When I first began my career in the culinary world, I took a job at a local restaurant of prestige as a garde manger, or, in layman’s terms, a salad maker.
The job description for this inauspicious entry-level position usually entails making appetizers to order, tossing salads and plating desserts. As with any restaurant job, this position required a lot of prep for what we call mise en place, to ensure that the station was ready to go at service time.
Part of my prep responsibilities included picking bags and bags of spinach. Taking the stems off of every single leaf, making certain not to miss even one. “See this,” my chef would say as he held up a leaf, which eluded my inspection, “That is an unhappy customer.” “Yes, chef.” The only two words a cook needs to know.
Picking spinach, in case you’ve never done it before, is boring. Speed in the kitchen is essential; it’s the mark of a good culinarian. We chefs hurry everywhere we go. We race around the grocery store as if we are contestants on that grocery game show. We run from our cars to the door of every establishment we patronize. Time is always of the essence.
Unfortunately, there aren’t many chefs who run for recreation, it’s sad, they’d be setting new PR’s all the time.
As I picked bag after bag, I would try to pick the next bag faster than I picked the last. I figured out that it took me the same time to pick 3 full bags of spinach, as it would take me to run 3 miles.
People always ask me why I get up so early just to go work out. They look at me quizzically when I explain that I actually enjoy it. One time, I laced up my New Balances and headed out in our first heavy snow fall after a 12 hour day, with more work waiting for me when I got back. The dining room manager looked at me in disbelief, took a drag of his cigarette and said, “They’re right, you are crazy.”
I smiled and noted that I was taking my non-smoking break and I’d be back later.
They laugh at me when I track my mileage on a map of Michigan that I keep on my bulletin board for motivation. They want to know why I don’t run to some place warm instead of always heading to the U.P.
Many insist that I’m running from something, they want to know what it is. They ask me what the most amazing thing has ever happened to me on one of my runs, or if I’ve ever seen anyone famous or met anyone important.
It’s true, when I started running, I was running away. I was running from job stress, school deadlines, failed romances. Broken hearted, I logged many miles. I ran away from an eating disorder, which almost ruined my career. I ran for comfort. And, I joked, it’s cheaper than therapy.
Now, as I become more passionate about healthful living and feel the responsibility as a food professional to raise the bar of education in my industry. I point out that I run from heart disease, obesity and the effects of a sedentary lifestyle.
The most amazing thing that has ever happened to me on a run isn’t the day that I logged an insane amount of miles on a treadmill, or the days I was chased by my neighbors nasty dog, or the time I ran out way too far in a rural part of town and wasn’t sure if I was going to make it back.
No, the most amazing thing was the day I realized that I don’t have to apologize for my running or make excuses or offer explanations about why my running wardrobe is larger than my regular wardrobe, and gets much more wear.
The answer to the last question isn’t what people expect to hear. I don’t know if they imagine me toeing the starting line of some obscure 5 K next to P. Diddy or George W. Bush.
The most important person that I’ve ever met on one of my runs is me.
Running shows you and anyone else who’s watching who you are and what you value. Am I disciplined? Look at my log. Do I prioritize in my life? I don’t hit the snooze. Do I have integrity? Am I determined? Do I know what commitment means? These are all questions that are answered every time I head out the door.
I’ve progressed in my career, and I don’t have to pick spinach anymore, unless I’m feeling generous and decide to help a friend. Over the years, I’ve become a much better runner, though I find myself struggling to exceed my spinach-picking PR.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Kitchen Confidential Book Review - Throw Back to 2001
Anthony Bourdain, a celebrity chef from New York, relives his exciting, disgusting and somewhat criminal climb to the top. Once a lowly dishwasher, Bourdain got his break as a cook by accident, an experience similar to countless chefs in the industry. Aimless, bitter and close to eviction, the restaurant industry offered what a lot ofyoung guys are looking for: drugs, waitresses, and free booze.
When a sauté cook failed to show up for his shift, Bourdain was nabbed out of the dishtank and dropped behind a Garland range. This is where the adventure began. Like the majority of cooks in the industry, job-hopping is nothing out of the ordinary. Bourdain’s travels took him to numerous establishments and none of them, like most restaurants, were that different from the last.
Wherever you go, there is always a “supplier” (dealer), always a “five o’clock special” (a practice of getting high under hood vents or walk in coolers at five o’clock) and a lot of casual sex. There are a lot of bullies, an infinite number of amateur restaurateurs and know-it-all culinary students, not to mention, a lot of attitude.
Kitchens and their “meal technicians” are not known for their cleanliness, wholesomeness, reliability or intelligence. Kitchens aren’t think tanks, science labs, or academic facilities. Chefs aren’t known as public speakers, let alone authors. Kitchens are one of those places that are usually staffed by transient workers and convicts.
Did you ever wonder if your breadbasket made its first debut at another table? Bourdain has the answer to that, ‘I will eat bread in restaurants, even if I know it’s probably been recycled off someone else’s’ table. I’m sure that some restaurants explicitly instruct their Bengali busboys to throw out all that unused bread-which amounts to about fifty percent-and maybe some places actually do it. But when it’s busy and the busboy is crumbing tables, emptying ashtrays, refilling water glasses, and hustling dirty dishes back to the dishwasher-and he sees a basket full of untouched bread- most times, he’s going to use it. This is a fact of life. It doesn’t bother me, and shouldn’t surprise you”. Enough said.
The stories are never-ending and more appalling as they progress. I hated this book, and the reason I hated it is because everything in it is true.
As a working pastry chef and culinary school graduate, I can attest to the accuracy of this utterly coarse text. What angers me is that I am in the minority. I am amoung a handfull of cooks who don’t party, drink or smoke. I rarely meet any other ‘professionals” in my field who act professionally. I am sick of the stigma and the waste of talent that I run into on a daily basis. I have worked for and with some of the most brilliant people I have ever met, and they subscribe to the most depraved and revolting moral codes I have ever seen.
Perhaps with the population demanding food as entertainment, and a growing number of sophisticated patrons, discipline will once again be introduced into the professional kitchen. Until then, if you want “clean” food, avoid special orders, well-done meat, and, of course, the breadbasket.
When a sauté cook failed to show up for his shift, Bourdain was nabbed out of the dishtank and dropped behind a Garland range. This is where the adventure began. Like the majority of cooks in the industry, job-hopping is nothing out of the ordinary. Bourdain’s travels took him to numerous establishments and none of them, like most restaurants, were that different from the last.
Wherever you go, there is always a “supplier” (dealer), always a “five o’clock special” (a practice of getting high under hood vents or walk in coolers at five o’clock) and a lot of casual sex. There are a lot of bullies, an infinite number of amateur restaurateurs and know-it-all culinary students, not to mention, a lot of attitude.
Kitchens and their “meal technicians” are not known for their cleanliness, wholesomeness, reliability or intelligence. Kitchens aren’t think tanks, science labs, or academic facilities. Chefs aren’t known as public speakers, let alone authors. Kitchens are one of those places that are usually staffed by transient workers and convicts.
Did you ever wonder if your breadbasket made its first debut at another table? Bourdain has the answer to that, ‘I will eat bread in restaurants, even if I know it’s probably been recycled off someone else’s’ table. I’m sure that some restaurants explicitly instruct their Bengali busboys to throw out all that unused bread-which amounts to about fifty percent-and maybe some places actually do it. But when it’s busy and the busboy is crumbing tables, emptying ashtrays, refilling water glasses, and hustling dirty dishes back to the dishwasher-and he sees a basket full of untouched bread- most times, he’s going to use it. This is a fact of life. It doesn’t bother me, and shouldn’t surprise you”. Enough said.
The stories are never-ending and more appalling as they progress. I hated this book, and the reason I hated it is because everything in it is true.
As a working pastry chef and culinary school graduate, I can attest to the accuracy of this utterly coarse text. What angers me is that I am in the minority. I am amoung a handfull of cooks who don’t party, drink or smoke. I rarely meet any other ‘professionals” in my field who act professionally. I am sick of the stigma and the waste of talent that I run into on a daily basis. I have worked for and with some of the most brilliant people I have ever met, and they subscribe to the most depraved and revolting moral codes I have ever seen.
Perhaps with the population demanding food as entertainment, and a growing number of sophisticated patrons, discipline will once again be introduced into the professional kitchen. Until then, if you want “clean” food, avoid special orders, well-done meat, and, of course, the breadbasket.
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