he inquired about this new chef, asking all the towns people, wanting to know what his speciality was, where he came from, all the juicy gossip. It wasn't until his waitress mentioned how dashing and fit he looked and how was it possible that he tasted everything that came thru his kitchen without gaining so much weight. That fat bastard of a chef took hold of that and the saying "never trust a skinny chef" was born.

I can't begin to tell how many times I have been told this from patrons, individuals I meet in social settings, family member gatherings. My personal favorite was during a kitchen tour at the restaurant where I worked, and the four top would stop by my pastry station after consuming their 27 courses of pure butter, cream, and foie gras, their jolly cheeks red from drinking too much wine would say " how can you be this skinny, well you know what they say!?" Giggling all along thinking that they were the smartest people in the world for coming into this kitchen and relaying this to me. My perfect answer was usually something to the effect of " well, that bout of bulimia really helps..." and then excuse myself so I can go throw up that piece of bread I consumed four hours ago.

What these individuals are unaware of is the fact that I had to get my hungover ass out of bed at nine am to be at work by ten to prep all their food for the 8 pm rerservation, and no, I didn't have time to stop and eat for family meal and no, I won't get out work till 2 am at which time no respectable place to eat is open, and so you weigh your options and decide to have a liquid diet of Johnny Walker instead. Even better, the fact I made 85 dollars a day, before taxes, one could rarely afford decent food after rent, phone bill, public transportation, and a liver killing drinking habit. I relish in the idea that they believe that the owners of these establishments are feeding us course after succulent course of rich food before service while keeping a 30% food cost?!

The other side of the coin is lets say I was a bigger boned chef. Does that mean you can trust me that I know what I'm doing? How about trusting me with your children, perhaps your retirement fund? I would gladly pack on a few pounds if that was all it took
.

It wasn't until I finished reading Bourdain's Medium Raw that I felt my lean ass chapped. And over one little line, one little insignificant line that I'm sure he didn't mean any harm. But, it did cause me harm. He was relaying to the general and not so general public that one needs to be able to move their ass when they work in a kitchen. Picking up 50 pounds of flour and carrying it up a flight of stairs, being chased by other cooks trying to not get towel slapped, or during service the twist and turns to open your low boy, get in the oven, run downstairs for the backup of sabayon. In brief, this job is physical. And Bourdain is correct in saying that if you can't walk up a flight of stairs without being put on a respirator, the kitchen should not be your first choice. But where he went wrong was to imply that you could still be a pastry chef then. Badly done Mr. Bourdain. Which hurts me to say since I respect the hell out of you. You are the Che of the Cooks Revolution, how could you turn on me? Therefore, I invite you to work with me for the week and tell me if you still feel that this is true.

What it really boils down to is your training, where you have worked, and your pride in your food. I could care less if that chef is big or small, short or tall, even a red head. If they put their soul into their cuisine, then who is to say we can't trust them?





Side note: I am proud to announce the formation of NAASC. ( National Association of the Advancement of Skinny Chefs) Please feel free to donate in large unmarked bills.

Thank you.

xoxo-
Youngest

Monday, February 14, 2011

Fellow Bitter Chicks, Happy VD! Not sure if there is a cream for that, but when in doubt, chocolate is the answer!

Dough Hoe.

Saturday, February 12, 2011

Call to Arms

Now, I realize that every job has it's bullshit. The grass is never EVER greener as a matter of fact. But, what gets under my skin and wiggles it's way to my brain, infecting all molecules of my being is the fact that pastry chefs are deemed: the line cook who couldn't make it, dough-hoes, sugar fairy, the working individuals that are the after thought despite the fact that their food brings in revenue with generally a 3-11% food cost and really folks, it is the last thing the guests puts in their mouths. So it better be fucking good, or they are gong to bitch about it to everyone.

This nagging feeling has only gotten stronger over the last few years. I suppose, in the beginning I didn't care if the line cooks made fun of me. I usually showed up before them and left way after. But, because I made lollipops and pretty souffles with edible flowers, that makes me incapable of being a respected cook? Even better, I recall in my earlier fine dining days that the guys would say pastry girls were always the easiest to score with. Hell, they even had bets going. But only after a few weeks and me threatening to pour hard crack sugar all over their face I quickly received the nickname "ice queen". (that's 310F of boiling hot sugar asshole)

Pastry chefs and cooks are incredibly organized, obsessive, creative, masochistic, imaginative with color and structure, and they put up with an incredible amount of bullshit. Oh, and a lot of them are as angry as you can get. You would think with the amount of sugar that we consume, we would be the happiest people to walk this earth. I wouldn't put it past a few of them to snorting pixie sticks for the sugar high. We spend all day making cake layers, later to be soaked with pear liquor making sure it's evenly distributed along the cake; not to make it soggy and fall apart but to ensure its moist and flavorful. Next is the gelee. Beautiful Anjou pears that have been peeled, small diced and sautéed with lemon juice, vanilla and butter then added to a pear purée with just the right amount of gelatin to allow it to set up in the entremet but not to be used as a floatation device. You patiently allow that to cool before adding it to your frame to ensure that your cake layer doesn't absorb it all and royally muck up your cake. Delicately ladeling your gelee on top of the cake layer you allow it to set. Carefully placing another vanilla sponge pressing lightly to ensure it sticks, another application of pear liquor syrup. A milk chocolate cardamom mousse is made, whip cream gently being folded in then evenly portioned and leveled off the cake, another layer of sponge, another application of pear liqour syrup. Finally, a pear bavarian piped on top to create a ripple event to be frozen then sprayed with white chocolate to give a velvet effect. Beautiful, bursting with delicious delicate flavor. Then in a blink of an eye, some cook in a hurry rams a sheet pan on top of your gorgeous cake therefore runing it, and wasting the X amount of time and the X amount of product spent to make it. And you wonder why I'm so fucking angry?

I once had someone ask me " don't you get bored?" well, I'm sure a brain surgeon after a few thousand surgeries is thinking " right, another brain." but this is our profession, not a hobby. Sure, at times when at the hotel, I would scream in my head, another ton of cookie dough? "Quick, I'm going to lie on the sheeter and just press the red button. Goodbye cruel mean world!!" But alas I pull my shit together, straighten my chef jacket and realize that there are a million things one can do with baking and pastry. Allow me to take you on a lyrical montage; plated desserts, catering, petite fours, wedding cakes, sugar work, chocolate and confections, cupcakes, ice cream, breads, breakfast pastries, cookies, the list is endless and alas, I'm hungry and in need of a sugar fix.

What I'm asking for is not absurd. Fellow line cooks, general managers, owners, and head chefs, I can not embellish more on the fact that your pastry cooks want the same future as your much beloved hot line soldiers. We too want our own establishments, we too want to have cookbooks and be on Food and Wine top ten chefs in the country. ( which I still have yet to subscribe to since they completely disregard pastry chefs as "top chefs"). I understand that we only make up a certain percentage of the menu, but have you looked in a kitchen lately? Most kitchens have up to seven line cooks producing perhaps three to five dishes a cook. And then you have that one stressed out, running around like an idiot pastry person, or if you're lucky, two, having to produce their entire menu, brunch items, give aways, petite fours, banquet items, bread, all while creating new dishes. A sad team of one. On the flip side, after a long day is over, that pastry person can feel nothing but pure brilliance in their craft, that they have made it another day and if nothing got ruined or burned or "lost in the walk in", kicked some major ass.

In an attempt to find solace in all this I look to pastry chefs that inspire me. The Emily Luchettis, Claudia Flemmings, Tim and Elizabeth Dahls, Gale Gands, Jacqes Torres ( because he is french its hard for me to really feel for him since it's really his birthright to be a pastry god), Norman Loves, and Mindy Segals that made it for themselves and gave pastry disciples like myself something to look forward too. These individuals stuck by their craft, and didn't feel the pressure to switch sides. Or perhaps they did, but stuck to what they believed. We belong to a tribe of individuals who relish in the patience and practice of baking and pastry. We embellish plates with various percentages of chocolate from single origin beans telling you a story of delicate yet robust flavors. We sastify your want, your NEED, of lucious flaky pastry that have been layered with blocks of European butter. We sing you to sleep with bags of currant pate fruit and cannelles warm in your hand. That is what I think of when I get tired, or frustrated, or wonder if all this work, all this training, all this time is worth it?

So I call to my fellow pastry warriors: let's make a promise to ourselves and to our craft that we will stick by it no matter what the recession tells us, that we will go forth and train other warriors the CORRECT way to make desserts, breads, and confections, to keep this profession alive and well. And as God as my witness, order that second dessert because, honey, it's your duty.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Eye Candy

I sit there on that micro suede tan couch. Don't look at it I tell myself. Calmly reach over for the remote. Don't even think about it, Youngest. Scroll thru the million channels of reality television, infomercials, and bad supposedly funny sitcoms. Then I catch myself eyeing it. That overflowing, shiny glossy wrapper, filled with type 2 diabetes confections.

The candy bowl.

(First I was like to damn my old roommate for having this grandma inclination of having the candy bowl in the house and no less, in view when sitting on the couch. Damn you woman.)

Blackout.

I slowly open my eyes to see what is around me. Ravaged torn cellophane littered all around me, dark smears of chocolate on my fingers. What have I've done?!! Then picking myself up from my high fructose corn syrup high, I question myself. How could I have let this happen?

You see, temptation is a bitch.

Its that sleek dress that is just a bit over your price range, it's that tall, tattooed, guy staring at you like you were the cherry on top of a sundae, its the yeah, you can have one more drink then get home before waking up in four hours to go to work, it's the 80 dollar supplement for white truffles on your pasta.

Temptation is what evokes you to make choices based on your senses, not common sense. Its what catches you off guard to think... Could I? Should I? By all means, not all temptation ends in your complete demise leaving you to a life of ruin, compromised morals and wearing a scarlet T around your neck. (Except for Ms. Hester Prynne: not only did her hypocritical minister boyfriend deny his love for her but condemned her to all of the towns folk. He didn’t deserve her body and soul, he deserved the clap. Thank you Nathaniel Hawthorne for teaching us the grim future of touching a man of the cloth.)

What is comes down to is, is it worth it?

Will that dress be out of season in a month? Hell, if it's a bit too small it would be best to just put it back on that hanger where it belongs. Yes, that ridiculously attractive hipster may feed into your want to be dazzled about punk bands, muddle sticks, flannel shirts, various types of skinny jeans, and handle bar mustaches but are they going to love and support you when you are acting like a raging bitch? Do you really need another drink since you are already slurring at the bartender, lost your wallet, and you really do need to be at your best tomorrow. As far as the Alba white truffles are concerned, yes, they are worth it. Every time.

Let's return to the candy bowl shall we. Chocolate concoctions of caramel, peanuts, and chocolate sound amazing and seemingly feed the hungry sugar beast inside you. But what it doesn't accomplish is the satisfaction of true flavor and texture. Along side the incapable ability they have to fulfill your need, they are packaged in tiny little nuggets almost taunting you that oh, it's merely a bite, yes, take another, take thirty. And once you wake up in a cold sweat, demanding another machine create square, you know you have a problem. It's not like these confections are the best available, let's say Laduree Parisian macaroons from Paris, Havanna dolce de leche cookies from Buenos Aires, or Jacques Torres fresh squeezed lemonade 70% hand cut chocolates. Now you would be doing yourself a disservice if you didn't indulge yourself in such hand crafted perfections.

The moral of the story? Keep that damn candy bowl away from me, you evil devilish woman.

-Youngest

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