Cowboy caramel, learning new methods and opening a restaurant

I've been at the new job for a couple of days now, and I'm getting used to working again, to riding 2 miles to and from work, new coworkers, a new kitchen, and a new chef.

We start dinner service in a few days, so I've mostly been working on prep for my station while the other cook and the sous chef run breakfast and lunch services. My station is huge: salads, starters, pizzas and desserts. I feel like I'm in the weeds already, even though the chef has instructed the other cook, an incredibly capable chick, that she'll be helping me. I'm trying to keep positive: work this incredibly busy station, and I will get faster, more organized, clearer. My systema will be strong. I'm a natural optimist, but it's a challenge.

The prep list is daunting, and I can't see how it'll all be done before we open. Opening a restaurant, I've decided, blows like a hurricane. It's hectic, the lists have to be completed, and we only got a copy of the menu yesterday. A cook no-called no-showed on my first day, and was standing outside smoking when I rode up the next day. As a cook, I hate having to talk to cooks who are deep in the shit, usually about to get fired. Inevitably, there are the explanations, the rationalizations, the guesses of the clueless, the desperate questing about for some reason to hope, to believe that they won't soon be finding out how exciting the prospects are on the current job market. When it's a good cook who just made some mistakes, I feel bad, and wish that I could realistically offer some help, but I don't make the decisions. When cooks screw over the team out of laziness though, I just want them to get out of my way and let me do my job. Cooks are funny that way; most are pretty forgiving if you aren't a total fuckup, but screw over the team or half-ass it, even once, and you're already operating in the past tense. You're not here anymore, you're just in the way.

But yesterday was fun. We were slow during lunch service, and chef had me clear away my prep during lunch. He doesn't want any prep done during service, and I've got to get ready to transition from prep to service. Then, of course, we had the slowest lunch service ever. So he showed us how he makes risotto, pasta carbonara, and caramel.

We made risotto at Woodfire, and after a year there, I knew how to do it the Woodfire way. Cooking requires discipline, and if you're learning well, there's only one way to do something: the right way. So I tend to approach different methods with lots of skepticism. But I'm here to learn, and even though his method was different, and didn't look like it would work, the risotto was great. The ingredients weren't the super-special produce that we worked with at Woodfire, but it was simple, hearty and delicious. Especially as I hadn't eaten much that day.

The pasta carbonara was good to watch. It's a dish I've tried once, and predictably made scrambled eggs. I was surprised by how much the copious pepper brought to the dish, by the transience of the sauce--within about 5 minutes, it had broken, something to remember for service. It was also a simple rendition, a reminder as we recalled all the gussied-up versions with peas, mushrooms, meatballs, or cream for people who couldn't emulsify with eggs alone, that Italian cuisine is simple, meant to be whipped up at home, and as it's been exported, it's almost baroque in its complexity.

The caramel was for a special dessert on the lunch menu, and the chef made it "cowboy style" with just butter and caramel in the pan. It came together beautifully, and made me want to go home and try it myself. Of course that was before another six hours and a pizza lesson, complete with excited children. More on that tomorrow.

Notes

We got bicycles last weekend. I rode about 13 miles Saturday and Sunday, and I think about 3 today. I can already feel my metabolism kicking up. I can't wait to be able to eat more without getting fatter.

I made quince jam. It's pretty nice, but 1 kilo of fruit makes a LOT of jam. My neighbors downstairs were supposed to get a jar, but didn't answer the door. Which sucks, because I want to try and make something else with quince before the season is over.

Purple-sprouting broccoli has shown up in the markets. I can't wait to get some.

Everyone who's spent time in Europe has told us that we'll miss real Mexican food. There appear to be about three types of dried chiles available in the markets, none of which I've ever seen in Hispanic and Latino markets in Atlanta. On an episode of The Restaurant--which I don't like as much as the first season, for the record--one couple actually served Doritos and green bean and carrot "burritos" to Mexicans. They had no clue why the Mexicans were insulted, and claimed that they couldn't make Mexican food because they didn't have a working oven. Right.

Leaving aside the obvious rant, today I found two sources for dried chiles, posole, masa harina, jamaica, tomatillos, and all the other wonderful things that I need to make actual Mexican food. Now I just need to temper my enthusiasm with some sort of budget, lest I spend my first paycheck on dried chiles.

Oh yeah, one other thing: after obsessing about it for days with no particular cause, I spotted Malabar Spinach at the Carribean stall in the market today. Coventry may not provide all the opportunities that Atlanta does, but the daily surprises are nice.

Thank You, Grandma

When I was a kid, my little brother and I spent at least one evening a week with my mom's parents. Grandma grew up in the tobacco-farming (and last I heard, Nissan-manufacturing) mountains of east Tennessee, and was born smack-dab in the middle of the Great Depression. Theirs was not a rich family, despite the rumoured ownership of a Stradivarius violin--which perished in a fire.

As kids, one of our favorite dinners and Grandma and Papa's was creamed dried beef, known charmingly in the army as "shit on a shingle." Crispy toast, milky gravy, salty dried beef--cut up with scissors, natch--and not a vegetable in sight, it was easy food for kids to love. And last I checked, it cost about 50 cents a serving. I haven't had it in years.

I come to this because tonight I attempted Potted Hough. The British are big on potted proteins as a way of preservation. From what I can gather, they are finely chopped meats refrigerated either in a rich stock or butter (in the case of crab and shrimp.) They're usually served cold, but occasionally warmed and served on toast. After riding 8.5 miles today (see the other blog), I was not in the mood to wait until the paltry amount of stock I had jelled, and wasn't convinced that Honey would be in the mood for cold meat jelly after a day spent out in the brisk wind.

Tasting the Hough (Scottish for beef shin, apparently), I felt that I understand why this delicacy had stayed for the most part in Scotland. Highly spiced beef reminds me of medieval recipes involving eight or nine different warm spices, and a dearth of salt or acid. A cook never wants to disappoint, however, and I'm no different. After such a long day, I felt we deserved something nice. So what to do to this tepid beef to make it delicious?

And here the inspiration of Peggy Belcher's thrift food struck me: a slab of toast would save the beef from being a pile of mush on a plate, and soak up the admittedly rich beef broth. I even got a compliment from Honey.

So thank you, grandma, for teaching me about the food of thrift, and how to make something special out of something that most people would ignore.

Things I'm not in the mood to do:

Work on another draft of the menu.

Start dinner.

Clean.

Write emails to chef, former coworkers, and family.
Call the butcher to secure venison mince.

Make gnocchi.

Convince English pubgoers to eat gnocchi, ragu and gremolata.

Correct the seasoning on my pumpkin soup.

Find something to do with a litre of aioli.

Check my bank balance.

Order a new steel, four six pans and a two-thirds pan from Nisbets.

Shower.

Clear my reader.

Go to my second shift tonight.


Things I'm in the mood to do:

Sit.

Eat Crisps.

Watch television.

Make unproductive lists.