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.