American Flags and New York City Kitchens

There should be more holidays like Memorial Day.  Barbecuing with the family with the faint sound of marching bands in the background and Nico running around the yard trying to catch squirrels.  In my small town they have a Memorial Day parade with small floats and all day long families walk through town with their kids holding American flags and war veterans drive around in classic American cars like a scene out of American Graffiti.  I really needed this day off and if I could stress that point any more than with italicization and bold faced font I would.  I woke up late, drank my coffee in the patio under the grapevines, nursed my wounds, and later watched inordinate amounts of syndicated television with my dog on the couch.  He was trying to stay cool and in the shade all day which is hard to do when you are wearing a permanent black coat and it’s 90 degrees and humid outside.

This past month I’ve been very absent from my blog and very present in a very fancy kitchen in a New York City restaurant.  I graduated from French Culinary Institute and quit my daytime job as a research analyst.  Things were changing fast and life was getting scary.  Look at me during graduation, so blissfully unaware of what was to come.

So I’ve gotten a taste of what it’s like to be a real cook (and yes I realize the food pun in this sentence but give me a break I’m tired and getting ready for a pm shift).  Since I work in a Michelin star rated establishment everything has to be perfect.  Service and even prep can be high stress and you are expected to keep moving, and always be peeling something, blanching something, slicing something, or cleaning something.  This isn’t always easy to do especially after a particularly nasty oil burn where you can now see the inside of your index finger.

While I am thankful for my job and to the chef who gave me the opportunity to work there I won’t lie and say the work is easy.  I’m not completely embarrassed to say that it has been tough and that after my first week of work I cried like a little girl all the way to my car.  It is draining.  You don’t get to see your family and friends because you enter work when everyone you know has been in the office for 5 hours already and you leave when they are all in bed.  On your limited days off you are tired.  Quite frankly the TV and my dog seem so much more appealing than any bar.  Yes I’ve been choosing the company of a canine over human contact in New York City.

The most difficult part of all is not the fast paced kitchen, it isn’t even all of the minor details you have to remember each and every day such as always keeping your proteins on ice, changing out all of your pans, finishing every bulleted item on your task lists.  It isn’t even all the cleaning.  When you work in a kitchen you have to clean a lot.  I have gotten used to that broom and mop and getting down on my hands and knees to scrub down everything I work on.  I spend most of the day running up and down the stairs and finding interesting ways to grab items from hard to reach places.  I’ve had to carry 25 pound bags of flour and oil. It’s not easy for the 6 foot cooks it sure as hell is not easy for me.  Despite all of that the hardest part of all is dealing with the people.

On my second day at the restaurant I had one of the line cooks yell behind me to “walk faster.” Even after helping the guys with their prep you still get some jerk who gives you attitude.  “Can you get me that lid.  No not that one!  That one!  I could have gotten it quicker myself.” (Here’s a thought buddy… get it yourself next time!!!).  Every single person in there, whether qualified or not, wants to give you a piece of their mind about the way things should be done.  At first the advice is helpful but when it comes in a package of malice and sarcasm it makes you want to throw it back in their face along with a cup of hot oil or some other pain inducing substance.  You have to stand there and swallow when some line cook tells you to reduce a liquid down to au sec (which means almost dry) when what he really means is to reduce down to a jus.  In a place like this you will get pushed and pulled in so many different directions you will begin to doubt yourself.  “Elena make the foccacia dough and mix with the old one.” Couple of hours later…. “That is a lot of dough, why did you make it?” This is the point where I graciously excuse myself and jump into the sink full of soup in the dish pit.

I do realize that I’ve been focusing on the negative and one day when I’m feeling a bit more chipper or perhaps when I finally get up on the right side of the bed, I will write all about what I’ve been learning.  I am fully aware of how melodramatic I am being, however I’m not going to lie and tell everyone how great it is and how easy of a transition it has been because it’s just not true.  I know I’ve gone a little crazy after a couple weeks of sometimes working over 60 hours, which I’m sure is some sort of breaking point as a newbie.

For my own sanity I have promised myself that despite my busy schedule I will make time for the things I enjoy, in particular writing and cooking at home for the people I love.  Even now, before I head to work for another day indoors until midnight, I may go outside to enjoy another big glass of coffee outside under the grapevine.

Tagged as: kitchen life, restaurants, work