Fits, starts and short hops.
So, in the 80s there was a second baseman for the Dodgers named Steve Sax. Line drive swing, hit for average, stole some bases and a serviceable glove. Later in his career he developed this mental thing which would prevent him from throwing the ball accurately to first base. He'd heave a 60 foot throw into the bleachers, bounce it in the dirt, but rarely threw a strike to first base. No one seemed certan how it started, but he just lost his confidence in delivering the ball to first. From other positions, he'd do fine. Just that damn throw from second to first. I believe I am facing a bit of post traumatic stress disorder with respect to knife work. Don't get me wrong, my production hasn't slumped at all, and my cuts are only getting better, but I can't hold a knife in my hand without thinking about the various ways things could go wrong and I'd be sheepishly smiling through another set of stitches. I laugh it off, but the image and associated feeling of steel making new holes in me is a thought that passes through my head all goddamn day. Eventually, I'll shake it. For now it's more interestingly funny than worrisome.
Last night I was absolutely shit faced. Completely fucking wrecked. These last two weeks it seems we work hard and play even harder. We got slammed at the Friday buffet in Careme, and aside from the prep and production of each days series of dishes, there's also the strain of learning a new menu each week, developing buffet dishes, keeping the team on task (make no mistake - if one person slips behind, the whole team goes down), aling side the general anxiety of nailing down externships, preparing for the end of our education, etc. It's a grind each day, and if you don't love what you are doing, you are fucked. That said, more often than not, a dozen of us are at Temple immediately following classes, self-medicating. I won't go through the details of last night, but it started with Zach opening a bar tab at 10:30 and ended at Mel's Diner around 3. In between there are various scenes of chaos and torture which I can piece together only in the vaguest terms.
On Monday, we have mystery basket day. This time around, it'll be a bit different in that we know basically what products we have to work with - the walk-in fridge is fair game for all. Each person in class will have two hours to plate a three course meal. Naturally, my head is swimming with possibilities. So far I am most fond of this one: amuse bouche of aged jack mousse with a drizzle of reduced port wine (a fine dining take on some serious white trash food), a first course of open lobster ravioli in a vodka cream and roasted tomato compote, and finally an entree of ribeye with an arugula pesto, glace de viande, roasted garlic mashed potatoes (made with only oil, milk solids from clarified butter and a little melted foie gras) and some green veg tossed in bearnaise. But I change my mind about every 15 seconds, so tune in later this week for a photographic recap.
Recently I was reading old posts. Back in the day, about a year ago now, I described us as all looking the same in our jackets and checks. With experience in rule bending, we've learned to express ourselves a bit more. For instance, I roll my sleeves up to my elbows as opposed to the standard cuff. I use server style aprons, which hang to the shin and have front pockets. I always wear my watch and black leather wristband. I tuck two pens in the front of my jacket, where it buttons, using my shoulder pocket only for a thermometer and a paring knife. I use towels that are twice the size of the standard issue, and I tuck them in the back of my aprin instead of having them at the front. Everyone has got something different with the mis en place of their get up.
Also, all of my jackets are ridiculously stained. I wouldn't pass a simple inspection these days. Thankfully, there aren't any to pass.
Monday will be my turn at sous chef, and I am determined, despite the anxiety everyone will be feeling over mystery backet, to keep my team on point, develop monster prep lists, and set a very positive tone for the final week. It's not going to be easy. In additon to the high point value mystery basket, my team will have to be prepping for a new menu for service on Tuesday and creating a menu for our final buffet, all while studying for a written test. It's going to be a blind blur of a week, and getting off to rocky start will kill us. So, send your calmest vibes to the team on station B, where veal chops and filet mignon rule, turning twice the number of orders the other stations do, combined.
So, in the 80s there was a second baseman for the Dodgers named Steve Sax. Line drive swing, hit for average, stole some bases and a serviceable glove. Later in his career he developed this mental thing which would prevent him from throwing the ball accurately to first base. He'd heave a 60 foot throw into the bleachers, bounce it in the dirt, but rarely threw a strike to first base. No one seemed certan how it started, but he just lost his confidence in delivering the ball to first. From other positions, he'd do fine. Just that damn throw from second to first. I believe I am facing a bit of post traumatic stress disorder with respect to knife work. Don't get me wrong, my production hasn't slumped at all, and my cuts are only getting better, but I can't hold a knife in my hand without thinking about the various ways things could go wrong and I'd be sheepishly smiling through another set of stitches. I laugh it off, but the image and associated feeling of steel making new holes in me is a thought that passes through my head all goddamn day. Eventually, I'll shake it. For now it's more interestingly funny than worrisome.
Last night I was absolutely shit faced. Completely fucking wrecked. These last two weeks it seems we work hard and play even harder. We got slammed at the Friday buffet in Careme, and aside from the prep and production of each days series of dishes, there's also the strain of learning a new menu each week, developing buffet dishes, keeping the team on task (make no mistake - if one person slips behind, the whole team goes down), aling side the general anxiety of nailing down externships, preparing for the end of our education, etc. It's a grind each day, and if you don't love what you are doing, you are fucked. That said, more often than not, a dozen of us are at Temple immediately following classes, self-medicating. I won't go through the details of last night, but it started with Zach opening a bar tab at 10:30 and ended at Mel's Diner around 3. In between there are various scenes of chaos and torture which I can piece together only in the vaguest terms.
On Monday, we have mystery basket day. This time around, it'll be a bit different in that we know basically what products we have to work with - the walk-in fridge is fair game for all. Each person in class will have two hours to plate a three course meal. Naturally, my head is swimming with possibilities. So far I am most fond of this one: amuse bouche of aged jack mousse with a drizzle of reduced port wine (a fine dining take on some serious white trash food), a first course of open lobster ravioli in a vodka cream and roasted tomato compote, and finally an entree of ribeye with an arugula pesto, glace de viande, roasted garlic mashed potatoes (made with only oil, milk solids from clarified butter and a little melted foie gras) and some green veg tossed in bearnaise. But I change my mind about every 15 seconds, so tune in later this week for a photographic recap.
Recently I was reading old posts. Back in the day, about a year ago now, I described us as all looking the same in our jackets and checks. With experience in rule bending, we've learned to express ourselves a bit more. For instance, I roll my sleeves up to my elbows as opposed to the standard cuff. I use server style aprons, which hang to the shin and have front pockets. I always wear my watch and black leather wristband. I tuck two pens in the front of my jacket, where it buttons, using my shoulder pocket only for a thermometer and a paring knife. I use towels that are twice the size of the standard issue, and I tuck them in the back of my aprin instead of having them at the front. Everyone has got something different with the mis en place of their get up.
Also, all of my jackets are ridiculously stained. I wouldn't pass a simple inspection these days. Thankfully, there aren't any to pass.
Monday will be my turn at sous chef, and I am determined, despite the anxiety everyone will be feeling over mystery backet, to keep my team on point, develop monster prep lists, and set a very positive tone for the final week. It's not going to be easy. In additon to the high point value mystery basket, my team will have to be prepping for a new menu for service on Tuesday and creating a menu for our final buffet, all while studying for a written test. It's going to be a blind blur of a week, and getting off to rocky start will kill us. So, send your calmest vibes to the team on station B, where veal chops and filet mignon rule, turning twice the number of orders the other stations do, combined.
