It was a lonely walk to the South Side of Syracuse. One where my anger had slowly become self-loathing. In the course of 6-hours I had gone from being, (at least what I perceived), "The Chosen One" to a cook not worthy of preparing family meal. In my mind I was sunk. Time to move on, but where? By the time I arrived home I was emotionally drained, and had beaten myself up pretty badly. I went to bed hoping that things would "sort themselves out" in the morning.
The next morning I woke up. The sun was shining. I was still a shite cook. Almost three years gone of my apprenticeship, nearly 5-years into my cooking career and I. Was. Shite.
I threw some ska on the stereo, turned it up so that I could hear it outside, and headed to the picnic table in the front yard armed with coffee, cigarettes, pen and paper to figure it out. Smoking cigarette after cigarette, I stopped feeling sorry for myself, and turned my venom outward.
"[Bleep], Chef!"
"[Bleep] that place!"
"I don't need to put up with that kind of verbal assault!!! [Bleep]!!! Him!!!"
And then, without even realizing it, I turned the corner. I was going to work tomorrow, Thursday. If I didn't, Chef would beat me. And there was NO WAY he was going to beat me! And then I realized he may have been right about me.
Both that I was a colossal screw up, and that I deserved that shot at a Tuesday night shift.
Up until this point, I had survived my apprenticeship as the comedic foil to the chef, as well as by being THE grammar/spelling resource of the kitchen. And I did have some average cooking chops at that point. The day before had really driven home the point that the truth hurts. I was not ready for service, and what I thought was mise en place wasn't close to actual mise en place.
The Chef could do 25 covers working out of a cooler with one arm tied behind his back because he could, after years of training. There was no way I could do that then, (I still freak out a little in my head when I have had to cover a line solo).
And like a swift slap to the face, I was enlightened. I truly understood what mise en place was. Not only did it mean making sure I have enough food prepared for my section for service- and this is a huge part of it- it also meant making sure that my bain-marie of utensils was stocked with what I needed for service and in the same place every time, that I wasn't just prepping, but setting myself up for success."Why reach into the cooler every time I need a certain condiment instead of keeping it in an ice-bath on the counter?' "Why not slice and toast my burger buns ahead of time and just reheat them when I needed them?" It all clicked.
There was nothing cool about failing to do my job and set my section up, and let the Chef down. I would rather look like a newbie and have every piece of mise en place in ice-bath at arm's reach to make it through service successfully with satisfied guests and a happy Chef. I was in-it-to-win-it. My days of being the class clown were over, or at least tempered by the fact that i couldn't just coast by anymore. I was about to be dumped out of the nest and I needed to get. It. Together.
As I walked to work on Thursday I spent the majority of my time thinking about what, and how, I would do things differently. To make things right; and I made a decision that I was going to do it "the right way" every time for the rest of time.
I slunk in the kitchen door that day, hoping to avoid Chef at all costs. He saw me. But, it was never spoken of again, and I know that the fact that I returned to work, (early for my shift even), earned me some respect and credibility from Chef and all of the other cooks who had already heard about my epic ass-chewing!!!
The lesson learned was that mise en place is EVERYTHING when setting yourself up for success. Most of us keep absolutely meticulous lists of the minutia needed to run our sections down to filling the salt and pepper grinders. From the outside I'm sure it looks like cooks have Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, put without obsessively making sure that every food item, no matter how trivial, is prepared, or making sure that the fish spatula is where the fish spatula belongs in the bain marie the "wheels would come off" during service.
And take it from me that that is NOT what you want to have happen as either a guest or a cook.
Wednesday, January 27, 2016
Thursday, January 21, 2016
Mise en place! Mise En Place!! MISE EN PLACE!!! pt. 1
Mise en place is a fairly common term in kitchens: literally "put in place," it is an essential ethos for making sure that your section is prepared, physically and mentally, with all of the necessary ingredients to execute a service in place. A place for everything and everything in its place. I had heard the term mise en place since my days as a dishwasher, so as a cook I was certain I knew exactly how to prepare proper mise en place.
Then one day while still in my apprenticeship, a day that became as pivotal in my becoming a chef as any other -a conscious moment of "this determines what happens from here on out"- I truly learned what mise en place was all about:
My apprenticeship was far more well-rounded than the horror-story-apprenticeships of cooks who did nothing but sit in a basement room and polish copper pans all-day. Or stand in a scullery 16-hours a day peeling root vegetables that would never be used for more than family meal, just to come back and do the same task day-in, day-out, for months on end...with no chance of ever cooking on the line. Wednesday's was a heavy prep of mise en place for the garde-manger station for the week and working the occasional cold garde-manger shift on the line. Thursdays and Fridays were prep and private events. Saturdays were almost always weddings, the ilk of which featured florist bills that eclipsed my yearly earnings. Sundays and Mondays were taken up by brunch, prep, and either private or charity events for well over 300 guests. And then there was Tuesday.
Tuesday night was the "prestige" shift for the young commis and chefs de partie. It was the night when you worked the a la carte line solo. No Executive Chef. No Sous Chefs. No safety nets. No one else except for a bartender to take food orders and run food. It was a young cook's chance to prove to the Chef that they were ready for bigger tasks and to be trusted on the dinner line as more than a "salad shooter."
In retrospect, we probably made a lot more out of it than it was. The menu was reduced to the Grille Room Menu: sandwiches, salads, and foods of the "fryo-lated" arts for simplicity of prep, execution, and clean-up...and minimizing our chances of screwing it up. Rarely, if ever, did we serve more than 15 guests between 4:30 and 9:00 PM. For these reasons it was the one shift of the week that the Chefs were guaranteed to have off. It was idiot proof.
I finally got my shot at a Tuesday night shift somewhere in the last year of my apprenticeship. When I arrived the Sous Chef, Jeff, was getting ready to leave for the day. He gave me a brief rundown of the lay of the land, pointed out a few small prep items to be completed and then bolted out the back door of the kitchen to enjoy the nearly six-hours of sunlight left in the day.
"I've got this!" I thought as I went about finishing the remaining prep, and setting up my mise en place for service. Now, when I say that I "set up" it would be more accurate to say that I set up the line like the Chef or Jeff would have: very minimally as to facilitate little to break-down/clean-up at the end of the shift. First solo shift, I can show that not only can I hang with the Chefs, I can do it just like them.
As we neared the 4:30 opening time I expected the parking lot that was overflowing with cars would start thinning out, and only the after-work golfers would be left to worry about feeding. Two things I failed to recognize or take into account: 1) the main reason guests didn't come in to eat on Tuesday nights was because the Chef and Doug weren't there and they were loathe to be fed by the likes of me, 2) the Chef WAS there this Tuesday for meetings, menu consultations with future brides, and essentially making busy-work for himself in another part of the building to be my lifeline, but just far enough away so as not to destroy my (over)confidence by seeming like he didn't trust me with his baby.
And because Chef was there, and parked out front of the club house so that I wouldn't see his car, most of those members and guests who would have headed home, or away from the club at the very least, decided to have the Chef cook them dinner this particular Tuesday night. Right from "Jump!" I was in the weeds. I was not even remotely organized enough to be considered disorganized. I had Z-E-R-O real mise en place on the line. I was clown shoes. I was going down, and quick...
And then Chef came through the swinging doors, I must have looked relieved, and given the hint of a "phew! The cavalry is here!" kind of smile, and I watched Chef put an apron on over his street clothes. What came next was awful.
While I know the gist of the message was about me not knowing what mise en place means/how to prepare mise en place/where is your mise en place?, I can not to this day remember the exact words that were hurled at me that night.
My Chef, my mentor, my friend, was tearing me a new orifice with the kind of veracity and ferociousness I had only heard from sports coaches during my youth. But this was expletive laden. Surgically taking me apart word-by-word. Hours long, and 100% accurate. I was cooking with both my head and my tail between my legs-on the verge of tears-and with only my stubbornness keeping me from walking off of the line and out of that kitchen, (honestly, I had watched a recent graduate of the Culinary Institute of America get kicked off the line the previous winter, and I knew that if I left the line- let alone the kitchen- it would only make it worse). As the orders fired out of the printer it seemed as if Chef's tongue lashing only intensified. After the longest service of my young career, it was over. Everyone was fed and the parking lot started to empty. I had survived, even if I had been screamed at maniacally for the last 3-hours.
I was feeling low. My confidence was beyond shaken; it didn't exist anymore. As a parting jab, as Chef threw his apron into the linen bag, I was told to make sure I left the place spotless AND to take the next day off.
BOOM. Being given the day off like that was essentially telling me to eff-off down the road without actually firing me, and I knew it. I had seen it before. As I licked the wounds from my first solo service, I was feeling equally sorry for myself and pissed off at the Chef. I mean, we had done 75 covers on a night when 12 would have been "busy."
After making sure that the quarry tiles under the equipment had been mopped, and that every inch of stainless steel had been scrubbed I made my way to the locker room. I hurriedly changed, and slunk out the back door; cutting across fairways and greens on my walk home...chain smoking and planning my early exit from my apprenticeship the entire way.
Then one day while still in my apprenticeship, a day that became as pivotal in my becoming a chef as any other -a conscious moment of "this determines what happens from here on out"- I truly learned what mise en place was all about:
My apprenticeship was far more well-rounded than the horror-story-apprenticeships of cooks who did nothing but sit in a basement room and polish copper pans all-day. Or stand in a scullery 16-hours a day peeling root vegetables that would never be used for more than family meal, just to come back and do the same task day-in, day-out, for months on end...with no chance of ever cooking on the line. Wednesday's was a heavy prep of mise en place for the garde-manger station for the week and working the occasional cold garde-manger shift on the line. Thursdays and Fridays were prep and private events. Saturdays were almost always weddings, the ilk of which featured florist bills that eclipsed my yearly earnings. Sundays and Mondays were taken up by brunch, prep, and either private or charity events for well over 300 guests. And then there was Tuesday.Tuesday night was the "prestige" shift for the young commis and chefs de partie. It was the night when you worked the a la carte line solo. No Executive Chef. No Sous Chefs. No safety nets. No one else except for a bartender to take food orders and run food. It was a young cook's chance to prove to the Chef that they were ready for bigger tasks and to be trusted on the dinner line as more than a "salad shooter."
In retrospect, we probably made a lot more out of it than it was. The menu was reduced to the Grille Room Menu: sandwiches, salads, and foods of the "fryo-lated" arts for simplicity of prep, execution, and clean-up...and minimizing our chances of screwing it up. Rarely, if ever, did we serve more than 15 guests between 4:30 and 9:00 PM. For these reasons it was the one shift of the week that the Chefs were guaranteed to have off. It was idiot proof.
I finally got my shot at a Tuesday night shift somewhere in the last year of my apprenticeship. When I arrived the Sous Chef, Jeff, was getting ready to leave for the day. He gave me a brief rundown of the lay of the land, pointed out a few small prep items to be completed and then bolted out the back door of the kitchen to enjoy the nearly six-hours of sunlight left in the day.
"I've got this!" I thought as I went about finishing the remaining prep, and setting up my mise en place for service. Now, when I say that I "set up" it would be more accurate to say that I set up the line like the Chef or Jeff would have: very minimally as to facilitate little to break-down/clean-up at the end of the shift. First solo shift, I can show that not only can I hang with the Chefs, I can do it just like them.
As we neared the 4:30 opening time I expected the parking lot that was overflowing with cars would start thinning out, and only the after-work golfers would be left to worry about feeding. Two things I failed to recognize or take into account: 1) the main reason guests didn't come in to eat on Tuesday nights was because the Chef and Doug weren't there and they were loathe to be fed by the likes of me, 2) the Chef WAS there this Tuesday for meetings, menu consultations with future brides, and essentially making busy-work for himself in another part of the building to be my lifeline, but just far enough away so as not to destroy my (over)confidence by seeming like he didn't trust me with his baby.
And because Chef was there, and parked out front of the club house so that I wouldn't see his car, most of those members and guests who would have headed home, or away from the club at the very least, decided to have the Chef cook them dinner this particular Tuesday night. Right from "Jump!" I was in the weeds. I was not even remotely organized enough to be considered disorganized. I had Z-E-R-O real mise en place on the line. I was clown shoes. I was going down, and quick...
And then Chef came through the swinging doors, I must have looked relieved, and given the hint of a "phew! The cavalry is here!" kind of smile, and I watched Chef put an apron on over his street clothes. What came next was awful.
While I know the gist of the message was about me not knowing what mise en place means/how to prepare mise en place/where is your mise en place?, I can not to this day remember the exact words that were hurled at me that night.
My Chef, my mentor, my friend, was tearing me a new orifice with the kind of veracity and ferociousness I had only heard from sports coaches during my youth. But this was expletive laden. Surgically taking me apart word-by-word. Hours long, and 100% accurate. I was cooking with both my head and my tail between my legs-on the verge of tears-and with only my stubbornness keeping me from walking off of the line and out of that kitchen, (honestly, I had watched a recent graduate of the Culinary Institute of America get kicked off the line the previous winter, and I knew that if I left the line- let alone the kitchen- it would only make it worse). As the orders fired out of the printer it seemed as if Chef's tongue lashing only intensified. After the longest service of my young career, it was over. Everyone was fed and the parking lot started to empty. I had survived, even if I had been screamed at maniacally for the last 3-hours.
BOOM. Being given the day off like that was essentially telling me to eff-off down the road without actually firing me, and I knew it. I had seen it before. As I licked the wounds from my first solo service, I was feeling equally sorry for myself and pissed off at the Chef. I mean, we had done 75 covers on a night when 12 would have been "busy."
After making sure that the quarry tiles under the equipment had been mopped, and that every inch of stainless steel had been scrubbed I made my way to the locker room. I hurriedly changed, and slunk out the back door; cutting across fairways and greens on my walk home...chain smoking and planning my early exit from my apprenticeship the entire way.
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