15 class days remain.
The final three weeks are academic; we graduated on Friday. Chef Almir sent most of, those that passed anyway, out into the world, bleary, stressed and better for it. The last night of Careme production featured a buffet for which the three stations were to focus on a particular genre of food. Station A took Spanish; station B, my station, took French; station C took Italian. At station B, we put out my first attempt at Beef Bourguignon over pappardelle, which was a smash, a vegetarian cassoulet, a gratin of potato, leek and spinach, mussels a la meuniere, and a kick ass game hen with a wild rice and mushroom stuffing. When everything had been cleaned up and broken down, we all sort of wandered about, waiting for Chef to address us one final time, a bit dazed, a bit wasted, but giddy - something between shellshock and Christmas Eve.
This is station B. Not a great photo, but I didn't want to use a flash while everyone was working. And I didn't want Chef Almir to see me snapping photos like a tourist. In the foreground you see Jen, often a calming force in the group, though I don't think her mellow demeanor is accomplished on purpose - she just doesn't let stress show as much as some of us. the big guy in the background is Charles, my nemesis. You can see the single table which is flanked on one side by a row of burners, on the other by the grill and deep fry station. It's a small space for 10 somewhat disorganized cooks, so there's lots of oppotunity for elbows, knees, scalding pots and pans, fights and general unruliness.
And there's me, flipping something in a pan...I think it was a mirepoix in red wine and glace de viande I was using to stretch the Beef Bourguignon. I am a showman. For me, the most exciting part of Friday night occurred when my station ran out of the mussels a la meuniere. In the photo, you can just make out a chaffing dish. See, the buffet line ran throw the kitchen - a total dog and pony show for the patrons - providing a lot of contact and interaction between the customers and the students supplying the fare. When our mussel dish was spent, I grabbed a pan of cleaned shrimp and started sauteing them in front of everyone, making elborate and dramatic work of a fairly simple procedure. Showing off. Totaly vanity. Total entertainment. I'd drizzle oil into a smoking pan from three feet over it. I'd pitch shallots and garlic in sidearm from the same distance. I'd toss shrimp in and imeediately get them jumping, flipping them as high as I could without losing any. When it was time to deglaze, I'd drown them in wine, sending a fireball up. When I finished the with butter and herbs, it was a nugget the size of your hand swirled around just long enough to melt it down, then immeditely dumped into a chaffing dish, steaming hot.
Of course, we are soldiers. And when soldiers return from war, they self-medicate. there was a lot of self-medicating the last three weeks. Having a bar directly across the street from school is a quick way to turn anxious and beaten upculinary rookies into drinking machines capable of all sorts of debauchery. The final night of Careme brought out 80% of the class, and we were in rare form. Something I never noticed before snapping this shot is the Temble Bar sign also reads "Bistro" - I think they might serve chicken wings or something.
Here you have, left to right, Jen, Melissa, Brian and Jeff, each a few drinks out to sea. Things got much worse as the evening wore on. Later, Jeff wanted to punch knuckles with everyone.
We are moving back to South Campus for the final three weeks, a return home of sorts, so at the end of the evening I took off my jacket, wrote 'See Ya Later' on it and left it at the bar. A symbolic gesture, but I'll probably never go to Temple again. I'll miss it, though it occurs to me from time to time that if it weren't for school, I'd never go there at all - and to go back while not in school would be somehow wrong.
As you would expect, there has been a lot of conversations among the class focusing on the distance we've gone to get to where we are. I remember when making a hollandaise was a really big fucking deal. On the final night, making a bearnaise (a hollandaise with tarragon) was one of the competencies that I had yet to complete in the three week class, so I whipped one out in about 5 minutes, over straight heat (screw your sissy ban marie, rookie). I remember when cooking three dishes, one serving each, in three hours was exciting. On Wednesday, my station had 8 dishes that we did about 60 covers on in about 2 hours. We really have come a long way. Some are more advanced that others, but by and large, I;d trust anyone in the class to get a job done. Yes, we have some shoemakers, but they are well-meaning shoemakers that will get their sea legs eventually if they choose to hang with it.
Maybe the biggest difference in us can be summed up by the differences between Chef Jackson and Chef Almir. Chef Jackson held hands (though I didn't realize it back then) and nudged you along the right path. Chef Almir watched you fuck something up again and again before he stepped in, finished your job and told you that you wasted 50 grand. Chef Jackson gave us detailed recipes and a thorough demonstration. Chef Almir gave us products and a basic procedure with lots of blanks to fill in. Chef Jackson gave us meticulous mis en place instructions. Chef Almir assumed that you knew your mis en place by what you'd be producing at a given station. If you didn't, you were screwed. Chef Jackson didn't ask us to memorize a thing. Chef Almir had us memorize an 18 item a la carte menu, 60 buffet items, and two 7 course tasting menus - and expected us to know the basic procedures of each dish from prep to plate.
Whether you wanted to or not, whether you believe in all this or are biding time before you get out, if you lasted this long, if you survived this far, you became better. We have chefs in class. We have cooks in class. We have shoemakers, too. But each to a man, is better than they were at the start.
The final three weeks are academic; we graduated on Friday. Chef Almir sent most of, those that passed anyway, out into the world, bleary, stressed and better for it. The last night of Careme production featured a buffet for which the three stations were to focus on a particular genre of food. Station A took Spanish; station B, my station, took French; station C took Italian. At station B, we put out my first attempt at Beef Bourguignon over pappardelle, which was a smash, a vegetarian cassoulet, a gratin of potato, leek and spinach, mussels a la meuniere, and a kick ass game hen with a wild rice and mushroom stuffing. When everything had been cleaned up and broken down, we all sort of wandered about, waiting for Chef to address us one final time, a bit dazed, a bit wasted, but giddy - something between shellshock and Christmas Eve.
This is station B. Not a great photo, but I didn't want to use a flash while everyone was working. And I didn't want Chef Almir to see me snapping photos like a tourist. In the foreground you see Jen, often a calming force in the group, though I don't think her mellow demeanor is accomplished on purpose - she just doesn't let stress show as much as some of us. the big guy in the background is Charles, my nemesis. You can see the single table which is flanked on one side by a row of burners, on the other by the grill and deep fry station. It's a small space for 10 somewhat disorganized cooks, so there's lots of oppotunity for elbows, knees, scalding pots and pans, fights and general unruliness.
And there's me, flipping something in a pan...I think it was a mirepoix in red wine and glace de viande I was using to stretch the Beef Bourguignon. I am a showman. For me, the most exciting part of Friday night occurred when my station ran out of the mussels a la meuniere. In the photo, you can just make out a chaffing dish. See, the buffet line ran throw the kitchen - a total dog and pony show for the patrons - providing a lot of contact and interaction between the customers and the students supplying the fare. When our mussel dish was spent, I grabbed a pan of cleaned shrimp and started sauteing them in front of everyone, making elborate and dramatic work of a fairly simple procedure. Showing off. Totaly vanity. Total entertainment. I'd drizzle oil into a smoking pan from three feet over it. I'd pitch shallots and garlic in sidearm from the same distance. I'd toss shrimp in and imeediately get them jumping, flipping them as high as I could without losing any. When it was time to deglaze, I'd drown them in wine, sending a fireball up. When I finished the with butter and herbs, it was a nugget the size of your hand swirled around just long enough to melt it down, then immeditely dumped into a chaffing dish, steaming hot.
Of course, we are soldiers. And when soldiers return from war, they self-medicate. there was a lot of self-medicating the last three weeks. Having a bar directly across the street from school is a quick way to turn anxious and beaten upculinary rookies into drinking machines capable of all sorts of debauchery. The final night of Careme brought out 80% of the class, and we were in rare form. Something I never noticed before snapping this shot is the Temble Bar sign also reads "Bistro" - I think they might serve chicken wings or something.
Here you have, left to right, Jen, Melissa, Brian and Jeff, each a few drinks out to sea. Things got much worse as the evening wore on. Later, Jeff wanted to punch knuckles with everyone.
We are moving back to South Campus for the final three weeks, a return home of sorts, so at the end of the evening I took off my jacket, wrote 'See Ya Later' on it and left it at the bar. A symbolic gesture, but I'll probably never go to Temple again. I'll miss it, though it occurs to me from time to time that if it weren't for school, I'd never go there at all - and to go back while not in school would be somehow wrong.
As you would expect, there has been a lot of conversations among the class focusing on the distance we've gone to get to where we are. I remember when making a hollandaise was a really big fucking deal. On the final night, making a bearnaise (a hollandaise with tarragon) was one of the competencies that I had yet to complete in the three week class, so I whipped one out in about 5 minutes, over straight heat (screw your sissy ban marie, rookie). I remember when cooking three dishes, one serving each, in three hours was exciting. On Wednesday, my station had 8 dishes that we did about 60 covers on in about 2 hours. We really have come a long way. Some are more advanced that others, but by and large, I;d trust anyone in the class to get a job done. Yes, we have some shoemakers, but they are well-meaning shoemakers that will get their sea legs eventually if they choose to hang with it.
Maybe the biggest difference in us can be summed up by the differences between Chef Jackson and Chef Almir. Chef Jackson held hands (though I didn't realize it back then) and nudged you along the right path. Chef Almir watched you fuck something up again and again before he stepped in, finished your job and told you that you wasted 50 grand. Chef Jackson gave us detailed recipes and a thorough demonstration. Chef Almir gave us products and a basic procedure with lots of blanks to fill in. Chef Jackson gave us meticulous mis en place instructions. Chef Almir assumed that you knew your mis en place by what you'd be producing at a given station. If you didn't, you were screwed. Chef Jackson didn't ask us to memorize a thing. Chef Almir had us memorize an 18 item a la carte menu, 60 buffet items, and two 7 course tasting menus - and expected us to know the basic procedures of each dish from prep to plate.
Whether you wanted to or not, whether you believe in all this or are biding time before you get out, if you lasted this long, if you survived this far, you became better. We have chefs in class. We have cooks in class. We have shoemakers, too. But each to a man, is better than they were at the start.
