Coming to a truce with my calling

 Graduation day with Chef Alain Sailhac

To cut to the chase, finding my career path has been challenging for me. I'm intrigued by a variety of areas within the restaurant industry and I can imagine myself succeeding in most of them. Deciding which one will ultimately make me the happiest is another matter — A matter that has introduced me to insomnia.

I haven't written about this due to a combination of factors; The biggest being that I simply wasn't ready to share my feelings and observations during my last three months in the concrete jungle. It wasn't easy accepting that something I planned didn't come to surface, and even harder to acknowledge what was really in my heart. Everyone at home knew I was going to culinary school and thought I was on the verge of landing my dream job at a culinary publication.

I moved to New York City just over a year ago. It was August 9, 2010. I packed my belongings into five boxes, ditched my other things in a storage, and left Kansas. I cried when I said goodbye, took a nap on the plane and woke up to look out the window before landing. There, the towering buildings penetrating the sky; Me, the girl from the Midwest, looking down to the cracks between buildings, aware I might be swallowed alive.

Last time I wrote, I was in the middle of level 5 at The French Culinary Institute. I had just completed my menu project (which I received "Best Menu Project" for during graduation) and I was beginning to see the light at the end of my EXTREMELY expensive culinary tunnel.  I was essentially working two jobs, going to school and externing on weekends. I had absolutely no time to spend on my blog, let alone sleep for that matter. I was determined to inhale all that New York City had to offer, especially since I knew in my heart that I might not be staying.

With that said, I should probably rewind some more. I moved to New York City, specifically, to break into culinary media. I knew it was going to be hard work and I was ready to show my motivation. As long as food was the subject, I was ready to alphabetize manilla envelopes and organize office supplies to get into the biz. After I adjusted to my school schedule I applied for several editorial internships and accepted a full-time editorial intern position with Food Arts magazine. I checked content for accuracy, made phone calls, assisted with advertising, organized archives and ate at way too many Midtown delis. After working seven hours everyday, I left with my change of clothes and either went up or down the 6 line, depending on if it was a school night or another evening of work. I worked all day on Saturdays and on Sundays I occasionally had a personal day where I slept, cooked and drank too many glasses of wine. 

The internship was a pivotal experience for me. It was after two months at Food Arts that I came to the great realization that I wanted to be in a kitchen, atleast for a little while. I applied for a test kitchen internship at Saveur magazine and was invited to come in and cook for an afternoon with their staff, and after that experience I was completely jazzed. The kitchen manager invited me to be a summer intern at the magazine, but it was full-time and unpaid. The real kicker was that I couldn't have a part-time job because it isn't unusual for the test kitchen staff to stay late. You can't have other commitments. The reality of this killed me. I just couldn't do it unless I lived in a cardboard box in Union Square.

I went back to the drawing board. As much as I was learning at Food Arts, I was feeling a little restless. I also knew from the beginning that this internship wasn't leading to a job because there wasn't room on their staff. I was also completely broke. Sure, this isn't unusual for an intern. All interns grow restless and survive on cheap noodles and pizza. The thing is, all I could think about was cooking in a commercial kitchen. After researching restaurants for the magazine, each of them inspiring me with their photos and menus, I thought to myself, "Could I be a part of something like this?" This question lead me to my career advisor's office, where I made the decision to apply for kitchen jobs.

For me, my heart and focus have always been dedicated to the creation of plates. Whether it was the ex-murderer Crip flinging a cheap ribeye into the window at Martini's Steak & Chop House when I was a 16-year-old server in Salina, Kansas, or as culinary student searing and plating a crispy duck breast in the L'Ecole kitchen, my attention has always been on the food and the hands preparing it. I want to tell stories of people creating great food and share recipes from the culinary brilliance of others. This is still at the core of the inquirer that I am. Part of me wondered, though, did I have a story I wanted to tell others with food on my own? Did I crave authentic cooking experiences? Should my editorial career be on hold?

I fed my curiosity and made some changes. I started staging around the city, trying to find the right fit. A culinary stage is when a cook works in a kitchen for a brief amount of time, usually for free, in an effort to network and learn new techniques. It's also custom to stage for jobs. It gives the cook and the chef a chance to see if there's good working chemistry. Staging in several places around the city was crucial. Not only did it prevent me from working in the most dysfunctional kitchen I've ever witnessed, but staging ultimately lead me to a kitchen where I really was able to observe and learn from true masters of their craft. I will save my stories about staging for another post, as several of them are rather involved.

After several stages for positions, I decided it was going to be more valuable for me to find a part-time extern position where I could still keep a front of the house job. This also meant I could spend time in a high-caliber kitchen, learning from chefs with a lot of experience. As much as I wanted extern full-time, it just wasn't financially possible. I learned that at the magazine. For those of you who don't know, an extern is a kitchen intern. Like other business models, kitchens cut labor costs by hosting externs. In exchange for training, the chef takes a student or recent graduate under their wing. In some cases the experience leads to a job. Well, I guess I shouldn't make it sound so mutually beneficial. I've heard of some kitchens abusing their externs and taking the help for granted. In my experience, however, the chefs I ended up working for were very much a mentoring group.

At Dovetail, John Fraser's Michelin-stared and New York Times 3-star restaurant, I found the right fit. Located on the Upper West Side on the corner of 77th and Columbus next to a Shake Shack, Dovetail was the definition of elegance without being stuffy and pretentious. Fine dining? Yes, but in a slightly more relaxed atmosphere. The service staff was polished and very knowledgeable, but the restaurant itself wasn't the white table cloth joint with a bunch of talking heads kind of place.

The kitchen at Dovetail is wonderful. It's the perfect size, although I know the cooks would argue that they definitely need more space to prep. In regard to other kitchens in the city, however, I have to argue that it's a nice size because if you stand in the middle of it, you can see everything that's going on in the other stations. And the food – The food at Dovetail is beautiful! Simply beautiful. Though the portions are small, every plate is executed with precision and grace. I'll touch on this more when I write more in-depth about specific restaurants I've experienced.

So I started externing at Dovetail on weekends and transferred to another Fig & Olive location where I functioned as a serving captain several nights a week and served during the Midtown lunch rush at Momofuku Má Pêche. I didn't sleep. I didn't have a life. I wasn't always pleasant. I didn't have a whole lot of money. But you know what, I value the last three months the most. I worked really, really hard.

Around the beginning of July I made the official decision to move back to Colorado. Though I had toyed with the idea for awhile, a big part of me contemplated trying to make a life in New York City. I had roommates, potential apartments lined up and a general direction in terms of where I would look for work. It was around this time that I also got word that my grandfather, a man who had been battling cancer for over a year, was dying. It was conveyed to me that I may not have the chance to see him again.

December 2010

People who know me well are aware how important my grandpa Hal was to me, and will always be for that matter. He was the man who was present when my single mother was struggling and my father was completing his training as a surgeon. My grandfather spent a great deal of time getting to know me as a young girl and influenced much of my development into a young woman. I was living in New York City for nearly the entire duration of his illness. Christmas 2010 would be the last time I would grip his hand and offer him hope of a future.

The combination of feeling extremely overworked, homesick and distant (from family and from myself, really) made me decide that I needed to move to Colorado, especially if I was going to pursue a cooking career, which is very demanding of time.  So I booked my ticket and began cutting ties. This proved to be more difficult than I imagined. Even as I reflect, here in this moment, I deeply miss people in New York City. I've written it before, but New York City is the place where I really got a true taste of the world, right here in the United States. I met people from all over the world, all of them pursuing a dream, even the most simple dream of freedom to work and provide.

Two days after my graduation from The French Culinary Institute I reunited with my family to spread my grandfather's ashes. We stood together, friends and family, looked out to the mountains on a clear Colorado afternoon, and released our feelings of grief with his ashes. It was the most peace I had felt in months. He is missed dearly, but I feel his presence everyday as I struggle to find out who I am and what I'm destined to do.

So what am I doing now? You'll have to wait for my next post. I have many kitchen stories I'm itching to tell though.

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.

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.