Read The Making of a Chef Online
Authors: Michael Ruhlman
The Making of a Chef (40 page)
I scarcely made note, in reviewing the recipe before class, of the penultimate item. In order to make this delicious, elaborate barbecue sauce, first one had to make a brown sauce. And of the eighteen students in the kitchen, I was the one, by chance, whose duty it was to make it.
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arrived at six-thirty-three. John was already at our station, steeling his knife. By virtue of the fact that he'd set his cutting board closer to the grill than mine, he was in charge of grilling steak and shrimp; I'd cook the other items from our station. And for the first half hour I generally putzed, uncertain what to do, checking our mise en place to make sure it was good. Before I knew it the chef had arrived and called lecture, held in the refined, air-conditioned dining room. Lecture lasted just long enough for me to down a cup of coffee and shake my head clear. Then we were back in the kitchen with banquet assignments in addition to normal à la carte. Our peanut and barbecue sauces were good to go, which was fortunate, since the latter took all morning even if you knew what you were doing, and since John had to make three quarts of the banquet sauce for the forty-eight chicken breasts he would sear off on the grill immediately after family meal. During lecture he had instructed John to make the sauce: roast two pounds of chicken bones and caramelize a half pound of mirepoix; simmer it in six cups of chicken stock and six cups of veal stock; throw in some aromatics, bay leaf, a head of garlic cut in half, simmer, skim, toss in some basil stems, and strain; check for seasoning; lié at service.
arrived at six-thirty-three. John was already at our station, steeling his knife. By virtue of the fact that he'd set his cutting board closer to the grill than mine, he was in charge of grilling steak and shrimp; I'd cook the other items from our station. And for the first half hour I generally putzed, uncertain what to do, checking our mise en place to make sure it was good. Before I knew it the chef had arrived and called lecture, held in the refined, air-conditioned dining room. Lecture lasted just long enough for me to down a cup of coffee and shake my head clear. Then we were back in the kitchen with banquet assignments in addition to normal à la carte. Our peanut and barbecue sauces were good to go, which was fortunate, since the latter took all morning even if you knew what you were doing, and since John had to make three quarts of the banquet sauce for the forty-eight chicken breasts he would sear off on the grill immediately after family meal. During lecture he had instructed John to make the sauce: roast two pounds of chicken bones and caramelize a half pound of mirepoix; simmer it in six cups of chicken stock and six cups of veal stock; throw in some aromatics, bay leaf, a head of garlic cut in half, simmer, skim, toss in some basil stems, and strain; check for seasoning; lié at service.
“It's a busy little restaurant we have here,” Chef Turgeon had said.
I supposed it was, but I didn't have time to think about it. Potatoes to cut, shallots to mince, onions to small dice as well as to chop, send through
a grinder, dry, and pulverize. I took five minutes at ten-thirty to bolt a quick family meal and was back at my station not quite knowing whether I was going to be prepared when service rolled around in an hour. Others seemed nervous too. After the third loud object hit the floor, Turgeon said, “Man, you guys got the dropsies.” Then Scott Stearn's mise en place tray smashed on the floor. I heard breaking porcelainâfish station kept all its fine cuts in soup cups or ramekinsâand though I saw only a mound of julienned red pepper among shards of soup cup, the expression on Scott's face suggested he'd lost more than the red pepper. The chef screamed at them when they weren't ready for their Day One demo on time.
a grinder, dry, and pulverize. I took five minutes at ten-thirty to bolt a quick family meal and was back at my station not quite knowing whether I was going to be prepared when service rolled around in an hour. Others seemed nervous too. After the third loud object hit the floor, Turgeon said, “Man, you guys got the dropsies.” Then Scott Stearn's mise en place tray smashed on the floor. I heard breaking porcelainâfish station kept all its fine cuts in soup cups or ramekinsâand though I saw only a mound of julienned red pepper among shards of soup cup, the expression on Scott's face suggested he'd lost more than the red pepper. The chef screamed at them when they weren't ready for their Day One demo on time.
The chef walked everywhere in the kitchen at steady ramming speed, his neck seemingly preceding him everywhere. There was a built-in violence to everything he did. That day he strode down the line, stopped at our hotel pans filled with mise en place in small bain-marie inserts on ice and covered with plastic wrap, rammed his fingers through the wrap and into the fava beans, into the corn, into the onions, checking for sliminess, and moving on. He didn't simply remove the wrap; it was as if he was angry with it for being in his way.
Soon he was demoing our station. “Seasoning is the most important thing,” he told us. “When you're weeded, the first thing to go is salt and pepper.” And he was off through the demo. The ap call was pick-up and onto the grill went four shrimp on two parallel skewers. Ap plates were on the shelf above the line. A handful of greens went into a mixing bowl, with generous pinches of shiitake, red pepper, cucumber, and a quick chiffonade of cilantro and mint, with a small ladleful of the vinaigrette, tossed and mounded in the center of the plate. We wanted as much height as we could get. Flip the shrimp. Start the fillet. On the order call, mark the steak off on the grill; the chef wanted distinct hash marks, he said, so start the steak at seven o'clock and finish at eleven, flip it, then hold it very rare on a rack; finish it in a 450-degree oven at the fire call. When the shrimp were cooked, place the tail in the center of the greens in an even circle, all shrimp curling in the same direction. Drizzle a circle of the spicy peanut sauceâkept in a squeeze bottleâaround the salad, sprinkle with toasted peanuts, and it was good to go.
Meanwhile, paint a hollowed Vidalia with some barbecue sauce and season it with the cumin-ancho mix; heat it on a sizzler in the oven. Melt some butter in two sauté pans. Sweat onions in one, shallots in the other. Sauté spinach in the shallot pan; add corn and fava to the onion, and about
two ounces of cream; season, reduce creamâquickly add some chicken stock to the spinach to nudge it on its wilting wayâreduce cream till thick and the ingredients are heated through; chiffonade and add the chervil before retrieving the Vidalia, now steaming hot, and begin plating, using a designated mark on the china as twelve o'clock. Season and serve the spinach at one o'clock on the plate. John would have by now put the steak in the oven to finish cooking, and I would have put eight blanched fries into the hot Fry-Max. Onion down at three o'clock, top resting against it, and spoon in succotash so that it overflowed onto the plate. A two-ounce ladle of sauce went down at six and on top of that the steak. Drain the fries, season them, and stack them in a log-cabin-style parallelogram at nine o'clock. Garnish with plushes of cilantro and you're good to go with entrée.
two ounces of cream; season, reduce creamâquickly add some chicken stock to the spinach to nudge it on its wilting wayâreduce cream till thick and the ingredients are heated through; chiffonade and add the chervil before retrieving the Vidalia, now steaming hot, and begin plating, using a designated mark on the china as twelve o'clock. Season and serve the spinach at one o'clock on the plate. John would have by now put the steak in the oven to finish cooking, and I would have put eight blanched fries into the hot Fry-Max. Onion down at three o'clock, top resting against it, and spoon in succotash so that it overflowed onto the plate. A two-ounce ladle of sauce went down at six and on top of that the steak. Drain the fries, season them, and stack them in a log-cabin-style parallelogram at nine o'clock. Garnish with plushes of cilantro and you're good to go with entrée.
The chef moved on to sauté, then began banquet service as Rose Ann said into the microphone, “Pick up one soup sampler, pick up one shrimp.” She paused.
“Grill?”
John called back, “Picking up one shrimp,” ducked into the lowboy, and tossed a shrimp onto grill. The clock above the dishwasher pot room read ten of twelve.
“Grill?”
John called back, “Picking up one shrimp,” ducked into the lowboy, and tossed a shrimp onto grill. The clock above the dishwasher pot room read ten of twelve.
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ime melts when service begins. John fired the last of a dozen or so steaks at two o'clock, and I remembered little of what happened in the intervening two hours. At one point I found myself in the walk-in, the sweat on my face chilling, to grab trays of chicken for the banquet. Trying to keep up with the succotash, baked onion, and spinach, and plating it all, I watched Chef Turgeon barrel down the line. As he strode he told me to clean my station. It was a mess but I was otherwise occupied. The next time down the line, he said, “I want you to stop what you are doing and clean this station. Consolidate this stuff. Do you need this on your station? No. I want this station to be so clean you can eat off it.” I cleaned my station.
ime melts when service begins. John fired the last of a dozen or so steaks at two o'clock, and I remembered little of what happened in the intervening two hours. At one point I found myself in the walk-in, the sweat on my face chilling, to grab trays of chicken for the banquet. Trying to keep up with the succotash, baked onion, and spinach, and plating it all, I watched Chef Turgeon barrel down the line. As he strode he told me to clean my station. It was a mess but I was otherwise occupied. The next time down the line, he said, “I want you to stop what you are doing and clean this station. Consolidate this stuff. Do you need this on your station? No. I want this station to be so clean you can eat off it.” I cleaned my station.
I put a steak entrée up and Chef Turgeon squinted at it. He turned the plate to look at the succotash. “This looks overcooked. It looks like you broke the cream on this one.”
“Would you like me to replace it?” I asked. It had broken while my back was turned, plating spinach.
He said no, then looked at a ticket and said, “Yeah, go ahead, you got a couple minutes.”
Later, as he delivered one of our plates to a waiter, he said, “These fries are a little past golden brown, guys.”
Beside me, sauté was buried. We shared six burners; they left me one. Salmon got hammered early and Chef Turgeon managed to dig up another side of salmon and get it delivered in time to butcher and cook. John kept track on a sheet of brown towel what had been ordered, fired, and picked up at our station. I was glad because what wherewithal I possessed was taxed.
I ran out of shallots and, somehow, Mimi appeared with a ramekin filled with minced shallots; I didn't remember asking and thought at the time she must surely be an angel. I recalled Paul's gratitude when I'd appeared with julienned pea pods.
Suddenly, John asked Rose Ann if we could break down our station and she said yes.
We'd gotten out all our food and gotten it out adequately, but for a few imperfections, and I'd held my own. I was hot and tired and there was little time or desire for high fives or self-congratulations. Too much prep for Tuesday, and everything to clean, wrap up, and put away before three.
As John and I shelved our mise en place in the walk-in, John turned to me with an enormous cabbage. He asked why we had a cabbage on our shelf. I said I didn't know. He handed it to me. Gene entered the walk-in. For no reason, I threw the cabbage like a medicine ball at Gene. Gene caught the cabbage and pretended to be outraged. “Don't you know anything about professionalism?” he demanded. “This is the CIA and we're professional here. There's no time for joking around.” Then he said, “Oh, I forgot, you're a writer.”
John, who was still organizing the mise en place on our shelf, trying to fit it all in, looked at Gene and said, “You wouldn't have known it today.”
This halted me. I thanked John and left the walk-in.
At three o'clock, we gathered around the chef like an offense around a coach. “There are not many great Day Ones,” he began. “I'd say this was between a D-plus and a C-minus. Fish station, I had to ask you to get a lot of things for demo. You really weren't prepared, and that sort of gives me a clue as to how the rest of the day will go. Grill station, you were all right, sauté all right. During service, grill, you were messy. Sauté, you were a little behind, a little sloppy. All in all there were a lot of knickknacks that need to be refined.” He noted mismeasurement in recipes; the recipes, we were to follow exactly. “Generally, if I'm not talking to you, you're probably doing a good job. But if I'm talking to you, saying clean this or do this, then it's not good. It's a busy, busy week coming up. Let's be organized. Any questions? Have a nice weekend.”
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he weekend snapped away and we were back at Bounty on Tuesday. After work that day, I tried to explain in an E-mail to a friend in the city why I'd been out of touch:
he weekend snapped away and we were back at Bounty on Tuesday. After work that day, I tried to explain in an E-mail to a friend in the city why I'd been out of touch:
It's been a personal challenge to actually work my way into a real kitchen, and be on the hot line. The chef is young, tough, militaristic. “You blanched those fries in
too
hot oil!” he said to me angrily in the middle of service, taking a cruise down the line. “I can tell by their color.”
too
hot oil!” he said to me angrily in the middle of service, taking a cruise down the line. “I can tell by their color.”
“Yes, Chef, I did, Iâ”
“I told you how I wanted them done. Do them that way. If you can't do it, I'll find someone who can.”
The thermometer in my partner's pocket reads 120 degrees and I've got two orders of succotash and spinach to get out because the pickup has been called, and the fellow, Rose Ann Serpico, cousin of the famous detective, is asking where the medium and the medium rare are. I try to be good, I try to be perfect at what I'm doing, and I actually try to write things down and remember what people say so I can write about it later.
This was work. I arrived at six-thirty and I cranked out mise en place and cooked at service and cleaned and was grateful to be gone at three, and not heading to another job as John and others were. Todd Sargent was late one day and, at family meal, when I asked why, he said, “I guess working, class, and being an R.A. is just a liiiiiiiittle too much.” He said this with a twisted, squinty look on his face. He worked nights cooking and waiting tables at the Hyde Park Brew Pub. Dave Sellers nodded and said he was sometimes so tired he didn't even bother to turn off the alarm, just let it buzz away. Todd, as the resident advisor in his dorm, said he got complaints about ignored alarms all the time.
I was usually too tired and certainly too busy to taste the food. On Tuesday, the young, and by critics' accounts, brilliant chef of Le Bernardin, Eric Ripert, participating in the Great-Chef series, wandered through the kitchen. He talked with Chef Turgeon, and I was annoyed that it was the middle of service and I couldn't eavesdrop. Geoff Rasmussen managed to get away from veg station for an autograph. “To Geoffrey,” Ripert, who
appeared embarrassed to have been asked for an autograph, wrote in the notebook. “It will be our pleasure to tickle your taste buds at Le Bernardin one of these days. Good luck and bon appetite!”
appeared embarrassed to have been asked for an autograph, wrote in the notebook. “It will be our pleasure to tickle your taste buds at Le Bernardin one of these days. Good luck and bon appetite!”
This was work, just as Turgeon had told us at the outset. And contrary to continual student grousing that this wasn't a “real” restaurant situation because of the number of students, this wasn't unreal. At Monkey Bar, for instance, four people worked the line, not eight, as there were here. Three people worked the garde manger station; there was one prep cook, and four people worked the pastry stationâtwelve people in all, the size of a small CIA class.
On Wednesday, John didn't show up. I was worn down by this point (after only three days) and couldn't believe he wasn't there. He knew how much we had to do. Yes, I knew his schedule, but I couldn't believe, knowing all we, now I, had to do, he would willingly sleep in. You just didn't do that.
The chef had told Mimi, a tournant, to help me out, but she was swamped too and helped here and there with prep and then stayed on the line to sauté spinach and succotash while I did the rest. When John returned the next day he apologized. We had a banquet on again, as we did every day, and we were doing that chicken again. John was to mark off the chicken we'd finish in the oven for service and I had to do the barbecue sauce, which first required a brown sauce.
“You're responsible for this,” I said to Chef Turgeon. “Why did you put brown sauce in this?”
“I tried just stock,” he said. “But it wasn't right. It needed a flourthickened sauce.” There was a richness, a creamy luxuriousness to this sauce that resulted from the brown sauce. Reduced veal stock would not have been the same. I asked the chef what kind of roux he wanted in his brown sauce. He used a blond roux, he said, noting that skills classes tend to scorch brown roux. “Since leaving this place, I've made roux about thirty times,” he told me. “That's over ten years.” Then he said, “I'll see if I can get you some brown sauce.”
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