Have Blade Will Travel: The adventures of a traveling chef (9 page)

On most busy nights, the orders were called out in the main kitchen by an expediter, a task performed by manager Ricci.  Dressed in street clothes, he stood outside of the primary steam table which ran the length of the main cooking line.  The waitresses would bring their orders into the kitchen, handing them to the expediter.  He would grab each slip, call out the written items on that slip, then place it in the order received onto a long rack attached to the front of the steam table at roughly eye level. 

Behind the range, where the action was often fast and furious, not to mention scorching hot, the three station cooks worked in amazing harmony, producing roughly two-thirds of the five-to-six-hundred main courses served nightly through the peak months of that summer.

Later in the evening, as incoming orders dwindled and the cadence of kitchen production slowed down, the chef was the first to step away from the line, leaving Wayne and Billy to handle production.  As the chief of the kitchen brigade he was entitled to this courtesy.  And after more than fifteen years with the operation, he had certainly earned it. 

One evening, early in the summer, during the 5:30 lull, I stepped onto the cooking range.  It was foreign territory to me, and I was surprised at how frightening it all seemed.  Hot steam rolled off the steam table on one side, while enormous heat radiated from a flat-top range, deep-fat fryer, broiler, and two double convection ovens.  As scary as it all seemed, it was also amazing to think that three men could assemble as many as five-hundred plates in just a few short hours.  It seemed beyond my capabilities to stand and work there.

But the work at the steam table accounted for only about two-thirds of the dinners served nightly.  The remaining third, numbering one-to-two-hundred plates, consisted of the three lobster dishes – Boiled, Broiled, and Baked-Stuffed – which Malcolm and I were responsible for.  Our cooking equipment consisted of a sixty-gallon jacketed steam kettle and a four-rack convection oven.

Late every afternoon, Malcolm would set up several work stations, bringing out all of the necessary mise-en-place – the ingredients and tools needed – for the production of the three lobster dishes.  Each station was comprised of two large cutting boards, a very large cook’s knife and steel, and a couple of clean kitchen towels.  Malcolm did most of the chef work, using me primarily as a runner, to bring in a new case of lobster from the walk-in refrigerator or to replenish clarified butter, seasoned bread crumbs or diced lobster meat. 

I loved the furious pace of things when the action started cranking. Ricci would bark his orders to Malcolm, who would then set that dish in motion.  As the orders mounted up, I would assert myself and get involved.  Malcolm attempted to maintain his oppressive autocracy, afraid that someone would perceive me as an important cog in the machinery.  He would frequently bark impatiently at me, making sure he was heard by the front line congregation, as a way of asserting his authority.  But coped by adopting what I called a duck-back consciousness, letting Malcolm’s outbursts and fault-finding roll past my ears and my ego, like the proverbial water down a duck’s back. 

After several of weeks of this, I had gained enough proficiency and decided it was time for me to set up the station and preside over the lead.  One Friday night, while Malcolm was busy with other duties, I saw my opportunity.  I did not ask permission, or even announce my intentions.  I simply went about setting up cutting boards, the clarified butter and the rest, along with the necessary smallwares – large French knives, ladles, tongs, male and female spoons, towels.  When I realized that Malcolm began to notice, I could feel my blood pressure rise.  I was challenging his assumption of authority and he knew it – a mutual tension filled the air.  But I had played apprentice long enough.

Five-thirty rolled around, and everyone stopped for a breather.  My heart pounded as I stood around with some of the other members of the crew, chatting and estimating the night’s final count.  I feigned nonchalance but knew a confrontation was coming.  At six, the first orders started rolling in.  “Two boiled, one baked-stuffed!”  I headed for the lobster crate next to the station I had set up. 

“I’ll get that,” said Malcolm. 

“That’s all right.  I’ll get it.”

He made a move towards the station.

“I said I’ll get it,” I insisted.  “I set up this station.  I’ll get the first order.”

“Hey, this is my responsibility, so beat it!” 

We stood face to face, a few feet apart, with clenched fists, growling through clamped teeth.  We were seconds away from swinging it out, when Billy Byrd, who had been observing us, jumped in. 

“Hey, hey!  What’s the matter with you guys.  This is Friday night man.  There’s plenty of work for everyone.  Now what’s the problem here?” 

I was too upset to find words.  I was fed up with being the new kid on the block, the one who wasn’t as good as the designated “star player.” 

Billy looked stern.  “Now listen you two, we don’t have time for this bullshit.  Everything’s pretty well set up here.  Who set this up?”

“I did,” I replied. 

“Good.  You’ve learned a lot here in a few short weeks.  And I guess Malcolm can take some of the credit for showing you the ropes.  Right?” 

“Yeah, maybe.”  I was still angry, but we had both backed off at this point. 

“Malcolm, you let Larousse do his thing here.  You’re both important to this operation, and you’re both doing an excellent a job.  I don’t see why you both can’t take turns working this station.  So do it like that.  Take turns.  Besides, you guys have got your salads to prepare for Sunday’s buffet.  Are they done yet?” 

 “No,” Malcolm sulked.

“Well then, you’ve got work to do.  Malcolm, you work this station.  David, you start putting those salads together.  When things get hectic, you jump in and help Malcolm.  You both understand?” 

“Yeah, we understand,” I said.

“Sure,” said Mal.  

“Now shake hands and let’s get things rolling again.”

We shook hands, and got back to work.  Byrd had a fine job diffusing the situation.  Although there was still some vestiges of tension, both of us were ready to compromise.  The fact that I had asserted myself had put me into a stronger position.  Malcolm understood that I would no longer be sacrificed to his insecurities.  As the tempo of the evening’s service increased, we forgot our dispute.  And as the summer wore on we got to know each other better, and developed into a team. 

On Fridays and Saturdays, in addition to our regular production duties, Mal and I began the preparation of large quantities of cold salads – lobster, turkey, tuna, and ham – destined for the Sunday buffet.  We also created large Jell-O molds, filled with an array of fruit placed in layered patterns within the mold, so that when inverted onto a platter, a multi-layered, multi-colored geometric pattern appeared.  Jell-O mold was not the kind of item one found in la grande cuisine  – as if “Jell-O” even existed in the 18 th-century.  But during summer of 1973, in the kitchens of the celebrated East Bay Lodge, Jell-O-brand gelatin did offer the artist within the cook an opportunity for creative expression.

In an inverted chilled mold, I poured a half-inch-deep layer of cherry Jell-O, and placed it in the walk-in refrigerator to set.  Once it set, I placed on it a symmetrical arrangement of low-acid fruit –grape, strawberry, peach, and apricot (high acid fruit would break down the gelatin too soon).  Over this first layer of fruit went a layer of orange Jell-O, pre-cooled to room temperature before pouring, so as not to melt the first Jell-O layer.  Sometimes the orange layer was added in two batches – to prevent the loosely arranged fruit from floating up and losing its place in the arrangement.  Once the orange layer was set in place, not quite covering the first layer of arranged fruit, I placed a second layer of fruit, followed by lemon Jell-O.  The procedure was completed by adding one more layer – lime, of course.  By then the mold was a good four-inches (10 cm) deep, and that was about as thick as I wanted it.  On Sunday morning, the pan, or bowl, or savarin mold – we experimented with every shape imaginable – was dipped into hot water for several seconds.  A large, ornate platter was placed upside down on top of the mold, then the whole unit quickly inverted.  The mold was removed, revealing a rainbow-tinted mass of sweetened translucent gelatin, around which I added cut fresh fruit as a garnish.  Malcolm and I made one mold each for every Sunday buffet, from the July 4 th-weekend-through-to-Labor Day.  When the first had been depleted on the buffet, the second replaced it.

Charged with the responsibility of creating the cold dishes for the buffet, Malcolm and I effectively comprised an independent Garde Manger department. Garde Manger refers to the cold food department that is traditionally charged with some of the most gastronomically-appealing items, such as caviar, canapés, hors d’oeuvres, foie gras pâtés, game terrines, sausages made of fish, game, or pork, as well as smoked meat, fish, and game.  Garder is a verb meaning “to guard,” or “to watch over,” because many of the items used in the Garde Manger are expensive and have traditionally been kept under lock and key.  The cold fare we offered at our buffet had little in common with such prestigious dishes, or with the decoration techniques we had learned at school.  In truth, our cold food efforts were more of an Advanced Pantry Production.  But since we endeavored as far as possible to add something of a classical – and classy – touch to the ordinary buffet fare, we elevated what might have been called “Advanced Pantry Production” to a bona fide Garde Manger department.  Suffice to say, that it was a summer East Bay Lodge had never seen the likes of, by virtue of what Mal and I were creating that summer – nor would they ever see it again.

With this in mind, Malcolm would, from time to time, get ambitious, and order a three-hundred pound block of ice.  Early Sunday morning, he would don a heavy coat and gloves, and armed with a hand saw and a couple of chisels, spend an hour in the freezer outside the rear of the restaurant chipping away at a centerpiece for the buffet table.  Although motivated by his insecurity around my now established presence, his ice sculpture was a great enhancement for the buffet table. 

My creative contributions came in other forms.  One week, I decided to prepare a Duck Galantine to add to our regular cold-food offering.  On Monday morning I asked the chef’s permission.  He gave it, on condition that it would not interfere with my regular production responsibilities.  I assured him of that and asked him to order a dozen ducks.  They arrived the next day, and I left them out on a rack in the kitchen to thaw. Wednesday morning, I arrived early and on my own time, boned out all twelve birds.  I then roasted the bones and giblets, and simmered them into a brown stock, to be used later to poach the galantines. 

The next step was to lay the boneless duck carcasses out on a large work table, and sprinkle them lightly with salt and pepper.  Then I spread each one with a farce consisting of equal parts of ground pork, veal, and chicken, blended with a little heavy cream and a garnish of pistachio nuts, all seasoned with the complex concoction of a dozen or so herbs and spices traditionally used in farces.  In the center of each filling, I arranged a garnish consisting of long rectangular strips of ham, each wrapped in thinly sliced fat back, so arranged that, when the galantines were later sliced, the wrapped ham would form a checkerboard pattern.  I then wrapped the duck carcasses around this filling, loosely stitched them in place with heavy black thread, then rolled them up in cheese cloth.  Finally, I tied the ends of the cheese cloth firmly, then wrapped each galantine gently with a dozen turns of butcher’s twine to assure a cylindrical shape. 

The next day, I immersed the galantines in the rich stock created the previous day, poached them gently for forty minutes, then pulled them out of the stock, and set them one by one onto a large tray to cool.  I then removed the string from one of the galantines, unwrapped the muslin, and carefully cut a half-dozen slices.  Chef Jacobs had been watching me out of the corner of eye for most of the morning.  As I cut the first few slices, he strolled over and I proffered a slice.  His response was so perfect and so timely, that I will carry, for the rest of my days his sensational response.  “Hmmm.  Very resonant.  And quite savory.” 

Resonant.  Resonant.  Resonant.  That word bounced around my brain for weeks.  It was the first time I had ever heard such a word to describe an edible victual.  It was such a stimulating and refreshing qualifier, a reflection of Chef Jacob’s style, and a supreme compliment.  And almost more than the word, the tone of his voice had praised me as well.  Clearly my effort had pleased him.

All that was remained to do that day was to place the galantines in the walk-in box to cool.  The next morning, I clarified the remaining brown stock in the classical manner – by adding ground beef, tomatoes, assorted aromatics and egg whites to the cold stock, then bringing it up just below the boiling point – 180-degrees F (90-degrees C), and letting it simmer for two hours.  The convection motion of the stock moving through the slowly coagulating egg whites removed all particles, down to the most minute, rendering it crystal clear with a golden brown hue.  The stock was then carefully strained, fortified with unflavored gelatin, and chilled.  The result was an aspic – a clear, savory, meat-flavored liquid, highly gelatinous when cold, and used as a protective coating for pâtés, terrines, and other classical forcemeats.

Ricci peered into the kitchen periodically, keeping tabs on my production.  I sensed his concern for food cost percentages, and his unspoken skepticism.  “Hey, we already make a bundle on our Sunday buffet, his look seemed to say.  "We don’t need any fancy what-chu-ma-call-its.”  Chef Jacobs was more supportive, probably because he had worked there so long that he felt secure in his position.  Sous-chef Billy Byrd simply enjoyed the ruckus, and he was generally pretty supportive anyway.

On Saturday morning, I came into work early once again, warmed the aspic, sliced the galantines (except for half of one), then coated each slice with the aspic.  The next day, I laid the slices out on a large oval mirror, using the one unsliced half-galantine as the centerpiece.  The slices all emanated from the one galantine half, and were arranged around the platter, one overlapping another, in flowing curvilinear lines.  Around the perimeter of the mirror were placed peeled and cored apple halves, poached in white wine, filled with a rosette of chestnut purée, and garnished with mint leaves.  I prepared the traditional accompaniment – Cumberland Sauce – a cold sauce concoction of currant jelly, shallots, sugar, port wine, and peppercorns, served in a goose-neck sauce pitcher, and placed next to the platter.  At 11:00 AM I breathed a sigh of relief.  All the buffet items were out, and I was in the clear.