Does This Ever Happen to You? No? Must Just Be Me.


I came to my senses in the grocery store in the Sweet Auburn Curb Market, balancing an empty styrofoam cooler on my hip, considering whether to spend the extra three dollars on the cooler with handles, and calculating whehter the weight of ice, eggs, asparagus, and country ham would be too much to lug around for the next few hours.



I emerged realizing that there was no asparagus at the Sweet Auburn Curb Market, that the cooler would likely crack and leak on MARTA, and that my dream of picking up ingredients for dinner on a break between classes, rather than stopping at the subpar Kroger between class and home was, well, a dream. Also, I needed to go to class.



The newly-warm weather does strange things to a brain. Interesting, even meaty content in a week or so.

This One Time, at Restaurant Camp...
Day Two
I got to PlaE at about 10 A.M. and found the note that you see above, on the prep table where I was to start my day. It reads: "Dear Culinary Student, Hope your shoes are good and your knives are sharp. Chop chop, cut 'em, cut 'em." Everyone in the kitchen had signed below, but my favorite was the printed note on the right: "Uncle Dicky loves you, and so does God. "

Richard put me to work immediately, juicing blood oranges, which promptly stained my nice white chef's jacket and made me worry about developing citrus-induced tendonitis.

Next was a case of leeks, to be cut two ways. I ended up going through a case and a half to fill my buckets, and about halfway through I began to get a little careless. When you cut anything in one pass, you're supposed to hold your guide hand like a loose fist, with your thumb tucked behind, pushing the food forward. If you let your thumb get anywhwere close to your knuckles, you're in trouble, and, like me, you'll almost slice through the tip. Fortunately, I've cut myself in a similar fashion many, many times before. After you cut yourself a few times, you know what you've done before you even start bleeding. I asked for the first aid kit, but I've apparently spent too much time in big cushy kitchens. The first aid kit here consisted of duct tape and gauze (I even managed to get a piece of leek in there, which I found that night when I rewrapped it), and Richard telling what one of his old chefs told him: "It's not embarassing when you cut yourself, it's embarrassing when you can't fix it." I wondered what this said about me, put on a glove, and went back to my leeks.

After the leeks, I was given a case of fennel to slice and grill. Damn, was that thing hot. I did about 3-5 full grill rotations, marking the fennel on either side, and finished with very red knuckles and a damp t-shirt.

My last task before lunch was probably the most fun; I got to make cheese bowls. Cynthia, the regular prep cook showed me how to heat the pans, spray them with pan coat, sprinkle cheese on them, and broil them in the salamander till they're brown. You then pull them out, lift off the sheets of cheese, and drape them over a cup. I had about 3-4 pans working at a time, and it was more fun than I can possibly describe.

When I came back that afternoon, things were remarkably louder, busier, and Richard was not in the comparatively jovial mood he'd been in that morning. I was told to start chopping vegetables for the ratatouille. Unfortunately, I started with the eggplant. This was a major mistake, as eggplant turns brown due to phenolic compounds like those found in apples, bananas, and avacados (Thanks, Harold McGee!). Chef told me to quit with the eggplant. I got to cut onions, zucchini, and eventually the eggplant, but I didn't get to do the tomatoes or bell peppers.

Then Kelly (one of the line cooks) showed me how to make a mousseline, which is essentially a hollondaise lightened with whipped cream. To avoid salmonella, we beat egg yolks with water over a burner. A double boiler could be used if you're worried about making scrambled eggs, but it takes longer, and I got the impresssion that a true sauce badass would do it the faster way, because you've got a lot of sauces that have to be made before service. I wasn't fast enough with the whisk, ending up with some scrambled eggs around the edges, but we just let those stick to the bowl and rushed the mixture over to the food processor, where I added cayenne, lemon juice, and eventually clarified butter. The mixture was much thicker than hollondaise, closer to a traditional mayonnaise. There were a couple of reasons for this: 1) when I beat the yolks, I beat them until the impression of the whisk held in the mixture. I was told that I should be able to write my initials and still see them when I took it away. 2) heating the egg yolks causes the proteins to unfold, which means that the yolks can hold a great deal of fat. The final step was to fold in the whipped cream, which I'd made earlier. It came out looking good, and dear god, was it delicious. Artery-clogging, but delicious.

After the mousseline, I was asked to cut wonton wrappers into strips for a garnish. This was the task that I did most poorly, but eventually it was done. And then, onto service.

Service for me was daunting: I have no saute experience, no grill experience, and no fryer experience. All that I know is brunch food; I certainly could not be trusted with a steak, and this was complex food, more than "saute this, reheat that, sauce, and plate."

I was supposed to follow Richard as he expedited, not get in the way, and learn what I could. I'm sure that there was some vague hope that I'd demonstrate a useful skill. I started off watching Richard garnish, and passing him out of reach items. Eventually, he stepped back and let me garnish some plates by myself. After about an hour or so, he let me sell full tickets.

And this is where my one useful skill came forward. I can expo. Usually, it's what I end up doing at the cafe, whether I'm supposed to be working it or not. The servers even liked me, because I'm used to working in a completely open kitchen, where you have to maintain a calm demeanor, and with volunteers, where you have to be nice unless you want to run your own food. The kitchen at PLaE is semi-open; it's separated by a wall of glass, and my back was to the dining room. So there was a little more room to yell, but it wasn't necessary most of the time.

Scotty came and got me toward closing, and we spent the rest of the night hanging out on the patio of his restaurant, drinking wine, and watching the cops pull people over.