A meal worth sharing

Today I attended orientation for the French Culinary Institute where I'll start school this Thursday. I felt like a giddy freshman again, eager to meet my classmates and learn what the months to come would entail.

I arrived to the building where a table of my classmates were sitting patiently in silence. None of them were really talking, but I sat down anyway and introduced myself. Everyone went around the table and said where they were from. Most of them were from New Jersey and one of them was from the Boston area. I've noticed that people are pretty specific when it comes to claiming Jersey, much like people from Kansas City. I have yet to learn what each of these areas encompasses in terms of character, socioeconomic class, etc. Like Kansas City, I'm sure people get a little sensitive if you connect them with the wrong part of Jersey.

When it was time for orientation to actually start we were led through a narrow hallway where we had our pictures taken and eventually to a room where we all had duffel bags waiting for us. My duffel was labeled with my name and inside it were three chef jackets with my name sewn on the right side, three pairs of pants, three skull caps, three aprons, three neckerchiefs, and dish towels. I also received two books, one with my class notes and a food guide.

After we claimed our things we sat and waited for the presentation to being. I looked around the room and noticed that the class was an even split between men and women. There are about 25 people from what I gather. I'll be with this group until I graduate in June 2011, so I'm sure we'll get to know eachother pretty well. When we went around the room to introduce ourselves we were asked to state our names, where we were from, and explain the last good meal we ate.

My new classmates are from New Jersey, Queens, Bronx, Brooklyn, Harlem, Russia, Florida, Ohio, Boston, Maryland, Sacramento, and St. Louis. I'm the only Kansan. I didn't get into the whole "I'm from Colorado and Kansas" explanation. I'll claim Kansas for now. Everyone had a different dining experience to share when we explained our last good meals. Some people said they cherished the last meal their mom made, while others spoke of dining aboard and local spots within their neighborhoods. A couple even chose to reveal that their loyalty lies with chain restaurants, which is pretty lame if you ask me.

I described a meal I had two nights ago with my new friend Thomas. After we closed up the restaurant Thomas invited me to go to Greenpoint, Brooklyn, for some authentic Polish food. He said the place served affordable grub and all the servers wore traditional Polish attire, and better yet, the wine was cheap. I was in! We hopped the subway and before I knew it we were in Greenpoint standing in front of Karczma.

Never having the opportunity to eat Polish food before, I didn't have any expectations, and I'm glad because I really enjoyed what I saw when we set foot in the place. The dining area resembles an old farm house with wooden tables and a wooden bar. I didn't know if I was part of the crew on Oregon Trail or if I was in Poland, but I dug it. Polish folk music was turned up on high and Polish beer poured from the taps. The menu was a large wooden book, sturdy and sacred looking. I told Thomas to order since he was a return customer. He ordered a plate of steak tartar, a large beer to share, a Polish specialty plate, and a cheap bottle of red wine. I ordered the spicy beef goulash for some extra variety.

When the steak tartar arrived, we were both a little taken aback. It in no way resembled the delicate mound of tartar we served at our restaurant with slender, toasted pieces of bread. This tartar was obviously out to redefine tartar, or convince us that we should never order tartar again. Our Polish waitress slid a pound of ground chuck onto the table with a side of onions, mushrooms, pickles, and capers. We both had a moment of silence when the plate arrived, confused where we should start and wondering if we should even eat it. Was this sanitary? I began to wonder. Thomas mixed everything into the beef and I began to remember my grandma Annette eating raw pieces of hamburger with salt. Eating raw red meat hadn't killed her, so surely I would be fine. I smeared some of the meat onto a slice of bread, closed my eyes, and did as my father always told me — I tried something new. It wasn't bad, but we weren't licking the plate clean either.

"Do you not like the tartar?" the waitress asked.

"Oh no, of course not!" Thomas falsely assured her, giving me a wink as she hurried to another table.

When dinner arrived I knew my stomach was in for a beating. A heaping plate of goulash sat before me and a large plate of pierogies, hunter's stew, potato pancakes, kielbasa, and stuffed cabbage sat piled high before Thomas. Everything was either meat, sauerkraut, potato, or salt. Not a combination I'd indulge in too often, but definitely a selection of new tastes. It was the experience and the company, however, that made a dive into a new culture all the more pleasant and memorable, which is why I thought the meal was worth sharing with my classmates.

On Thursday I will arrive for my first evening of classes. I'll receive my knife set and it will most likely be a syllabus day of sorts. I'm sure the chef will have an introduction followed by kitchen rules and a few words about sanitation. Surely I'll find a story within the evening worth telling.

Until then,

Lauren

Work Ethic

I really admire strong work ethic, and I know I'm not alone in admiring how hard so many Mexican men work everyday in American restaurants. The hispanics definitely hold the majority where I work, and I've never seen a group of individuals work as hard as they do on a daily basis. They take their work seriously.

This evening I had the pleasure of sitting down with a few guys who work in the back of the house. When they asked me if I'd grab a beer after work, they looked a little surprised that I accepted. I know I have a lot to learn about the kitchen, and I knew this was an opportunity.

One of them has been with the company for five years, so he's seen a lot of people come and go. He's a man of few words, but it's obvious that everyone he works with holds a lot of respect for him. I unfortunately don't really remember any of the Spanish I learned two years ago at KU and he doesn't speak terrific English, but I understood the heart of his advice: work hard.

That's the secret in this business - work hard and do the job well. Oh, and knowing Spanish probably doesn't hurt... I'll get on that. I've already purchased some study materials. In the meantime I'll keep trying to have conversations in broken Spanish.

Peace in a Lexington station

About an hour ago I was standing in the subway station when I realized I was quickly becoming a 6 train red eye regular. A night rider dressed in black, probably drowsy looking and a little on edge. I've been getting off work around midnight lately, which gets me to the station when it's a little deserted. Most nights I wait for the train with hoochie mamas, handy men, and guys who are on the chase for some late night grub after a hit or two, but tonight was a little different.

Rhythmic music bounced off the filthy walls of the station and a Spanish guitar serenaded the gutter rats. Two men, one on guitar, and the other on vocals, gave some life to the station where energy-depleted individuals like myself waited patiently for the train. I watched as rats scurried down the tracks, looking for pieces of edible matter within the tarred, decaying trash. As ugly as this place was, it was slightly enjoyable at this moment. I had a small bag of Cheez-Its, my diet coke, and my Time Out New York magazine. Peace had found me in a Lexington station.

Today was like other days at the restaurant. I broke a light sweat at lunch serving the busy lunch crowd and got lost in a whirlwind of chaotic stress during dinner. I arrived at work to learn that the woman who started the job when I did had been fired while I was enjoying time off. Like the Polish man, she was axed during a meeting with the entire staff.

"I knew she wouldn't survive. I told you, did I not?" The Moroccan server said, giving me a small smile with his a "I told ya so" attitude.

I wasn't exactly surprised by the news. She was easily flustered and she always wanted a cigarette. At 39, she didn't have much tolerance left for the serving world. She could convey the rough exterior well, talking the talk, but her skin wasn't as thick as it probably used to be, making the walk a little more difficult.

"Kansas girl now survive longer than a New Yorker," the server continued, making it seem as though expiration was part of the job description. "I knew you'd make it longer than her," he said.

Whenever someone new comes around, it's only because someone has left or business has expanded. In my case someone left, or in reality, never stayed. I've served the first two weeks and I've gathered the impression that holding a serving job in New York City takes some thick skin.

We're in the middle of a transition period where I work. The French man who hired me just moved back to Canada. A lot of people are a little sad about, and rightfully so. For many of them, this man is the reason they were hired or the reason they stuck with the business. For me, he's the reason I found employment within the first week of living in the city. Though he was stiff at work and held the bar of expectations high, he believed in people. One of the last lectures he gave me on was about filling salts.

"The only way to open a restaurant is with perfection!" he insisted. "If you have a half full salt, you've failed. Prep! Prep! Prep! Be prepared. It's the only way!"

Even though I didn't have the chance to know him better, I'm going to take his high standards with me throughout my culinary career. His intensity might have been a bit frightening, but he knew what he was doing and his employees performed to his expectations. I'll keep the salts full for him.

I'm taking each day one day at a time and I'm not taking anything for granted. In the meantime, I've decided I need to use my break between lunch and dinner for quality study time. Today I walked to Barnes & Noble on 5th Avenue and picked up The Wine Lover's Companion, Ruth Riechl's memoir Garlic and Sapphires, a Time Out New York, and a few Spanish study guides. I'll be able to read around Rockefeller Center until it starts to snow, and there's always a coffee shop to give me shelter if the weather should fail.

Bruschetta

I noticed my $5 loaf of whole grain bread was getting a little dry, so I decided to use it by making some bruschetta. It's one of my favorite snacks that can easily be a meal too. I cut a few slices of bread and brushed a side with olive oil. I placed the bread under the broiler until each piece was a litte golden and chopped some farmers market tomatoes, canned olives, and fresh basil. I topped each piece with a crack of pepper and a little salt. It was a great way to use some aging bread.

NYC Authentic

The other day I decided to buy a box of fortune cookies, hoping I could purchase some encouragement. The city kind of slapped me in the face. It does that. You sink or you swim. I've had to learn this over the last couple of weeks.

Part of me really likes how fast-paced the city is, and another part of me finds it exhausting. I met an interesting individual today who said the city becomes harder to leave the longer you're in it, and I definitely believe that. I've never felt completely stimulated like I do in New York City. Everything around me is new, including the people, the buildings, the languages, the smells, the subway system, the way people interact with eachother — Everything.

I want my experience here to be authentic. I'm not interested in finding a similar routine to the one I lived in Lawrence. When I moved here I told myself I would live and breathe the restaurant world, and I think I'm on the path to doing just that. I want each day to show me something new and introduce me to someone I haven't met before. Today that person was Danny.

Danny cut my hair today and it was anything but a typical trip to the salon. After several cold walk-ins to neighborhood salons, I was lost. The places I visited were not happening. Either the stylists didn't speak English or they wanted me to sit down and take my money before I could even explain the look I wanted to maintain. I decided to put my search in the hands of Yelp.com and after reading about all the options in my area, I decided to call Danny, the man behind The Hair Bar.

I think I was sold when one reviewer called him "a hair ninja." I got the impression from all the reviews that The Hair Bar was a mysterious gem in Alphabet City, a best kept secret if you will. Unlike the fancy salons I judged by Web presence, The Hair Bar only had a phone number on the Yelp site. Some reviews mentioned how much they enjoyed being able to go to Danny's apartment for a quality cut at a fraction of a salon price, and better yet, at any hour. Danny works with his client's schedule and even makes house calls for some clients. With my weird restaurant hours, that sounded appealing, as did the whole concept of sitting down for a drink while my hair was being fixed.

Shopping for a hairdresser is serious business. You have to feel comfortable with whoever is holding scissors at your head. You are at their mercy. They have complete control when you're in their chair, sometimes with your back to the mirror. I wasn't going to take the search process too lightly, especially after looking at the salons that neighbored my apartment.

I had an idea of what Danny might be like when he returned my phone call this afternoon. He sounded a bit spacey, but really friendly. He invited me to come over later in the evening and asked me a few questions about my hair. He seemed a little goofy (which I welcomed) and even though our phone call was brief, I was intrigued by our exchange.

I arrived in the general neighborhood an hour early in hopes that I would find a coffee shop and be able to do a little writing. I stopped at a place called Life Cafe where I had a happy hour margarita and pecked at my keys a little bit. When it was time to walk to my appointment I noticed that the neighborhood was a little rougher compared to where I lived just several blocks away. I didn't see college kids everywhere and everyone seemed a little more seasoned by the streets. I realized this probably wasn't an area I would want to walk around by myself at night.

I rang Danny's bell and was buzzed into the building. He greeted me at his door. He was very punk rock. The sides of his head were buzzed shorter than the rest of his hair that stuck up on the top of his head like a quasi mohawk. His jeans hung on his skinny hips and tattoos peaked out from his black T-shirt sleeves. He looked like he could hang with Sid Vicious and Alice Cooper. He smiled, shook my hand, and offered me a beer after he shut the door. I had considered bringing a six pack, but I had no idea what the man drank, so I figured I'd feel it out for the first time. He offered me a Pabst or a Miller Light. I chose Pabst.

I looked around his apartment in awe. The yellow walls were covered in magazine clippings, guitars, punk paintings, band photos, and old school pin-up girls. His mirror was framed with cut outs of blues musicians and punk rock guitarists. It was awesome beyond belief. He invited me to have a seat in his chair and we talked a little bit before the conversation shifted to my hair. He listened and stood to examine my grown-out cut. He then began cutting, in a very unconventional way. I had read that he had a style of cutting all his own, which I was looking forward to observing.

He cut my hair dry, twisting it and ran his shears down the twist of hair. He'd occasionally work on my bangs and return to the rest of my hair. He creatively cut my hair all while occasionally taking a sip from his beer and telling me stories from his beauty school past, 23 years ago. He told me how he was almost a beauty school dropout and how all he wanted to do in hair school was dropkick mannequin heads. He didn't like how monotonous beauty school was, and he didn't think he was going to make it. After 15 years of working at one of Manhattan's better known edgy salons called Mudhoney, Danny threw in the towel. He decided to take his business into his own hands, which also catered to his music career.

His stories were so entertaining that I didn't care what he was doing with my hair. I just wanted to listen. Blues music played as he continued to tell stories and clip at my hair. He was done within thirty minutes, which left us time to chat before his next client. He offered to dye my hair if I went and bought the dye and he told me I could come whenever he wasn't playing music. Our hairdresser-client relationship was off to a great start.

I'm sure it sounds a little crazy to go to some guy's apartment for a haircut, but I loved how unique the experience was and I'm certain I'll return. It's these experiences that make me value my time in the city that much more.

Finally, free time

I finally have time to wash my underwear. After nine days of working, eight of them doubles, I'm happy to report that I've had three days off to do whatever I want.

Sunday I went to Trader Joe's and picked up some necessities. I'm pretty happy when my fridge is stocked with salad fixings, goat cheese, tortillas, salsa, almond milk, vegetables, and beer. My roommate works on weekends, so I decided to buy some salmon for dinner. I marinaded it in maple syrup, soy sauce, and fresh ginger and served it with barley and stir fried zucchini. We ate some edamame and cucumber dumplings for an appetizer. Mae has never had to cook for herself, so cooking in our tiny New York City kitchen has been enjoyable and new for both of us. In the mornings I usually saute myself an assortment of vegetables and serve them with eggs over easy.

Yesterday was the first time I was able to shop for anything that I didn't have to wear to work. I stocked our kitchen with a few items I found at cheap home furnishing store down the street and stopped at a farmers market. I was really surprised to see how many farmers markets are in the city! There are a variety of markets and all of them are huge! How they're able to transport all of the fresh produce is beyond me. I'm glad it's all available. Mae has learned that shopping for me usually entails kitchen items and groceries, not necessarily shoes and clothes. "On Friday we're going shopping," she said. "Oh great, I've been wanting to go inside the big Crate & Barrel!" I told her. "No, like real shopping, Lauren." I'm a lost cause.

Last night I was invited to observe a class at the French Culinary Institute where I'll be attending evening classes beginning next Thursday. When I arrived to the building I was issued a chef jacket and hat. I was introduced to a prospective student and together we were led to classroom of students prepping their cooking stations for class. The chef instructor told us he would be teaching how to cook and serve shell fish. I looked to the dry erase board that hung in front of the classroom. "Class Plan of Action" was written across the board with a list of tasks to accomplish:

Class Plan of Action

-Court bouillon with vinegar

-Sauce Americaine

-Moules a la marinere

-Escargot Bourguignon

-Scallop with parsley coulis

-Oysters & clams

The class met at the head of the classroom where the chef began to lecture about the versatility of sauce Americaine, which is a rich lobster sauce made using the entire lobster. He then grabbed a live lobster and began to prepare the class for the execution the lethargic sea creature. I watched as students began to squirm, some of them laying their eyes on a live lobster for the first time. I have memories of my father submerging live lobsters into boiling water for their final moments, but I'd never seen anyone kill a lobster like this chef did.

He held the creature with both hands, knuckles up, and twisted its body like a wet rag. Water and bodily fluids began to seep from the lobster's broken shell and the chef began to pull the organs from the head cavity. It was quick, and probably more painful for the students watching than the lobster. He then stuck a thick needle through the lobster's dismembered tail to prevent it from curling and the class watched as the dead specimen's legs continued to flail. The lobster's meat was placed in a bowl separate from the cracked shells, which would later be used to enhance the court bouillon. He then dismissed the class to preform the same routine at their individual stations.

I watched as students held their lobsters, some of them hesitant to commit lobster murder. Shells cracked and lobster bodies began to clank against the steel bowls at each station. Once the lobster preparation was finished, the class began to prepare their sauce Americaine and some steamed mussels. The smell of simmering garlic, butter, and lobster stock began to drift through the air. White wine hit my nose and I could hear the chef saw at crunchy baguettes. Broth foamed in each pan as parsley and slabs of butter were tossed into the mix. All I wanted was a slice of baguette and an invitation to dip it. Alas, the mussels were steamed and a buttery liquid was drizzled over their yawning shells. "Would you like one?" one of the students asked. She could probably see me salivating.

Class continued, and before I knew it I had been observing for an hour and a half. Luckily, when I turned in my issued chef coat I knew dinner downstairs at L'Ecole was waiting. My admissions officer invited me and a guest of my choice to eat at the restaurant on the school's tab. I will cook at this restaurant during my last 200 hours of training.

Mae was my guest and we enjoyed a cocktail at the bar before we were sat for our five course meal.

Dinner was fantastic. Mae and I asked our waiter about the sweetbreads on the menu since neither of us had tried them before. Sweetbreads are thymus glands of beef, pork, or lamb that are usually pan fried. Sensing our hesitation to try them, he didn't push us to order, but instead mentioned that he might bring us a surprise at some point in the meal. When our meat courses arrived, sweetbreads accompanied our osso buco and lamb dishes. We each tried them, but we didn't finish them. While the taste wasn't bad, the texture was different... almost like fried soft fat.

After five liberal courses, we were feeling full and sleepy. We pushed ourselves to walk home, and even though I was slightly uncomfortable, I smiled the whole way home. The evening definitely made me excited to start school next week. It's really happening!

Off the hook

Two days ago I woke up to my manager's voice, and no, he wasn't in bed with me.

I was late for work. I could still taste the last IPA I drank six hours before and bourbon was on my breath. I was definitely about to accomplish one of my worst nightmares: Answering to my French boss.

I arrived forty minutes late, skidding in with my uniform in place but a less than ideal hairstyle and a sad attempt of correcting my unfortunate make-up. It was supposed to be my day off, but I was scheduled to work a double. I think I forgot to look at the schedule the night before because I was ready to blow off some steam and go out for once. I had been in New York City for a week and I had barely seen the city. I had only seen the city from the window that overlooked the street from the restaurant. All I needed was a cot and I could easily call the place home. I was living there, working doubles since the day I was hired.

I wasn't going to say anything about being late. Instead I was just going to go about the opening duties and pretend I had been there the whole time. I knew I was going to be confronted, but atleast I'd look like I was working hard.

"Hola, bonita," the sous chef said. "Como estas?" I looked at him with my slightly bloodshot eyes, ready to groan in hungover pain. He laughed and made a drinking gesture with his hand. He knew my story.

11:30 rolled around and it was time for the daily meeting with the entire staff. The French boss hadn't called me out yet, so I knew I was in for a staff-wide humiliation. We lined up around the dining room, standing straight like a military drill team, ready for orders. The managers and the boss made their way towards the group, clipboards in hand.

"Everyone outside!" Yelled the Frenchman, once in English and once in Spanish. We rallied outside where we saw the director of operations for all three restaurant locations. I hadn't seen him since my second interview a week ago. He was wearing a white lab coat over his starched, pink shirt, boot leg jeans, and typical long French shoes (whatever they're called). He listened as my French boss lectured everyone about leaving the restaurant properly at night. Apparently the door had been left ajar the previous night, open to any man off the street. He lectured once in English, once in Spanish.

We then piled back into the dining room where more lecturing took place. He threw the napkins I had folded the night before on one of the tables.

"Who did this? Who is responsible for this? Huh?"

Silence. I was not about to offer myself to the fire. Not today.

"We're all going to learn how to fold napkins the right way! Sit!"

We folded napkins as he watch each fold, correcting every faint blemish and technique. Apparently I wasn't the only one with poor napkin folding knowledge.

The Frenchman in the lab coat then began to speak as everyone returned to standing.

He told us our boss was stepping down from his position to return home to Canada, spitting every once in awhile. He told us how much he valued his commit to the restaurant and how it would be hard filling his position. He then digressed about customer service, alluding to an email he received the night before about how poor service had been for a guest. I wish I could describe his animated, spit-filled, lecture, but I'm afraid it's just too difficult. I would never do this man justice with adequate description. Just know that he meant business, spit and all.

We were then dismissed from the meeting. I hadn't been called out for being late and my boss was leaving. Crazy. Lunch was busy and I was distracted from how much I really didn't want to be at work.

I took a break between shifts and hurried myself to the drug store to correct my messy appearance. Deodorant? Check. Make-up remover? Check. Body mist? Check. New socks? Check. I was going to have a drug store makeover in a flash! No problem. I ate a sandwich, chugged a bottle of water, and made my way for the restroom. I had ten minutes to do work on my face and report to the next staff meeting.

The director greeted us at our next meeting, still wearing his lab coat from a day of reviewing restaurant operations. He had received another email from the night before, this time more pissed off.

"Did anyone receive a customer complaint last night?"

Silence.

"I did," Chris said. Chris, a Polish man, had been the one to train me.

"Aw, and what happened?" The boss man asked.

"They left me a bad tip so I asked them if their service had been good," Chris said.

"Did you confront their choice of wine?" The boss asked.

"No." Chris stood with confidence.

"Well, I receive an email from a guest. He say this restaurant is his girlfriend's favorite, so he want to give it a try. He say his waiter confront his wine choice." The Frenchman had the email in hand and proceeded to read it aloud. "He say the waiter asked him why he not receive a good tip."

Chris stumbled. He tried to defend his actions, even though it was pointless.

"What did I tell you earlier if a guest is unhappy? Huh?"

"You get a manager," Chris replied.

"And did you?"

Pause.... "No," Chris said.

"Well, you can leave your apron and go," The Frenchman said.

Chris walked away with his head down, ready to hand over his apron and return to his wife and child back in Brooklyn. A part of me really felt for the guy. An example had been made out of him at the expense of his employment. This restaurant was not about to tolerate second rate service.

Needless to say, it was an interesting day for me. Moral of the day? Don't screw up. Ever. Again. I got lucky... yet again.

How do I even begin?

It's really no wonder most people in the restaurant industry are chain smoking alcoholics. If I had a cigarette right now, I'd probably smoke it, and if I had a liter of Jack Daniels, I'd be killin' it on my lonesome.

Let's just say I've been humbled. My ass has been kicked plenty of times working the floor, but I'm about to receive a firm, nasty, server ass-whooping this week. I got my ass handed to me slinging beers and chicken wings at Henry T's, but this is just another level. How I got to this level, I don't know. All I know is I went from having massive sections of beer-drinking, blue collar, ranch-obsessed, waffle fry-guzzling bar regulars to wine-sipping, white collar, salad-sophisticated, martini-loving, Lawrence patrons, and now... Well, let me begin.

Imagine Henry T's meets Ten in the heart of New York City and everyone speaks a different language, each of them claiming a different country. Extreme volume meets fine dining. That's where I work. Servers have anywhere from 15 to 20 tables, all of them occupied at once with a range of snobby New Yorkers and touring foreigners. We have 200 covers during lunch alone, and anywhere from 300-600 during dinner. Sales are usually $1,000-$2,000 a shift for each server.

Out of a list of about 10 servers, I'm the only Lauren, which is a first. My name fits in the shuffle of names like Africa, Carlos, Juan Carlos, Rodrigo, Tayaa, Voken, Lex, Jorge...You get the picture. I'm the only Kansan most of these people have ever met. I work with a Polish dude, a Moroccan man, an Argentinian bartender, a Costa Rican bartender, a Hungarian manager, a Turk, a French chef, and about 20 Mexicans. I'm the only one who doesn't speak fluent Spanish and I'm the only server under 30 years old, excluding a few girls I haven't met yet. Oh yea, and I have no New York serving experience whatsoever, which apparently is unheard of at this place.

I think me getting this job was divine intervention. I'm not exaggerating any of this. Every detail, down to the reason I walked into this restaurant, is completely true. I got this job after I responded to a Craigslist ad. I wasn't going to go to the open call for servers because I figured I was under-qualified, but then a dream convinced me I should. I trusted a dream. It sounds silly, but I figured, what do I have to lose? The worst thing that could happen was that I would walk into the place and the manager would laugh at my resume or ask me a question I couldn't answer. In fact, I fully expected that would happen.

I walked into this open call with my resume in hand — The first one I would hand out— and began filling out a fine dining questionnaire of sorts. It was about three pages long of questions about kitchen lingo, French techniques, wine, cheese, meat, etc. I sat surrounded by other applicants, most of them older men. I watched as others were called by the manager to interview until I eventually sat alone at the bar. About twenty minutes into the questionnaire I began feeling a tinge of confidence because I knew all of the answers. I was feeling good. Well, until the host approached me and told me the position had been filled and that I could stop filling out the questionnaire. Feeling disappointed and a little irritated that I had just wasted a cab ride, I asked if I could leave my resume. She said I could. When I saw the manager walk by, something came over me... A sense of determination I guess.

"Sir, may I please leave you my resume?" I asked, hoping he would atleast place a face with my name should he ever need additional help. He turned around, approached me, and reached for my resume. His eyes began to scan my resume, almost in a hurried fashion.

"Ah, French Culinary Institute, eh?" He asked in his French accent.

"Yes," I said. "I'll be attending the institute beginning next month." He then began reading the answers in my half-finished questionnaire, nodding in approval an he flipped through the stapled pages. I studied his face and his stiff stance.

"What do you like about Riesling?" He asked, pointing to the wine varietals I had listed.

Shit... I better have something good, I thought to myself. I don't even really love Riesling, I just had listed it as a varietal...

"Well, I like that Riesling is a gentle wine with fruity flavor. It can be a nice wine to pair with some salads and appetizers. It's summery." Nothing too detailed, just an honest answer.

A pause followed. He handed back my questionnaire, already turning his foot to walk away.

"Keep filling this out," he said.

I had no idea what was happening. I didn't know if I was getting an interview or if I was the daily entertainment. Either way, I did as the Frenchman said. When I finished I handed him my completed questionnaire, which he then handed to another suited man.

"Come sit over here," the other man said. We sat at a bar table as my resume was examined for a second round.

"Kansas, huh?" I began to anticipate the Wizard of Oz reference.

"I've heard Lawrence is a pretty happening place," he said. What a surprise, I thought. A positive reaction to Kansas. There's a first.

"So how long have you been in the city?" He asked.

"Two days." Even I was shocked.

"Well you're not doing too bad if you're getting a second interview off of 5th Avenue, now are you?"

What was happening?? First the position was full and now it wasn't?

"Go talk to this man at this address as this time tomorrow," he said, scribbling the details on a business card.

I was stunned. Thrilled. Speechless. Confused.

Longer story short: I got the job after I was drilled by another Frenchman in a a suit that was more starched than the first guy's get up. I dressed nicely, studied French culinary techniques and wines the night before, and I practiced my French pronunciation. When I arrived I waited an hour until I was led to the private area where I was questioned for twenty minutes and told that I looked like I was dressed more like a manager's assistant. After giving me a backhanded compliment, the big wig decided to give me a chance. I was pumped.

It probably sounds a bit crazy that as a college graduate I'm excited about a serving job, but it's really competitive here. Plus, I have to pay the bills somehow, and I'm not exactly qualified to dance on tables. In all honesty, this job is really good experience for me. Serving in NYC is the real world. I'm meeting people from around the world and I'm realizing how small the U.S. really is... I've never been so enlightened, truthfully. The restaurant business isn't a cake walk and it's not a good fit for the timid.

I'm trying to be tough. I was thrown on the floor my first day as a serving assistant and on my second day I took tables alone. An Austrian man made me cry after he lectured me about how unthoughtful Americans are about "the dining experience." His food was arriving too quickly, he said, and in Europe dining experiences are taken seriously. "You Americans, all you do is rush RUSH RUSH!!" The last thing I wanted was to ruin their American experience. I redeemed myself throughout the evening and he gave me a pat on the shoulder when he was done eating. He apologized for losing his cool.

I was completely trained by day three and scheduled to work doubles from that point forward. Many people have told me I'm lucky and that the manager doesn't hire people with less than six years of New York City experience. One of the first things he said, in fact, was, "Don't embarrass me."

I've made flashcards about the menu, studied wine, and taken just about every word of advice from the servers. All of them have emphasize that I can't screw-up, not if I want to keep my job. Yesterday one of the cooks got my attention and told me to calm down because I looked so tense. It was my first shift with the boss and I was nervous. "Don't worry about it , girl," the Boston cook said. "He bleeds the same blood we do. You'll be fine, woman. I know it." Atleast he doesn't think I'm the Kansas girl who is going to crumble.

Today was my first busy lunch shift working under the boss's supervision and he actually told me I did a good job, so at least I'm off to a good start. Pray for me. I can't have another boss throw spoons at me and call me a retard, especially in French (yes, that happened to me once...).

Seriously, pray for me. I can't crumble.

My New Home

“As we drive along this road called life, occasionally a gal will find herself a little lost. And when that happens, I guess she has to let go of the coulda, shoulda, woulda, buckle up and just keep going.”

-Sarah Jessica Parker

Some people don’t like hospitals and I don’t like airports. Maybe I’m not a fan because I spent an entire day in Dallas Fort Worth International one Thanksgiving when I slept in and missed my flight. Maybe I don’t like them because they’re chaotic with loud and obnoxious noises, fussy children, and stressed out travelers. All I know is I’d rather go to the dentist than stand in line, remove my shoes, and make my way through the maze of people who are still try to sneak liquids and full sized bottles of lotion through security. It’s been nine years since 9/11 — You’d think people would have gone through all the motions by now. Bottom line: Airports are the pits. They have way too much going on and a bottle of water costs more than a sandwich.

But when I set aside the gripe session and really think about it, there’s more to the way I feel. It’s easy to point out the small irritants. It’s easier to blame my hatred of airports on the crying kids and the monotonous security checks, but the real reason I don’t like airports is because I’m always saying goodbye. Exploring a new place is always a new adventure, but when you say goodbye to someone, whether you’re the one boarding the plane or the one saying “Bon voyage,” it’s always a little rough.

Saying goodbye at KCI

It certainly was when I said goodbye to my family on Sunday. I had been saying goodbye to people for three weeks, but the final hug and last words of my dad were emotional. When I sat in the lobby, waiting for my flight, I spun into a state of shock. New York was really happening, and I was going to be there in a matter of hours. I slept through through the famous chocolate chip cookies on my Midwest flight, kicked back, and let my iPod flood my ears and soothe my mind.

And then I was in New York City. I grabbed my three heavy bags from the luggage carousel (heavy is probably an understatement... these suckers were well over 50 lbs) and headed from the cab line. I observed couples and families, all of them thrilled to be in the city for maybe the first time or that they were returning home. I was alone with all my bags, probably looking confused and terrified. I watched the cab coordinator wave the cabs like dumb cattle and direct pedestrians. When it was my turn he looked at me with that look of, "You're new to this," and said, "Girl, why don't you stack your bags on your cart?" I must have been a lost cause, but I smiled and shrugged it off. I got into my cab, told the cabbie my address and watched the sun set as we drove into town.

It was about 20 minutes into the ride that I realized I told him I needed to go West when in fact my apartment was on the East side.

Luckily I caught my novice mistake before I was dropped at the stoop of an unfamiliar building without a key or roommate. When I finally got to the right apartment I called Mae, my new roommate, and she came down the stairs to greet me. I was happy to finally reach my destination.

But it was far from over. I had forgotten that Mae had told me a month before that the apartment didn't have an elevator. It was going to be me, my three overweight suitcases, and five flights of narrow, stuffy stairs for the next thirty minutes. The journey put my StairMaster workouts to shame, but boy was I glad that I had prepared my legs for the torture. When we made it up the stairs and were finally in the apartment for the first time together, I was needless to say, breathless.

Our apartment is cute. It's on the East Side, surrounded by lots of restaurants, bars, and shops. FCI alum David Chang's Momofuku Ssam Bar and Milk Bar actually neighbors our place. It's a single bedroom apartment with one bathroom, a New Yorker kitchen, and a large living room that has been converted into my bedroom. It feels like home away from home. Mae furnished the place and my minimal belongings fill the space pretty well. Mae is really great. She's very driven, kind, and supportive. Yesterday she brought me white chocolate macadamia cheesecake from Magnolia Bakery, just because. We're off to good start.

My room

Everything I need

Monday was my first day in the city. I met up with some relatives and explored South Street Seaport and the Financial District. Naera and her son Jorge were my tour guides and it was a perfect first day. We toured the Ambrose ship and Peking ship, both of which are docked at the South Street Seaport Museum. Jorge told me he loves social studies and it definitely showed because he was a wealth of knowledge about New York history. At ten years old he's already taught me more about New York City than I've been able to teach myself. He later showed me ground zero where the Freedom Tower is currently under construction, giving me the full story of 9/11 events.

Jorge and I

Naera and I

We later met up with Naera's husband Nicholas, who is my father's cousin, and we ate homemade guacamole and sipped Naera's margaritas. I met one of their good friends, Joann, and we later walked around Battery Park while the sun set on the water. I also enjoyed my first New York hot dog.

Now that I'm settled in at the apartment I have four goals: 1. Find a job. 2. Explore the city as much as possible 3. Educate myself 4. Write! Wish me luck.