steak tartare, how elegant you are

I treated myself to a fancy lunch with several coworkers yesterday during our break between lunch and dinner at Brasserie Ruhlmann in Rockefeller Plaza. It was presented to me in a glass bowl topped with a quail egg, sprinkled with shallots and ribbons of fresh herbs. A small watercress salad and a bouquet of pomme frits were nice accompaniment.

A day in my life

So it has been awhile since I last wrote, and my only excuse is that I've been really tired. By the time I get home after school or work, all I usually want is a glass of wine or the comfort of my pillow. Feeling tired is a sorry excuse though, especially considering the hours I slaved away writing English papers and newspaper articles late into the morning during my years of undergrad.

Why am I so tired? Well, my day usually begins at 8 a.m. when I wake up and get ready for work. I pack my bag, attempt to make my work uniform look as clean as possible, and head for the subway around 9:30, where I usually wait for the subway in the stuffy, hot underground tunnel for up to 15 minutes. When you don't have the luxury of an iPod, you notice things that you otherwise wouldn't. Since my iPod was stolen several weeks ago, I'm one of the few travelers without ear buds in the morning. I usually observe a moment of unusual behavior or an an eccentric character.

This morning I sat across a little old lady when I got on the subway. She had her shades on, a little hat, and she wore flesh colored stockings with her sandals. She didn't match and she looked like she probably forgot she was getting dressed half way through her morning routine, neglecting to pull up on of her stockings. I kept wondering if she was looking at me through her sunglasses. As I began to stare back at her, I realized she was wearing two purses across her hunched shoulders. One was typical of an old lady and some sort of mauve color. The other was black and hot pink, equipped with a strap that read "Sweet & Vicious." This encounter was brief, but memorable for some odd reason. Maybe I just enjoyed that this little old woman was keeping it real. I want to believe that she consciously wore that purse to send a message, a message of, "I might be a cute little grandma, but don't fuck with me."

My morning commute is usually about 20 minutes long once I arrive to the station, which isn't bad. I get off the subway and walk six blocks to work, where I head to the basement to get dressed. The production kitchen crew is already preparing the day's delivery orders, roasting chickens, baking bread, and transporting items to necessary stations. One of my managers is already three espressos deep, usually typing in the office or making their way down the call list to fill vacant shifts. When I arrive to the musty, cheap cologne-misted locker room, I usually barge in on about five half naked Mexican men who greet me in Spanish. Most of them call me Lauren, but I'm also called Lorena, Lorinita, Mamasita, Mommi (it's a Puerto Rican thing), "Mi Amor," and sometimes "Mi Corozon," which means "my heart." After I'm showered with loving morning greetings, I hurry to get my stuff out of my locker where I then go to the bathroom to get dressed in peace.

After I get dressed I spend the next hour opening the restaurant, ensuring each napkin is perfectly pressed and folded and that each table looks the exact same as the other tables. If one table is even slightly crooked or if a salt is even remotely off center, I'm told. Once I've performed all the opening duties, scaling the three floors of the place many times, the staff sits down for family meal before our morning meeting. Carlos, one of the saute cooks, usually roasts chicken thighs and sautes large hotel pans full of spicy peppers, garlic, and onions. Meals are served with rice and guacamole. The guacamole is thickly mashed with onions and seasoned with chili pepper, cilantro, and lime juice. The Mexican buss boys banter, flirting and placing eachother in headlocks. The cooks usually scarf their food so they can get back to work, and the servers eat together, sometimes exchanging gossip from the night before.

A cell phone snap shot of our dining room

Today the gossip was rich with news. The French director of operations, who conducted my second interview, was fired. I knew the owner was in town, but I wasn't aware he was in town to take care of serious business matters in person. This will be the fifth vacant management position within less than a month. After the director of operations was fired, his assistant quit and her husband quit, who happens to be the chef de cuisine at our location. Three weeks ago our general manager left and last week one of my favorite managers quit with a day's notice. He told me he was getting ready to leave, but I was sworn to secrecy not to tell anyone. "Promise me one thing," he said during our final exchange. "Don't lose the Kansas in you." Needless to say, this is an interesting time for the restaurant. I'm wondering if the ship is sinking and whether or not I'm comfortable sinking with it, but a few people give me hope.

It's become evident to me that management trusts me after my short time working for them. I was asked to help them create some menu training materials and I was also asked to go to California for a week to help them train new staff. Unfortunately, I can't make the trip because of my school schedule. I've also trained new servers and I waited on our executive chef, which gave me a minor heart attack. When you're serving a chef and he created the menu, it's a little nerve-wracking, especially if you don't have half of the wine list and you're already stressed out with a full section.

Back to my daily routine- After a busy lunch shift, where we've served over 200 people, my feet start to feel some fatigue. Lunch is usually over by 2:30, and I have a break until 5:30, where I come back to work or I go to school until 10:45. Dinner is usually a repeat of what I've described above, but school is another labor.

I come back to my apartment to switch out my work bag for a school bag and my knives. If I've been smart, the bag is already packed and ready to ensure quick turnover. I grab the knives, my homework, and some clean clothes, and again head for the subway station. I take a subway downtown and get off on Canal Street, which is a limb of Chinatown, littered with people pushing cheap watches and knockoff handbags. I push my way through crowds of shoppers, weighed down by my large bags. I feel like I'm double my size when I push my way through the crowd. If I'm running late, this is an exhausting and irritating experience. When I arrive to school, I make my way to the locker room where I change into my starched whites. My identity becomes completely manufactured at this point and my face is the only thing that sets me apart from the other students.

Once I arrive to the classroom I must set up my station and arrange my mise en place. Other students are already prepping for the lesson. It's beneficial to arrive early and begin gathering supplies for the first recipe. I have a new assigned partner each week or two, which can be a blessing or a curse. If you're paired with someone who is equally prepared for the lesson, the class goes well and cooking time isn't an issue. If you're paired with someone behind the learning curve, however, the entire class is a struggle. I'm unfortunately stuck with the latter. I'm feeling a bit challenged to say the least.

Chef demos and lectures for an hour before we break into teams to recreate what he's made. We usually make three to five recipes a night and all of them have to be presented for chef's approval. Dishes always need more seasoning. The night I make something without flaws will be a true miracle.

After class we have to clean the entire kitchen. I'm usually walking to the locker room between 10:45 and 11, and out the door by 11:15. I then make my evening walk to the subway, where I impatiently wait for 15 minutes with other late night students and workers, all of us surrounded by a couple crowds of party-goers, loud and socially lubricated for the evening. I begin to examine my hands, decorated with small cuts and the occasional blister. I feel dirty.

I arrive back to my apartment around midnight, where I'm faced with the decision of going out with my roommate, writing, or going to bed. Each decision will influence the inescapable truth of having to wake up the next morning and repeat the day once more.

Another day of the path I've chosen, but frankly, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Hard Knocks

I'm sitting at a Starbucks watching corporate America break for espressos and scones. Cigarette smoke and the aroma of ground coffee drifts through the air and light trickle of a fountain fights to make sound against the harsh noise of helicopters and sirens. The record hot summer is cooling into autumn and I'm comfortable wearing a sweater in the morning.

I've been in the city for more than a month now and I've barely experienced life outside of my work place. The city has robbed me of sleep, stressed me out with canker sores, and dished me a liberal serving of the hard knocks. Though I think I've handled myself well, it's been bumpy transition.

I mentioned last week that I was the victim of theft. Friends have jokingly asked in the recent past if I've received my first New York mugging, and while I haven't been held at gunpoint, I have been robbed by an acquaintance, which is almost worse. Somewhere in my group of coworkers is a thief, a thief that is $400 dollars richer with a two forms of my identity and a bus pass that will expire in October. After my new iPod was stolen out of the bottom of my large bag in the employee locker room in the beginning of August (it was wrapped in a T-shirt) I started carrying everything of importance in my apron, but this measure wasn't even precautions enough. I was trying to open the restaurant and I removed my apron when I was doing some cleaning. I placed it on a booth seat where I could see it and went about my opening duties. Ten minutes later, after I finished my tasks and made a coffee, my apron had been emptied of my clasp wallet. Even after management scoured the restaurant and checked every employees' locker and pockets, my wallet wasn't found.

I could have quit. I wanted to quit. I even threatened that I was going to quit, but the little voice of reason told me that wasn't a good idea. After the incident happened I left for the day, cried a little bit, and gave myself a pep talk while everyone else in my phonebook was at work. New York City is not to be trusted, but that doesn't mean I have to let it ruin my time here. It's making me a more aware, tough person, and that's what I need, especially in the restaurant industry. New York City isn't going to own me. This is my year to learn all that I seek and I know I must accept that each day will inevitably present a new challenge. Bring it.

Vegetables, je'taime

I have a new love and it's unlike a love I've had before. I can't wipe the smile off my face. For the last hour, nothing else was on my mind and no one could have distracted me because I was in complete awe. The Union Square Greenmarket has swept me off my feet.

It's kind of absurd how much I love markets. I feel intoxicated by the variety of fresh, colorful, and crisp produce. I've been going to a farmers market since my high school days in Salina and more recently in Lawrence where I went to college. The Union Square Greenmarket is a farmers market cornucopia. Asian pears, fresh lima beans, local ricotta cheese, rabbit meat, ostrich eggs, and various shades of habanero peppers were just a few items beneath the shaded tents. Never in my life have I had so many fresh items readily available to take home.

My homework currently consists of knife work. The first few weeks of school have been spent hunched over my cutting board with my tongue pressed between my teeth in concentration. Two classes ago I spent two hours craving potatoes, carrots, and turnips into 5 centimeter football shapes called cocottes. Cooks with practice and precision are able to give these shapes seven symmetrical sides. It may sound easy, but let me tell ya, it sure isn't! I have small scrapes across my thumbs to prove it and a handsome blister on my index finger that will eventually form into a callus. I'm probably developing premature arthritis as I write this sentence. Craving root vegetables hours on end reminds me of quizzing myself on multiplication tables when I was in grade school. It's a necessary evil.

When I was at the market I found the largest carrots available, still dusted with soil. The carrots will be my homework, along with a few potatoes, and a few turnips. I also bought some wax peppers to use in some salsa, tomatoes, tomatillos, bell peppers, a bundle of cilantro with roots in tact, and some pipicha, which is a herb that is sometimes used in Mexican cooking. One of the bus boys from work, who is fresh from the border, suggested I use pipicha in place of cilantro for pico de gallo. I'm planning on making some chipotle chicken tacos with cilantro lime slaw, fresh guacamole and salsa, and some margaritas for friends tomorrow night.

After the week I've had, a margarita is definitely in order. Salud!

My first culinary classroom creation

At the end of a bad day, cooking will always leave me with a sense of contentment, even if I did have $400, my ID, my debit card, and my bus pass stolen.

Roasted beet salad with goat cheese and a herb apple vinaigrette

Yakitori Taisho

I finally made it to Yakitori Taisho on St. Marks Place, which is short walk from where I live. It's a tiny Japanese grill reminiscent of Tokyo, or atleast that's what I had read before I moved to New York City. A bartender in Lawrence told me Yakitori Taisho was one of the places I had to visit, so it was definitely on my list.

I've never been to Tokyo, but I'm definitely curious after this meal, which was probably the closet authentic Japanese kabob joint experience I've had. Mae and I waited a good twenty minutes on a Sunday night before we were sat at a packed bar in front of the grill station, which is a four by four cubical space with three sweaty Japanese skater boy cooks. They wrap towels on their heads and sport California skate and surf shop T-shirts. There is absolutely no interaction between these men, only occasional eye connect to ensure no one is about to bump into eachother as they toss ramen noodles and flip skewers of chicken meatballs, asparagus, and quail eggs, which are just a few grill offerings.

As I took a look around the restaurant I realized I was the only Caucasian in sight. Everyone was Asain, and everyone seemed to be ordering similar dishes, but I couldn't figure out what it was they were ordering. Luckily the menu has English explanations in small print, so I did my best when selecting my meal. When the waitress arrived to take our order, we were both stumbling a little bit, realizing that even though we weren't ready, we needed to put an order in if we were going to be served. I quickly ordered the special, which was pictured with a tasting of meat skewers, rice, and a twist on kmichi. Mae ordered a few skewers and called it good. I also ordered some Japanese fries with aioli on impulse. After expressing some frustration about mayonnaise on sushi the other day in a Facebook status, several friends informed me that Japanese cuisine welcomes the mayo - on everything. Rather than throw a fit about mayo again, I decided to do a little embracing of the oddity.

We watched the cooks prepare several dishes we wish we had ordered. "What's that?" Mae would shout across the bar, trying to grab a cook's attention. These guys didn't have time to give us descriptions, but one of the cooks took interest in my pretty Chinese roommate and did his best. When our food arrived we both agreed we probably could have been a little more adventurous, but I guess there's always next time.

Bottom line: The food is cheap, the beer is cold, and the wait can be long, but the food is damn tasty, and I'm willing to wait in line again.

MISE EN PLACE: It means the world.

Mise en place is a state of mind, or atleast that's how Chef Nic describes it. Mise en place is everything. Sure, the literal translation from French to English is "put in place," but mise en place is much more. It's everything from the way cooks organize their cooking stations, to the way they fasten their apron into place. Mise en place is the zen of cooking. When a cook thinks and acts with precision, they have a "mise en place state of mind." It ensures optimal and successful planning, preparation, and execution of food.

Tonight I completed my first lesson in the first level of my training. As I expected, it was syllabus day. For the first two hours we discussed safety and hygiene. We stood around the chef's station, all of us in full uniform for the first time. Even though there wasn't a lit range in the entire kitchen, perspiration gathered on the foreheads around me. It's hot in all those clothes! You're covered from head to toe in thick, starched cotton. When we actually do start cooking, it's probably going to get a little musty in the kitchen.

Half way through the class we broke for family meal, which was a meal prepared and delivered by students in level five. They made us roasted chicken, corn, couscous, and salad. It was simple and very appreciated. We had thirty minutes to eat and hydrate. I made sure to throw back a cup of strong, black coffee. After our break, I was feeling ready for action.

We were all instructed to peel and chop two large onions, two carrots, two turnips, and a leek. Chef Nic demonstrated and we were to duplicate seven different forms of taillage, which is the action of chopping in a uniform fashion. Chef Nic took seven earthy root vegetables and transformed them into a variety of small, symmetrical, and uniform pieces of perfection. The dirty and purple turnip was turned into fine, very delicate, pieces of confetti.

When it was time to test our knife skills I was feeling pretty confident. Chopping onions isn't difficult work, but it was nice to be the first student to show chef my work. "Very nice," he said, giving me the OK to move on. When I looked back at my classmates I realized some of them probably hadn't cut an onion before. I don't want to look at class with a competitive mindset, but it's reassuring to know that I'm not the least experienced person in the kitchen. We're all just learning. Carrots, turnips, and leeks didn't give me any problems either. I was again the first student to finish.

"Almost as good as mine," the chef said. I was relieved.

At the end of class we were all given two carrots to take home and practice. I'll need to bring evidence of my practice to class on Saturday for chef's approval. I have a feeling level one is going to be a lot of chopping. Here's hoping it doesn't leave me feeling chopped.