The search for the right kitchen

I expected that my first stage might not pan out. I arranged several stages in the course of a week so I would have the opportunity to compare them and figure out exactly what I was looking for in a work environment and from a chef.

My next stage was at The Breslin. Located in Midtown at The Ace Hotel, the Breslin is a British love child between Michelin star Chef April Bloomfield and Ken Friedman. The Breslin specializes in large format meals featuring roasted suckling pigs and whole lambs. I was prepared to walk into the kitchen, take orders, put my head down and work. I arrived early in the morning where I reported to the chef de cuisine, slipped into my whites and got to work on the morning prep list. Across from me, a butcher prepared a whole hog for the afternoon's suckling pig reservation and next to me, another cook made breakfast. 

The kitchen was huge. I worked in the prep kitchen, below the open kitchen upstairs in the dining room. About six people were assigned to prepping vegetables and as cooks arrived throughout the morning, some of them butchering and others working on other projects. I was asked to cut large quantities of vegetables and make the cumin aioli that is served with The Breslin's lamb burger, which is credited as on the city's best. The kitchen and crew were very focused and professional. Everyone tested their blades before getting to work, sharpening and honing their steel for desired sharpness. 


As I looked around the large prep table where 10-15 cooks organized their stations, I noticed that there was also an even ratio of males to females. I had wondered if a kitchen lead by a female chef would employ more females than the average male-dominated kitchen, and it appeared that in the case of The Breslin, that was true. The female cooks were strong. They were sassy. Even in their whites, they were hip, and all of them had tattoos and forearm scars. These chicks were badass. 


When I left my second stage, I was definitely interested. I had received great instructions and the kitchen was organized and professional. I admired how fresh each piece of produce was, and I was in awe of the large walk-in dedicated to whole hogs, large slabs of beef and lamb and a variety of offal. Sweetbreads, trotters, tongues, livers, hearts —They were all there, and it seemed like each part of the animal was being used at The Breslin. Unfortunately, I didn't have full-time availability with school and I got the impression that I needed more experience to work in a Michelin star restaurant.

Next stage: Resto, a German gastropub, headed by Chef Bobby Hellen. I staged there twice after I was contacted by Chef Hellen. I met him at the school's career fair, and he seemed interested in working with my school schedule.  What I liked most about staging at Resto was that Chef Bobby was present in his kitchen. He touched every plate before it left the small kitchen, ensuring each dish looked the way he wanted. With a small expo line and a couple ranges, Chef Hellen and two cooks turned out food while other cooks prepped downstairs. Chef Hellen was young, calm, collected, focused and mentoring. While I didn't learn anything particularly new at Resto, I did realize that it was important to me that the chef, where I worked, be present and invested and that the kitchen be on the smaller side. 


Which is what I found on my third stage at Paulino's under the instruction of Tony Liu. Paulino's, located several blocks away from FCI, was looking for a part-time cook for some days and evenings. I hadn't eaten there, but I walked past the place every night after school on the trek back to the East Village. When I met with Chef Liu, I was a little nervous. Here was a chef that had worked with Gray Kunz of the former Lespinasse, Daniel Boulud of Daniel, Floyd Cardoz of now shuttered Tabla, Mario Batali of Babbo and done extensive networking and traveling in Europe. Surely he was intense having worked his way through such kitchens, but to my surprise, he was not. He friendly was personable. I mean, the man asked me some serious food questions, but he was cool. 


What Chef Lui was doing as the executive chef at a casual Italian eatery and pizziera, I didn't know, but it became more apparent as I spent the afternoon throwing pizza dough. I took warm rounds of dough that had been left to rise and shaped them into pizzas, tossing them with my knuckles to ensure the dough did not break. The knuckles are the secret. Finger tips can puncture the soft dough, so it's important to be gentle and move your hands precisely. After a few fails, I had the pizza thing down. I was tossing, topping with the necessary ingredients and sliding the pies into the wood-fire oven. The cheese bubbled as the flames licked the crust from afar, creating charred pockets of air. After rotating the toasted pies, I'd then maneuver the pizzas out of the oven, run a slicer through each on and send them to the expo line. Everyone working at this restaurant had great energy, including Chef Lui, who I later learned was also the executive of Morandi, another Keith McNally restaurant. McNally also owns New York City favorites Balthazar and Pastis.  


I didn't end up working at any of these restaurants. Why would I spend my time working for free in all of these places to not end up taking a job at any of them? Surely, I must be crazy right? A lot of my classmates thought so. The Breslin and Resto needed someone available for full-time employment, which I didn't really have with school. I was offered a job at Paulino's where I could have worked the early bird shift through lunch, but decided against it because I craved more than pizzas and roasted chickens. As much as I enjoyed my time there, I was being directed elsewhere when I reflected. I wanted to see a kitchen with some real "wow" factor. 


Each stage revealed something very important to me. My first nightmare stage showed me that I didn't want to be working and learning from people who weren't dedicated to their craft. At The Breslin, I observed cooks working very sustainability with whole animals and extremely fresh products. They were all professionals too. Each cook at The Breslin had worked hard for their position. At Resto, I saw how dedicated and involved Chef Hellen was with his staff. He was essentially functioning as his own roundsman.  I also liked that Resto was on the smaller side. 


I wanted to find a combination of all these kitchens: Professional, focused, sustainable, chef-driven and all on the smaller side. Of course, this had to come at a price. If I wanted to be in a Michelin kitchen on a part-time basis, I needed to extern. My next step was finding a Michelin kitchen that would take me on, understanding of my hectic schedule. 


Did I find? You bet I did. I found it at Dovetail, and I'll tell you all about it in my next post. 

My first kitchen nightmare:

"For me, the cooking life has always been a long love affair, with moments both sublime and ridiculous."  
 — Anthony Bourdain

I hadn't expected my first kitchen stage to end with a failed drug deal, but I knew I had to leave with the sous chef pulled a large cloth sack from the front of his pants, revealing a large stash of hash, narcotics and hallucinogens.


"I'll sell all of this by the end of the day," he said, looking up at me with inviting, very dilated eyes. "You want anything?"


I continued to peel the pathetic "local" carrots the restaurant was using for the pantry station, showing no interest in his unprofessional offer. I had known he was high from the moment he arrived to the kitchen, nearly an hour and a half late. His long, seemingly unkempt hair was still vertical and his clothes were wrinkled and disheveled. He staggered a bit when he walked and appeared disoriented in his own kitchen. The executive chef, an alum from my program, arrived minutes behind him, only slightly more in tune.


"I'm good," I said, glancing away from his goodie bag.


"What kind of drugs do you do?" he asked, baffled by my disinterest.


"Nothing, really," I said, peeling my final carrot.


"Nothing? Wow. That's odd in this business." He stuffed his bag back into his pants and retrieved his phone from his pocket. He began pulling up his pictures, scrolling through images of naked women and paraphernalia. "I have all of this at my house," he said, trying to capture my attention.


"Look, is chef around? I think I'm done for the day." I had been in the kitchen an hour before his arrival, and before that I had waited at the bar for 40 minutes, where a handsome bartender attempted to reassure me that a chef would be arriving shortly to greet me. Instead a dishwasher showed me a changing room and gave me instructions for prep.


"Oh yea? Ok, well... I'll find him. I'll tell him that I think you'd be a good fit here. We're a pretty busy kitchen, you think you could handle it?"


I smiled, humored that this man had barely touched food since he had arrived, let alone observed my skills. I had prepped his entire station before he even arrived and made his scallop ceviche as he texted and threw pans in the dish pit with an unnecessary intensity.


"I'm actually not interested in working here," I said, removing the gloves I had insisted on wearing after I observed the sous touching produce with unwashed hands; Hands that had been in and out of his pants, each unclipped nail with dirt and resin beneath it. "I'd just like to say goodbye."


The sous began looking for the chef, eventually arriving back to tell me that he was sleeping upstairs in the dining room. Not totally surprised, I changed and grabbed my knives. I went upstairs and met the chef at the staircase, who was in a sleepy daze.


"Chef, thank you for the invitation to come in and stage. I'm headed out."


"Yea, what did you think?"


"Well, I think you're kitchen is a mess and your sous chef is highly unprofessional. He's clearly high and he tried to sell to me. I'm not interested."


He looked stunned as he searched for words. "Wow, well, I'll be talking to him," he said, in an unconvincing, apologetic tone. Afterall, he was probably just as high as his buddy.


"Have a good service," I said as I headed for the door. I walked out, put my sunglasses on, and continued down the street, back to the East Village. I'm not naive to the fact that kitchens are often occupied by criminals and drug users. I've met plenty of cooks with a past and various addictions, but I don't want to be in a kitchen where my supervisors are unprofessional. Point blank. The stage was a nightmare, but it showed me the kind of kitchen I didn't want to be a part of, on any level.


My search for the right fit continued. I don't care if I work with ex-jailbirds, junkies or drug dealers — I mean hell, I probably work with some right now. While I was staging in New York City, I just wasn't looking to work somewhere where personal problems and issues tampered with my goals: to deliver great food, to learn and to constantly seek improvement.


My next stage... coming soon!

Living On The 6

"Life isn't about finding yourself, it's about creating yourself."

-unknown

My life consists of four subway stops, luckily all on the same line. Now that I've started my internship at Food Arts Magazine, my schedule is a bit chaotic. Monday through Friday I arrive to my internship at M. Shanken, also home to Cigar Aficionado, Wine Spectator, Impact, and Market Watch. I spend around six hours acting as a editorial assistant. So far the job consists of fact checking stories, some copy editing, and running errands around the building. After interning, I either go straight to school in SoHo or directly to work in Midtown East. My day starts at 8 a.m. and usually ends around midnight. I'm exhausted by the end of the day, but I'm enjoying the productivity. This is exactly the kind of schedule I envisioned. 

                  View Lauren's life in a map in a larger map

One of the main reasons I came to New York City was for the editorial opportunities. Many of the country's publishing company headquarters are in Manhattan. I knew culinary school would familiarize me with the industry and increase my overall knowledge of the culinary arts. As a new intern, I'm realizing my thinking was absolutely correct. In order to fact check stories and recipes, you have to be able to step inside the writer's head. You have to double check everything and you have to consider each word and its use. The copy editor for Food Arts, as well as several other staff members, are FCI graduates, and their desks are piled high with cookbooks and reference materials. I can tell they're always increasing their culinary knowledge and learning everyday, which totally excites me. 

There's a certain comfort I get when surrounded by cookbooks. I really love them. I wish I could spend hours at the FCI library, and luckily the cookbook library at Food Arts is pretty impressive too. I spent one of my breaks last week researching Polynesian food for my next level at school. In level 4 part of the curriculum is organizing buffets with themes. Ever since my first trip to Maui I've been very interested in island cuisine, so I submitted several recipes to Chef last week that reflect Polynesian concepts. I love that I can pick a dish or culture, and within minutes I can find several researched books with information. It's so awesome. One day I hope to house an impressive library.

A Night at Del Posto

After I read Sam Sifton's September 4-Star review of Del Posto in The New York Times, I knew this was a place I was only going to hear more about, and definitely a place I couldn't afford.

But when you really want something, you naturally find a way to justify it. Two weeks ago I was tossing ideas around for places to take my mother for her birthday during her visit to the city, so I asked my managers at work for suggestions. They had been eating out a lot, so I knew they'd steer me well. "Del Posto! Hands down!" One of them said, raving about how attentive the captain had been during the service and how perfect the bottle of Barolo paired with his meal. He could have talked about the bottle of Barolo for hours had I not needed to return to my tables. "I'll make you a reservation, they'll remember me," he said, urging me to commit to the five course meal.

I waffled. Would it be worth the $95 prix fixe price? Would I even be able to get a reservation? My manager's voice spoke to me from the same shoulder as my indulgent conscious. Make the reservation... You'll regret it if you don't... The voice haunted me. I shook the voice and weighed my decision. For one, it would be in celebration of my mother's birthday. I could take her elsewhere, but for all I knew I'll be lucky enough to spend a year in the city and then I might end up somewhere else, so why not treat her to the best? After all, the woman did sacrifice her body for me and she's spent the last 23 years putting me before herself, so she deserves the best. It would also be an educational experience for me. To know great food, you have to eat great food, right? I could eat cereal for a few weeks, and besides, I rarely have to buy food between work and school. Furthermore, it was highly recommended by two of managers and both of them have a good deal of dining experience. When someone who works in restaurant management says it's the best service they've ever had after working in both Los Angeles and New York City, I'm prepared to trust their judgment. I had decided — I was making reservations.

My manager was more excited than I was when I told him I had decided on Del Posto. "Really?! Oh my gosh, you're going to have the time of your life! Let me call and make the reservation! I'll get you with Augustine! He's the best! I wouldn't be surprised if they bring you something special! You must get the Barolo! It's such a steal!!! When do you want to go?" He paused to take a breath and picked up the phone. I told him a Sunday would work well with the schedule. He caught his breath and waited for the host to answer. When a host answered, his voice lowered several octaves to sound more official. "Yes, this is ----, I dined at Del Posto two weeks ago and I'd like to send another guest your way on Sunday, November 14." He waited while the host checked the books, covering the phone to whisper, "I think I got you in, you SO owe me!!!" He then returned to his official business-like voice, "Ok, thank you very much." Click. "I got you in!!!"

I was now committed and I decided I would keep the dinner date a secret. I told my mother to pack a nice outfit for a fine meal and left it at that. In the weeks leading up to the meal I occasionally visited the Del Posto site, looked at the menu, and scoured the chef biographies. Del Posto, which is the first Italian restaurant to earn a 4-Star review from The New York Times since 1974, is a joint effort between New York restaurateurs Mario Batali, Lidia Matticchio Bastianich, and Lidia's son Joseph Bastianich. Del Posto is their Italian love child, swaddled in Italian luxury. The restaurant serves lunch and dinner, offering two prix fixe options for those visiting for dinner. The Del Posto team has worked together to create a number of video demonstrations for both swooning and educational purposes, all of them available on the restaurant's YouTube page.

When I told my mother on Sunday night where we were going, I'm not sure she knew what to expect. I told her it was a Michelin Guide rated restaurant and that I was lucky to get reservations on such short notice. We wore our Sunday best and made our way to the Meatpacking District.

We checked in with the host and made our way to the bar where we sat on kush leather bar stools. Tea lights flickered everywhere from each stair of the staircase to the individual table tops on both floors of the restaurant. I studied the extensive bar, glancing down at the menu of classic cocktails. The European bartender approached us dressed in a charming suit, ready to make us a concoction that would transport us into everything that is Del Posto. I ordered my mother a Manhattan made with Maker's Mark and a Hemingway Daiquiri for myself. The Manhattan was in perfect balance, accented by a bitter cherry. My cocktail was the last tart tinge my tongue would taste for the next three hours. We were about to be walked to a table where umami—a Japanese word for the fifth "savory" sense—would be redefined. As we inhaled the soft ambiance of the dining room and listened to the pianist play Cole Porter, another suited man greeted us. "Buona sera," he said, bowing his head slightly. "Whose birthday are we celebrating tonight?" I gestured to my mom, who at this point was glowing from the combination of happiness and bourbon. "Happy birthday," he said with a stiff yet welcoming smile. He then bid us farewell. "Enjoy, ladies. Buona sera."

We sat at a neatly clothed table where we were each gently pushed into our table at the same time. It was this moment where the show really began. Each member of the polished service team approached the table with a different offering. We were first greeted with water, and again with a tasting from the chef, and then by the captain, who stood with one of the most inviting smiles I've seen flash in a restaurant. "Would you like to see a wine list or your menu first?" He asked. When we requested the wine list he then offered the service of a sommelier, in the most non-assuming way possible. This man was everything you could possibly want in a server — kind, inviting, knowledgeable, patient— everything. He suggested a glass of Rosso del Soprano from Sicily for my mom and I selected a glass of crisp Vermentino from Toscana.

We were then handed the bound menu, where we were instructed to select a antipasti, two handmade pasta tastings, and a secondi course. My mother gave me her trust and told me to order our food. With her approval, I selected both the lobster salad with broccoli rabe and the carne cruda, which is basically an Italian steak tartar. For our pasta courses we selected the caramelle di Gorgonzola Dolce pasta with truffle butter and orecchietta stuffed with lamb neck ragu. For the secondi course my mom wanted the wood grilled lobster with artichokes and I decided on the seared duck breast.

A bread basket arrived with an assortment of fresh miniature loaves. Each piece of bread was warm to the touch and steam escaped when the crust was broken and pulled apart. By this time we had been graced with the presence of six different faces, all of them pleasant and extremely poised in their delivery. Then the first course arrived. Though beautiful, we agreed that this course was not memorable. The lobster was served in a cold and spicy diavola sauce and the cruda was your typical delicate tartar decorated with delicate greens. What I did appreciate about the cruda was that the mushrooms were cut to mimic the appearance of shaved Parmesan, which was a nice artisanal touch.

We then moved into our pasta courses. The caramelle arrived, each piece of pasta glistening like a freshly wrapped candy in a wrapper of silky truffle butter. They melted in my mouth. Soft Gorgonzola Dolce was within each little treasure, perfect in warmth and texture. We were then greeted with our second paste tasting, which was equally good. The pasta was a deep purple, almost to the depth of my mother's glass of red wine. Delicate, yet strong in flavor. The pasta tastings teased us both, making us wish there had been more on the plate.

When the pasta dishes left the table, the table was bare for a few minutes and each of us were already full. Before we could welcome the arrival of our secondi course we looked up to another new face. He pushed a royal chart towards our table with a polished and covered serving platter. Our captain then met him to reveal what was beneath the large serving lid. "This is a gift from the chef. Wild striped bass. We do hope you enjoy," our captain said with his famous smile. I watched as the flesh of the fish was gently pulled from the bones and plated. The man then put a glove on his hand to hold a fragrant black truffle, generously shaving it over each plate. Each truffle shaving fell like a feather making it's way to the ground. I was awe struck. What had we done to deserve this? When both men left there was silence at the table. I bowed my head to smell the essence of truffle and then took a bite of what was perhaps the most luxurious fish I've ever tasted.

"Lauren, do you think he did this because it's my birthday?" my mother asked.

Birthdays are special, but no chef sends birthday wishes in the form of fresh fish and shaved truffle to the table. This kind gesture was odd, but I wasn't about to ask questions. Maybe my manager had really made an impression when he called to make the reservation. I didn't know. Sometimes you just have to say thank you when something amazing happens for no apparent reason. The man who served the fish returned to the table, pulling his card from his jacket.

"Do let me know if you have any concerns about this evening," he said, placing the card next to me.

I definitely did not have concerns, only compliments, but at this moment I was in a truffle coma. As I sat, intoxicated with pleasure, the secondi course eventually made it's way to the table. A split lobster body sat before my mother and a crispy duck breast sat before me. The lobster was slightly overcooked, but the duck... the duck was another level. This duck was perfection on a plate. The skin was perfect. the temperature was perfect. The seasoning was perfect. Even the celery puree was perfect. If I could duplicate this duck breast in school, Chef would surely hand me my graduation certificate then and there. This duck was of true caliber. I'll probably dream about that duck breast for years to come.

Though the secondi course was fantastic, neither of could finish. Had we been wearing belts, they would have needed readjusting, and just when we thought it was over, we were handed dessert menus. As much as I wanted to order cheese for dessert, it just wasn't happening. Wanting to take advantage of all the courses, we made ourselves order the dessert. My mom selected the gelati tasting and I picked the polenta-squash cake with sage gelato. The gelati tasting arrived in a large bowl with a birthday candle, each scoop on top of the other, and the polenta-squash cake was a dainty portion as I had hoped, but just when we thought we could handle what was before us, they brought more! Our captain delivered a small wooden chest, each drawer sliding out to reveal an assortment of Italian sweets. There were galato bon-bons, candies, preserved fruits, fresh cocoa nuggets, and cookies. We were not prepared to turn this offering away, even though we should have, for the sake of our stomachs.

We left mesmerized by the degree of fine service and with memories of pure Italian extravenge.

So what it worth it? Absolutely.

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.

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.

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.