The Making of a Chef (34 page)
Read The Making of a Chef Online
Authors: Michael Ruhlman
This was the beginning of restaurant row, St. Andrew's kitchen, run by Chef Ron De Santis, former head cook for the United States Marine Corps in Okinawa and certified master chef.
Â
Â
F
riday would be mainly calm after family meal because of two large parties that required more plating than cooking, and we were off for the weekend, returning again on Monday at six-forty-five for the final week of the block. Paul and John were typically in the kitchen early to get all their mise en place done, but today I saw only Paul. Mimi and Manning had been permanently demoted to family meal with me. As a result of their trek to New York City to see Mimi's favorite band, the Cocteau Twins, after the last day of table service, they didn't make it home till early on Day One of the kitchen and were too exhausted to get to class. The blond-haired, baby-faced Manning now questioned their judgment: “Maybe it was a bad decision,” he said. Mimi said she wouldn't have missed the Cocteau Twins for anything. Mimi and Manning lived together in Rhinebeck. Manning liked kitchen work but didn't like to cook. Mimi, who had been an English major at SUNY Binghamton, where she did a televised cooking show called
Chicken Lips and Lizard Hips
, was a passionate cook and had come here in pursuit of that passion.
riday would be mainly calm after family meal because of two large parties that required more plating than cooking, and we were off for the weekend, returning again on Monday at six-forty-five for the final week of the block. Paul and John were typically in the kitchen early to get all their mise en place done, but today I saw only Paul. Mimi and Manning had been permanently demoted to family meal with me. As a result of their trek to New York City to see Mimi's favorite band, the Cocteau Twins, after the last day of table service, they didn't make it home till early on Day One of the kitchen and were too exhausted to get to class. The blond-haired, baby-faced Manning now questioned their judgment: “Maybe it was a bad decision,” he said. Mimi said she wouldn't have missed the Cocteau Twins for anything. Mimi and Manning lived together in Rhinebeck. Manning liked kitchen work but didn't like to cook. Mimi, who had been an English major at SUNY Binghamton, where she did a televised cooking show called
Chicken Lips and Lizard Hips
, was a passionate cook and had come here in pursuit of that passion.
For better or worse, the three of us were as one on family meal, today jambalaya, with shrimp, grilled chicken legs, and andouille sausage, and corn bread by Mimi. But very little of our Friday order came in on Monday and we scrambled all morning to put the meal together. By the end of the week we would have patched together a total of 350 meals, and this turned out to be a good deal of work.
I took charge of grilling the chicken because I liked to grill, and asked Paul if we could fire old Bessie up. He said yes, after we cleaned her out. As I helped him lug last week's cinders out the back door and down a path to an underground ash can, he grumbled, “Man, the worst day he could have chosen not to be here.” This would be John Marshall, his grill partner, who had yet to show.
“Do you know why he's not here?” I asked.
“Yeah, I know,” Paul said bitterly. “He worked the weekend, so he's tired and sleeping in.”
I had a little more sympathy at that point than Paul. Each day, John would leave the Culinary, having worked the lunch service and sat through
two lectures, and drive an hour north, change clothes, and go straight to his job as chef of the Mashomack Shooting Preserve, typically cooking for about sixty people. He was a kitchen staff of one, worked brunch through dinner on weekends, and got Wednesdays off, the only moments he had with his wife. He woke a little after five Monday through Friday and typically would not finish his day till ten-thirty or eleven, to be asleep by midnight, then up again at five. This seemed to me a pretty rugged schedule and I did not begrudge him a morning in the sack. Then again, I didn't have to prep the grill station by myself.
two lectures, and drive an hour north, change clothes, and go straight to his job as chef of the Mashomack Shooting Preserve, typically cooking for about sixty people. He was a kitchen staff of one, worked brunch through dinner on weekends, and got Wednesdays off, the only moments he had with his wife. He woke a little after five Monday through Friday and typically would not finish his day till ten-thirty or eleven, to be asleep by midnight, then up again at five. This seemed to me a pretty rugged schedule and I did not begrudge him a morning in the sack. Then again, I didn't have to prep the grill station by myself.
At St. Andrew's, even family meal attempted to follow the dictates of nutritional concerns; thus I was instructed to remove all the skin of the chicken legs, then marinate them in oil, black pepper, and cayenne pepper. I'd watched the chef's demo on grilling, and Chef Pardusâoh, how long ago Skills seemed! Standard daily mise en place, béchamel, brown sauce, consomméâhad once discussed the method of zones. This was crucial given the number of legs and the time they'd need to be on the grill. The top of the grill, which measured about three feet square in all, would be the hot-hot zone and would get progressively cooler the farther down on it one moved. So I would begin a row of fifteen or so legs, get them nice and seared, move them down a notch, and replace them with a fresh row to be seared.
It quickly grew tricky. The legs themselves were half mangled, some boned completely, others opened along the bone, sort of butterflied, but still connectedâevidently botched pieces from meat fab. Family meal. The grill wasn't perfectly even so there were hot spots and cool spots. And by the time I had all fifty legs on, I couldn't keep track of which ones I'd shifted from a cool spot to a hot spot. I lost track, and pretty much had to stick with them the whole way through. But it must have looked goodâsearing at the top of the grill, cooking them through on the bottom, because the chef wandered past, saw I'd stacked about thirty in the warm zone and was searing another ten on top. Teeth gritted, lips curled into a saurian smile, nodding slowly. “Man, you are makin' my day,” he said. “
That's
the way to do it. Cook 'em through there, but you gotta
ro
-tate 'em. I do not understand people who throw them on a sheet pan and finish them in the oven. Might as well
started
'em in the oven!” And he departed.
That's
the way to do it. Cook 'em through there, but you gotta
ro
-tate 'em. I do not understand people who throw them on a sheet pan and finish them in the oven. Might as well
started
'em in the oven!” And he departed.
The chef was beginning to know me just as I was beginning to know him. On Friday we were prepped beautifully, everything ticking along, plenty of time with the pork loins and their honey mustard glaze. Our sauce was left over from the roast beefâI simply added some Pommery mustard for a sort
of bastard sauce Robert. Scott even had time to simmer the ribs we'd boned outâwe'd been told to toss themâin water seasoned with vinegar, peppercorns, and bay leaf, and then roasted them with leftover barbecue sauce.
of bastard sauce Robert. Scott even had time to simmer the ribs we'd boned outâwe'd been told to toss themâin water seasoned with vinegar, peppercorns, and bay leaf, and then roasted them with leftover barbecue sauce.
The problem came at nine-forty-five, a half hour before family meal was to be served. The loins were only at 120 degrees. Rare was defined as 130 to 140 degrees, so this was not good. We needed to get them up to 150 degrees before taking them out of the oven; they'd carry over to 155 degrees, the safety standard set by the Food and Drug Administration. Dan shook his head at the thermometer and cranked the oven. Fifteen minutes later we realized the convection ovens the roasts were cooking in had gone out. Dan cut the roasts in half, put them in conventional ovens at 500 degrees, and hoped they'd be done in fifteen minutes.
The chef, we all knew, got excited when family meal was late.
Manning had set the carving station and there was to be a service line plating sauce, polenta, and vegetables with the pork. “Get that fork out of here, I don't want to
see
a fork,” the chef said to Manning. Manning raced the carving fork to the back of the kitchenâ“Why doesn't he want a fork?” he wondered aloud. The chef himself, having been told that the roasts weren't hot enough, cut the meat. The end piece was done perfectly. Which meant the rest was too cool to serve, as the chef proved with the next few cuts.
see
a fork,” the chef said to Manning. Manning raced the carving fork to the back of the kitchenâ“Why doesn't he want a fork?” he wondered aloud. The chef himself, having been told that the roasts weren't hot enough, cut the meat. The end piece was done perfectly. Which meant the rest was too cool to serve, as the chef proved with the next few cuts.
A certain panic set in just then, sparked not by anything the chef said (which happened to be “We can't serve this”) but rather by his expression. I more or less blurted out, “I'll panfry 'em!” The chef scowled at the rare pork. This was unacceptable, but it was ten-twentyâwe had fifty plates to makeâso there was little choice. “O.K.,” he said. I ran for five large sauté pans and grabbed the nearest jug of oil, olive as it happened. I set the pans clankingly onto the pasta station's range. The chef said, “Get those burners on!” and departed.
The pans got smoking hot way too fast, the oil turned brown, and the first pieces stuck. But the chef, who had returned to carve sent me thicker cuts to fry, which, in the cooled-off pans, cooked perfectly, about twenty seconds a side; I then dumped them in a hotel pan, which went to Manning. As soon as I finished one pan, Dan was there with a huge chunk of roast. He plunked it down in the hot empty pan, and it fanned out into ten pieces, sizzling and smoking while the three other pans demanded attention. Dan said, rather more casual than I thought one had the right to be at that moment, “The ovens screwed us.”
Part of being, well, not a good cook, necessarily, but a cool cook, was the
ability to have five thousand pans going at once and still be able to carry on a conversation about, say, the differing properties of peanut oil and grapeseed oil with regard to heat and flavor, so I did the best I could and said, “Good thing this didn't happen during service.”
ability to have five thousand pans going at once and still be able to carry on a conversation about, say, the differing properties of peanut oil and grapeseed oil with regard to heat and flavor, so I did the best I could and said, “Good thing this didn't happen during service.”
Dan said, “It's happened to me. It's not fun.”
And pretty much by the time that conversation ended, I had one hundred pork cutlets up to temperature. I hadn't had time to overcook them if I'd wanted. They proved to be hot and juicy. The spare ribs were superb. Three people I didn't know and who probably didn't know who'd cooked family meal, said, “Good family meal.” No one could escape the wave of gratification these words sent across those preparing family meal. Mimi just had pizza, which was provided daily by the grill station, and this too was excellent.
Preparation of Monday's family meal, the jambalaya with grilled chicken, was similarly botched. We pulled the huge roasting pans filled with jambalaya out of the oven. They weren't at a simmer, which meant that the shrimp Manning had tossed in at the last minute wouldn't be cooked through. A check of one confirmed this. We had to pick them out one by one into a pan and eventually dumped them on the nearest heat, which happened to be the grill. I borrowed Russ's tongs to scrape up the sauce-covered crustaceans and flip them. Russell Cobb, thirty-three, garde manger station, was a born and bred Long Islander who'd spent most of his adult life in the automotive business (gas station attendant, mechanic, auto parts sales) and was changing careers. He was very happy to be at the Culinary and was the perpetual embodiment of cheerful hard work; he loaned his tongs happily. Grilled shrimp are tastier than stewed shrimp, and the finished product was better than we'd planned on, but the way we got there was typical of our style.
After family meal, Manning, Mimi, and I discussed Tuesday's family meal. Chef De Santis appeared, moved rather close, and said quietly to me, “You helped those guys on grill station the other day, didn't you?”
I lifted my eyebrows.
He said, “You help out Paul today,” and moved on.
The restaurant opened in five minutes. What exactly did he mean by help out? I washed my hands at the hand sink and went to see what I could do for Paul.
Paul had gotten just about everything prepped and he was reciting his mise en place as if in a trance, tapping the appropriate bain-maries and ricotta cheese containers as he named their contents: “relish, tomato coulis, poblano coulis, mushrooms, scallions ⦔ The grill station's setup was
roomy and efficient. A tray to Paul's right held his mise en place. He had four burners to himself with two holding shelves above the burnersâfood stayed hot here from the rising heat of the burners. Immediately to his left was the grill; beside the grill was a stand holding hotel pans, on ice, where ordered meat was placed before it went on the grill. The beef pan contained a dry rub of pepper, onion powder, garlic powder, chili powder, dry mustard, brown sugar, and salt. On the bottom shelf were grill tools, charcoal, and a rag tightly bound and saturated with oil to mop the grill to keep it perfectly clean and slick, though sometimes if John put too much oil on the rag and the fire was really hot, a cloud of flame worthy of the Wizard of Oz engulfed John. Sometimes this happened in the middle of service with steaks and salmon on parts of the grill, and John would have to wipe the patina of carbon off the salmon.
roomy and efficient. A tray to Paul's right held his mise en place. He had four burners to himself with two holding shelves above the burnersâfood stayed hot here from the rising heat of the burners. Immediately to his left was the grill; beside the grill was a stand holding hotel pans, on ice, where ordered meat was placed before it went on the grill. The beef pan contained a dry rub of pepper, onion powder, garlic powder, chili powder, dry mustard, brown sugar, and salt. On the bottom shelf were grill tools, charcoal, and a rag tightly bound and saturated with oil to mop the grill to keep it perfectly clean and slick, though sometimes if John put too much oil on the rag and the fire was really hot, a cloud of flame worthy of the Wizard of Oz engulfed John. Sometimes this happened in the middle of service with steaks and salmon on parts of the grill, and John would have to wipe the patina of carbon off the salmon.
Mise en place for the entire station ran as follows:
ON TRAY BESIDE STOVE
Tomato relish
Roasted poblano coulis
Grilled tomato coulis
Fresh peas
Sliced scallions
Vegetable stock
Olive oil
Raw whole cloves of garlic
Sesame seeds
Salt
Pepper
Chef's knife
Roasted poblano coulis
Grilled tomato coulis
Fresh peas
Sliced scallions
Vegetable stock
Olive oil
Raw whole cloves of garlic
Sesame seeds
Salt
Pepper
Chef's knife
IN THE LOWER REACH-IN COOLER (LOWBOY)
Hotel pan of beef filets
Hotel pan of salmon fillets
Backup tomato relish
Sliced button mushrooms
Oyster mushrooms
Backup julienned pea pods
Hotel pan of salmon fillets
Backup tomato relish
Sliced button mushrooms
Oyster mushrooms
Backup julienned pea pods
ON STOVE
Saucepan with fond de veau and two-ounce ladle
Saucepan with boiling water and slotted spoon
Tongs
Saucepan with boiling water and slotted spoon
Tongs
ON SHELVES ABOVE STOVE
Two sauté pans
Three sizzle platters
Half-sheet tray with rack
Hotel pan with roasted potatoes
Hotel pan with grilled bruschetta
Three sizzle platters
Half-sheet tray with rack
Hotel pan with roasted potatoes
Hotel pan with grilled bruschetta
In front of the grill station was the
Y
-shaped service table, which got very hot; below we stored plates and a pastry bag filled with mashed potatoes and they grew almost too hot to hold.
Y
-shaped service table, which got very hot; below we stored plates and a pastry bag filled with mashed potatoes and they grew almost too hot to hold.
Every day before service Paul would recite his entire mise en place to himself, then say, “O.K., I'm good.” Then as if shocked, “Oh! I need my tools. I need my knife, I need my tongs.”
“Paul,” I said, “the chef asked me to help you on grill.”
“Great,” was all he said, and not casually either, but rather emphatically.
Russ said, “Hey, Mike, ya got my tongs?”
I had completely forgotten Russ's tongs, which he'd parted with so cheerfully during family meal. I said no, I had no idea where his tongs were. This annoyed Russâhe needed them for service, which was beginning
now
, and had to leave his station to look for them. I left mine, too, running off to the dishwashers to see if they were there, running back to the grill station to see if Russ had found them. “Sorry, Russ,” I said. He looked like he wanted to grab me by the neck and shake me. I was about to run back to look for Manning, who did in fact have them and who eventually got them back to Russ, but I heard the chef, in that first-order Old Testament voice, say, “Ordering: two beef, one medium, one medium rare.” This stunned me; I froze. Paul said, “Ordering two beef, one medium, one medium rare.” Then to Martin, the departing fellow, “Do we have any more beef yet?” We had only two filets at this point. Martin nodded. Tenderloins had just come in and he was on his way to portion it.
now
, and had to leave his station to look for them. I left mine, too, running off to the dishwashers to see if they were there, running back to the grill station to see if Russ had found them. “Sorry, Russ,” I said. He looked like he wanted to grab me by the neck and shake me. I was about to run back to look for Manning, who did in fact have them and who eventually got them back to Russ, but I heard the chef, in that first-order Old Testament voice, say, “Ordering: two beef, one medium, one medium rare.” This stunned me; I froze. Paul said, “Ordering two beef, one medium, one medium rare.” Then to Martin, the departing fellow, “Do we have any more beef yet?” We had only two filets at this point. Martin nodded. Tenderloins had just come in and he was on his way to portion it.
Other books
Between the Thames and the Tiber by Ted Riccardi
A Breath of Snow and Ashes by Diana Gabaldon
The Moronic Inferno: And Other Visits to America by Martin Amis
YOU'RE MINE: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Carbone Crime Family) by Spring, Emma
Maddie Hatter and the Deadly Diamond by Jayne Barnard
Silent Thunder by Andrea Pinkney
El conquistador by Federico Andahazi
Mr. Peanut by Adam Ross
By the Rivers of Brooklyn by Trudy Morgan-Cole
Heart Robber (Lifestyle by Design Book 2) by Charles, Miranda P.
