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
