Guarding Buckingham Palace

Now that we have developed a routine and a good understanding of the mis-en-place, I find myself less panicked in the mornings when I wake up. The language barrier has become less of an issue—knowing a certain amount of kitchen words is enormously helpful. If I ever start to feel frustrated and challenged, however, I think of Masa.

Masa is a very slight Japanese man from Tokyo—just a few inches taller than my five feet. In place of a chef’s hat, he wears a white baseball cap that is fashioned to look like a smaller version of a toque. Masa is always happy and smiling, which I find remarkable considering that he is almost fully deaf and speaks only Japanese. He has so much courage to have come here; I feel humbled around him. I can’t imagine how lonely and isolated he must feel not being able to communicate with anyone here, not having the chance to talk with someone in his flat about his day. If he suffers from these feelings, he doesn’t show it. He has developed an extensive list (8 pages long!) of kitchen words in both Spanish and French that his roommates helped him to put together. They are very protective, inclusive and encouraging of him. In our group, we talk to Masa through our own version of the game, Pictionary. Through his work, it’s obvious that he is talented.

Our physical work—the mis-en-place and plating—is not tremendously difficult. I was anticipating the opposite before I arrived. At the end of the day, it comes down to having good knife skills and the patience to make things precise and perfect. There is not a lot of actual cooking that takes place on our parts. Even in the carnes and pescados groups, the stages must stand throughout service. They are lucky if they are asked to help plate. The only groups in which stages are given responsibility are primeras and pastry.

The workload is also easily handled due to the fact that there are an overwhelming amount of us in the kitchen—too many, way too many. People almost trip over each other trying to get things done. We are never in the weeds.

The biggest challenge we face is mental. Sometimes I wonder, whether or not the restaurant overstaffs the kitchen to inspire competition and aggressiveness. Undoubtedly, you’ve got to fight to gain responsibility of any task. This doesn’t bother me, except for when we clean and people steal brooms, floor brushes, and mops out of each other’s hands. Let’s be serious…

It is clear that I will only get what I work for throughout this experience. Nothing will be handed to me. Because we are so limited, initially, in what we can and can’t do, we are forced to fight to get information, to cook, to plate, to command a station. It’s tiring, especially when I’m trying to navigate this combative of an environment in a language I can’t speak, but, again, I didn’t leave my family and friends for three months for nothing.

At times, I feel defeated, like this evening for instance, when our chef instructor screamed at us to mop the floor and then screamed at us to get brooms. I apparently didn’t move fast enough and she thought I hadn’t understood her because she tore the mop out of my hands and threw it on the floor. (We haven’t been through one single service with her throwing something on the floor—mop, broom, food item, mis-en-place, side towel—anything within her reach or that she doesn’t like). It didn’t stop there—when I bent down to pick up the mop to exchange it for a broom, she stood on it. It wasn’t the sweetest moment between us.

The privilege and reward of this experience, however, is having the opportunity to be inspired by the plates that the kitchen puts out. Now that we have a developed routine, I feel freer to look around at what’s going on around me. I try to imagine what I might use in place of the oyster filling inside the fatback canelon, or how I might use fatback sliced in the same manner with a different protein, or in an alternative shape, or perhaps with just vegetables, or where I might use tomato gelatin in a dish other than a salad.

It was slow again tonight and when it’s quiet in the restaurant, they turn football on the enormous flat screen television that is positioned so that the executive chef can easily view the screen. (By football, I mean soccer—sometimes they will put squash or handball on if there isn’t a soccer match that evening). This evening, the executive chef sat at his table in the center of the kitchen, barked that he was hungry and within minutes had a full, roasted bird, salad and cocktail in front of him. He feasted, like a king, while his minions stood at attention all around him. I felt like a sentry, standing up straight, not leaning against the wall, with my arms behind me. I was posted next to the walk-in door and a pastry stage walked by me and asked me if I felt like I was guarding Buckingham Palace.

Frying Oysters

Another baby step—

Our chef instructor turned to me at a random point during lunch service today and commanded me to fry the oysters. I’ve watched her do this for the past 21 services and it doesn’t appear terribly difficult, but I was caught off guard because she has only allowed Canarrio to do this when she is unable.

The egg white coated and panko-breaded oyster is dropped in the oil for no more than three seconds and given a secondary millisecond dip just for good measure. Sometimes it’s good not to have warning, because it makes you just go for it. I didn’t have any time to think about frying the oyster, so I just did it. She was pleased. She didn’t say anything, but I knew I had done it properly because she allowed me to continue to fry the oysters through the end of service.

The only time I became really terrified was when the sous chef of the restaurant came back to our section of the kitchen and started screaming at me while I was in the middle of frying an order. I put the spider down and started to back away, but our chef instructor pushed me back in front of the stove and I realized, then, that he was actually screaming at her. She had been taking the fried, finished oysters and putting them back on the platter where they had once been raw. I only know this, because Freddy translated for me. (Her quick switch of trays also gave it away.)

I wish I could upload/download how to speak Spanish to my brain-top during one of these siestas.

Coca Cola

During my short time here, I have been constantly reminded of how conservative Europeans are with their resources—small cars, no dryers, lights on timers, no hot water in most public restrooms—it’s a stark contrast to how we live at home. It’s not always convenient and at times very frustrating (I’ve been waiting for two days now for my one towel to air dry), but it’s certainly caused me to question how I can do things differently when I return to Brooklyn.

This conservative manner of living is also carried out in the restaurant. Our chef instructor keeps the trash under her station so that she can inspect the contents of every scrap bowl that we intend to throw out. She will physically rifle through each bowl to make sure that we are not throwing anything away that could be saved and makes certain that we aren’t hiding any badly prepped mis-en-place.

It didn’t come as any surprise that when four people in my group picked over three more heads of escarole than they were supposed to—our chef instructor insisted that we pay for them. On some levels, it’s absolutely ludicrous. Mistakes happen, escarole is cheap and it will last. It’s not as if the individuals cooked twice as many lobsters, for example, as they were supposed to. She is clearly trying to teach us a lesson, one that doesn’t go over well with a group of individuals who are unpaid (actually PAYING TO BE HERE) and treated inhumanely at times. In any event, I was sure to show up with my 30 or so cents to the dinner service this evening.

We had no reservations. Not one. I was floored and questioned how a restaurant like this could stay in business with repeated services of little to no reservations. I was assured that this was the slow season and that our executive chef’s empire—TV show, books, frozen food and cookware lines—supplement the slow periods quite generously. He also has numerous restaurants over Spain and is the most decorated Michelin star chef in this country. The slow season doesn’t leave him wanting for anything. Especially when his labor costs are practically nothing.

The ironic thing is that while we were cutting nail thin, half-inch batons of fennel for four hours last night out of the scraps of scraps of fennel pieces, an enormous amount of food was thrown out. In fact, it happens all day long. For every meat and fish dish, two pieces of protein are cooked in order to provide a backup should one not be well executed. In almost every instance, the two pieces of red mullet, for example, are cooked perfectly. Once the dish goes out, the perfectly cooked backup gets thrown out. It’s a direct contradiction to the extraordinarily conservative rules they impose on us inside of the restaurant. When we have our weekly Wednesday afternoon family meal of rice and fried eggs (no salad, no vegetables, just rice and eggs, no kidding) you can bet that the conversation almost always centers on the amount of food that gets thrown out around and in front of us. We are not allowed to save it or bring home. It is a complete waste.

Despite the escarole debacle, we had one of the most fun nights in the kitchen to date. It was largely due to the fact that our chef instructor disappeared for almost two hours and we were able to talk and relax—within reason, of course. (There is a sign in the basement of the restaurant that states, “It is absolutely forbidden to smoke.” Someone crossed out “to smoke” and replaced it with “to be happy,” which seems to say it all.) We laughed hysterically for those two hours. Nothing was particularly funny; I think being in such a strict and demanding environment eventually takes a toll and we needed a release. Some members of the pastry group, who are stationed right next to our group sneaked a couple of quenelles of coconut ice cream (my favorite) for some of us in primeras. It made me miss standing over the cookie dough bowl at the mixer with Jennny at db.

It was also during this time that Canarrio shared with us, “Three things America,” i.e. three important things about America. He is tall and too skinny, has large light brown eyes and a voice that sounds like a muppet.

“Uno,” he started, “Mac-duh-nald’s.”

“Dos,” he continued, “Boo-gare King.” He was checking these items off on one hand as he went.

And for number three, “Very important. Very important number three,” he said.

“COKE-KA COLE-AH! Yes, ha! I know this! COKE-KA COLE-AH!”

When we came home two of our flatmates had stolen a warm, dense boule of brown bread and a terrine of foie, smoked eel and caramelized granny smith apple. All twelve of us crowded and sat in the kitchen and devoured them both. It wasn’t the worst way to end a night.

Tapas—finally

I had my first real tapas experience in San Sebastian today. It. Was. Awesome.

Aroldo, Deborah, Flo and I went into the city via Euskotren—a company that runs very small trains that connect cities and towns in the Basque region. It takes less than ten minutes from Lasarte-Oria to get to San Sebastian and costs 1.40 Euro. The train is super clean, on the street level and never crowded. There are always open seats, never any shoving or pushing and no bad odors. Euskotren has the MTA beat. Hands down.

I am so overcome by San Sebastian. It is honestly one of the most beautiful cities I have ever visited. The architecture, beach and tiny streets remind me of Paris, Nice and Aix. It is small and easily navigated, charming and romantic. I am frightened by how easily I’ve fallen for it.

The Basque region, specifically San Sebastian and its outer lying towns, is known for having the best tapas in all of Spain. (The region itself has more Michelin stars per capita—a Michelin-starred cathedral of haute cuisine is how I’ve heard it referred to—than any other place in the world.) It is a worldwide gastronomic capital—people come here to eat.

In the few days I have spent bopping in and out of San Sebastian I’ve been dying to pop into a tapas bar. There are hundreds in the city. For the most part, they are tiny, lively and not necessarily aesthetically pleasing. They all have one long bar counter with plates of various tapas (pintxos or peen-chos in Basque). Some places have seating up at the bar, others have no seating whatsoever, and some have small tables alongside the bar. Regardless, they always seemed to be filled with old Spanish men chatting endlessly with each other. They remind me of the men in France playing petanque/boules in the parks.

We went into a tapas restaurant that had small tables alongside the bar. The eating process is similar to making your way through a buffet. Once the “tapastender” as I’ll call him, gave us each a plate, we were free to pick out whatever tapas suited us. We only had to keep track of how many we ate so that he could charge us accordingly.

I’m definitely a small bites eater—I’m sure there are more than a few of you who can attest to that (“Can I just have a little bite?”). Perhaps more to the point, I’m a sampler, so this whole small-bites-of-everything meal is right up my alley.

I had a pickled olive stuffed with a small green pepper (RIDICULOUSLY good) with a chunk of tuna topped with minced onions and green peppers, a fried tostada with sautéed cod, crispy shallots and red peppers, a slice of baguette with thick layers of goat cheese, and sundried tomato, capped by a caramelized cippolini onion and a cherry tomato, tender calamari pieces in squid ink, a small tart shell filled with mixed mushrooms, and a a red pepper and eggplant relish topped with one single anchovy on top of baguette. It was crazy. I was in heaven. I can’t wait to go back for more.

(bad iphone picture)

It was also one of the first days I’ve had a proper lunch with my flatmates. Arolodo is one of my favorites. He is super tall, very lanky and from the south of Spain, so he sounds like he has a permanent lisp. The first night in the flat, he spent two hours talking to me—he was also responsible for driving me earlier that afternoon to the shopping mall to get a pillow. I know now that he was trying to make me feel comfortable. He said I looked terrified.

A number of years ago, Aroldo picked up and moved from the south of Spain to England for five years. He barely spoke English when he decided to go. He lived in different parts of the country, learning English and working his way through restaurant kitchens (he had never worked in a restaurant previously), and decided, during this time, to pursue a career in the industry. Aside from an uncle who is a pastry instructor at a highly reputable culinary school in Spain, no one in his family cooks. His mother is a kindergarten teacher and his father’s family owns a small business that makes foot models for shoemakers.

He is fluent in English now and uses words like lovely, stunning (everything is stunning, like the cucumber ice cream they made in pastry last week) and aunty, which make me laugh (he tried to tell me something was super cheap today and instead said the cheapest cheaps). He told me that his first year in England was one of the most isolating and lonely years of his life due to the fact that he couldn’t speak English. He was stunned by peoples’ impatience with him and the way they made him feel stupid. Consequently, he said, he became much more sensitive to people, their backgrounds and situations more so than he ever had before. I think I am partial to Aroldo because right off the bat he told me that I could always ask him to translate and that it would never be a bother. He is enormously patient with me.

One thing that makes me sad about this experience is how the language barrier prevents me from being able to get to know people that do not speak English. I am doing my very best to learn Spanish (I ask Flo every other minute what this is, or what that is, or how do you say this and what did she say), but at this juncture, I am extremely limited. For instance, Deborah, who had lunch with us in San Sebastian today, does not speak a word of English. The conversation at the table involved Flo, Aroldo and Deborah, or Flo, Aroldo and myself. Deborah or I were inevitably left out depending on which language was being spoken. We can speak to each other via Flo and Aroldo but it gets tiresome for them. I like Deborah. She’s a very hard worker in the kitchen and she remembers things that I say I need or want to learn (if it is translated for her) and she always makes a point to do some research and find a certain store for me or get a recipe for me to copy. It baffles me that I will spend the next three months in such close proximity to her—in the flat, in the primeras group, traveling on our days off—and yet, we won’t really be able to get to know one another. We had a hysterical moment during lunch today when we all exchanged phone numbers. Flo and Aroldo were imagining what would happen if Deborah and I called each other and one of us really needed help. Neither of us would have a clue…

This goes for a number of people in our group and in the kitchen. Valentina, a girl in my primeras group, also does not speak a word of English. We originally worked on the ensalada tibia together. Over the past two weeks we have developed a very funny way of communicating with one another. In place of words are a lot of physical gestures. She told me (via Freddy) that she was sad that we couldn’t gossip together. But Valentina makes up for the lack of verbal communication between us with a lot of physical closeness—she’ll put her arm around me or hold my hand quite often. She likes to tell me how many days I have left until I will see Ol.

One issue that is not hard to discuss despite the language barrier is food. We’ve spent hours (serious hours) in our flat’s kitchen talking about different dishes, techniques, and chefs we’ve been exposed to. We talk about it all like it’s a sport. We’ve exchanged numerous recipes from kitchens like French Laundry and El Bulli. It’s any foodie’s paradise. Sometimes I wonder if I will learn more from my flatmates and their experiences than I will in the actual kitchen.

My two biggest issues in Spain (aside from not speaking Spanish)...

It's hard to see him, but the churros man and I are practically best friends.

This entry is dedicated to Bev.

For Elke and Lost fans

Yes, Elkes, I went in...

Doesn't Lost look more frightening and ominous in Spanish?

Spanish kitchen words I've learned so far...

Asparagus

Fennel

Heavy cream

Butter

French butter

Crème fraiche

Tomato

Onion

Chive

Avocado

Chervil

Herbs

Lettuce

Flowers

Favas

Color

Tweezers

Mop

Clean

Dirty

Walk-in

Fridge

Tray

Table

Low boy

Oyster

Lobster

Scissors

Upstairs

Downstairs

Fatback

Bone marrow

Foam

Fire

Spatula

Cut

Plate

Cup

Spoon

Knife

Some swears

I actually don’t know fork yet…

If you want to add, feel free!

Talent

There are some wildly talented people in the kitchen. It’s inspiring to watch them work. For the most part, they are very young. Their movements are rapid, decisive and confident. It is beautiful to watch a plate come together. Generally, it will take five people to plate one dish. Every individual has a very specific task. In the case of my dish, there is someone to put the tray on the table and wipe the plates clean, one to swipe oil across the dish, one to place the canelon on top of the oil (me), one to lay the octopus on the canelon, one to drop two spheres of foam on either side of the canelon and one to finish the foam with herbs.

This kitchen would be heaven for someone with obsessive compulsive disorder. There is an order and system to absolutely every task. Considering the process I use to melt the bone marrow to make the oyster filling for the canelon, I must use the same exact tray, spatula and spoon every single time I complete this task. I cannot use any other tool, even if it is seemingly an exact match or else there is hell to pay. Consequently, I have become crazy (as everyone else has) about keeping my tools together, in one spot, at all times. This type of repetition and exactness ensures perfection and consistency.

The chefs at db taught me well—in order to learn and do more, I have to be aggressive. Since I don’t speak the language, I have to be even more so than usual. In the first couple of days, I physically forced myself in front of others to be accessible should our chef instructor look up and need something or allow us to plate one aspect of the dish. There are simply too many stages/interns in the kitchen for the amount of work involved. I don’t know if this is typical of three star kitchens. What I do know is that I didn’t leave my husband, family and friends for three months to live in an abysmally appalling overcrowded flat to stand around, like so many do, for 73 hours a week. I am here to learn and to do as much as they are willing to allow me to do.

Last night, I was talking with my roommate, Leandro, who is Argentinean and has worked in kitchens for over ten years. I can tell that he is talented by the way he moves around the kitchen. He is confident, but not the slightest bit cocky and I appreciate that about him, especially in this environment. The executive chef and sous chefs seem to trust him implicitly. Leandro essentially works as a food stylist and crash kitchen cook for the executive chef’s tv show and is a part of the group that develops and tests new recipes for the restaurants. I can’t even being to imagine what type of skill it must take to be a part of this group. I also can’t fathom how exciting it must be to be working in such a creative capacity.

When we talked last evening, he said that he had difficulty when he first came to work in the kitchen as an intern. He has extensive experience in the kitchen and has been a sous chef multiple times in his career. His frustration came from having to operate in the kitchen as if he knew nothing. He said that he may know how to cook a perfect piece of salmon, but inside this kitchen, it is irrelevant. Unless he cooks the salmon exactly as the chefs want it—using the same method, tools and movements every single instance, he is not cooking nor knows how to cook salmon in the chefs’ point of view. It is important to operate with a perfect balance of confidence and deference.

Leandro told me that he has never seen a non-Spanish speaking individual at my station and that I should be proud. He also suggested that I continue to insert myself in the tasks and plating of other dishes so that I can move through the group and become more valuable. This means risking being screamed at by our chef instructor. For the most part, you must stay exactly where you are stationed. For example, however, there is an oyster dish our group is responsible for. Our chef instructor takes a perfectly oval shaped oyster that has been patted dry and dipped in egg whites by an intern and breads it with panko before frying it in smoking oil for a maximum of three seconds. I have physically trailed her almost every time she does this. The first few times I stood next to her she either pushed me out of the way or yelled at me to get away from her. I kept trailing her anyhow. After the next few times, she allowed me to stand there. And now, she lets me bread the oyster before she fries it. This process is all about baby steps and accepting that each baby step is going to involve some serious screaming and physical abuse.

I try to sneak into the central kitchen as much as possible. I love watching the plating, especially in the pescados group. The head chef of pescados is only 23, tall and has a booming voice that would be intimidating and scary outside of a kitchen. He is always perfectly groomed—to the point that I find it frightening and not human. He moves with such speed, it’s difficult to track him. He clearly has a sense of where people are at all times—he can have his back turned to someone and seem to be aware that they are doing something wrong. I’ve watched him turn and scream repeatedly. He has an amazing ability to keep his group in perfect order. Whether it is civilized is no matter—what is important is putting out a perfect plate.

One thing I’ve figured out is how to read the tickets and determine how many canelons I have on the board. This has helped me enormously and freed me from looking around nervously (a kiss of death…immediate pulling from the station) for someone to help me. I’m no longer as dependent on people as I was even just a few days ago. My chef instructor makes me keep my notebook, where I must track all of our group’s dishes out on the table. She constantly checks my chart—organized by table and number of dishes—to make sure that I have it correct. She will walk over, glance at it and then glare at me. This means it is right. It’s not a particularly friendly or sweet rapport. Even if I do well, I don't think we will be pen pals after this.

Our group is getting more competitive. At this stage, we are separated by people who have been aggressive and earned their plates/stations and people who have hung back and consequently stand for most of the service. It’s an awkward separation and has fostered an every-man-for-himself feeling. Outside of the kitchen, it dissipates.

The mini/fake sous chef of our group, however, tries to keep things light. He is from the Canary Islands, so everyone calls him Canarrio. His real name is Jonathon, although every individual on staff is identified, no matter how politically incorrect, by their country name. (On a really twisted level, for instance, Masa, from Tokyo, is called the Chino, which is obviously just so wrong on so many levels, I can’t go there.) In any event, any time anyone does anything right or well in our group, Canarrio will pass them and say, “Yes We Can! Obama!” which is pretty much the only English that he knows. He especially likes sharing this phrase with me, when he is not playing the imaginary bongos with empty water bottles and our chef instructor is nowhere to be found.

Punished

I feel like I’ve been sent to detention. There is absolutely no room for error here. At times, it is difficult to determine what may or may not be the right thing to do. As our chef instructor told us, we are not supposed to think—we are supposed to listen and do whatever it is that she tells us. This is completely contrary, of course, to when she asks us if we have functioning brains.

Las, a very tall, lanky guy who lives in France, but is from Mali, took advantage of a slow moment in the lunch service to practice swiping oil across the plate. When our chef instructor turned around and saw what he was doing, she threw a spatula at his head, which hit the glass wall, and sent him to production. There are two different forms of punishment here: early arrival or production. (Production involves assisting with family meal, checking in food items, cleaning random parts of the restaurant—essentially nothing to do with service.)

My punishment is that I have to go in early tomorrow. I feel like a five-year-old—I might as well take a time out in the corner while I’m at it. I was accused of and grouped with people who are not cleaning enough. It makes me furious. I am definitely not a person who hangs back or makes myself scarce when it comes time to doing the dirty work. It’s a fundamental part of working in a kitchen and ensures that things run smoothly and efficiently.

Not shockingly, for almost every person in the “bad” group, Spanish is not their first language. She picked out five people for the “good” group and three happen to be from Argentina—the same country she is from. I’m going to go ahead and say that I think she’s being prejudiced. When it came time to clean tonight, the good people were allowed to stand around and watch the bad people take care of everything.

This punishment came after a really great dinner service, too. I was able to check my email in between services (on good days, we get siesta for two hours) and I got a very encouraging email from my Executive Sous Chef at db (Thanks, Alex!). It allowed me to put things in perspective, relax and try to have a little bit more confidence.

Tonight was the first service we’ve had that’s been busy. I’ve been shocked by how slow lunch and dinner seem to be. Apparently, this is traditionally one of the slowest times of the year. We might have just eight people come through for lunch—a drastic difference from a 100-150 person (or more) lunch at db, for example. The push is dissimilar because it’s not volume focused—getting a plate out here is an exercise in concentration, rapid movement, communication and muscle memory.

But we were the busiest we’ve been this evening since I’ve been here and the tables came all at once. It was refreshing to have so much adrenaline pumping and to have a greater sense of urgency than just achieving a perfect dish. Tonight, it really felt like we were working as and in a team—there was a nice flow. For me, this feeling is addictive.

I felt more confident this evening. We had eight tables at once and I was organized, prepared and knew what was going on without having to consult with any members of my group (more on my rapidly expanding Spanish vocabulary later!). The plating started to feel natural, I was more fluid than I’ve been and I reached for things without thinking. At one point, the Sous Chef even told my chef instructor to move out of the way so that I could do something by myself. It made me feel good.

Maybe I’m a baby, but that good feeling was taken away from me when I got “punished.” I’m definitely cranky and I walked ahead of Flo home from the restaurant this evening. It’s basically the first time we’ve really been separated since we’ve arrived. I just didn’t want to talk to anybody and that’s fairly difficult when you live with 12 people. I know it’s not personal, but right now, I’m not taking it in stride.

I don’t want to sound down on everything; I have lots of good things to report, too. I’m going to go to bed with the hope that six hours of sleep will make me feel differently.

Suffering sleep deprivation

I reread my last blog entry and I apologize. It was so grammatically incorrect and poorly written that it made me cringe. I am writing these entries after 1:00 AM and posting them whenever I have the chance to connect to the internet. I posted a revised entry below. Forgive me!

Victory

I had a major victory today. In order to move past primeras, or any group for that matter, you must rotate through all of your group’s dishes. Our chef instructor moved me from Ensalada Tibia to the Canelon de Pulpo. I am the first one in our group to be moved from one dish to another.

I am still trying to determine all of the components of the dish. From an aesthetic perspective, the ingredients are plated on a round white plate that has a molded bowl in its center. To start, a 3-inch thick swipe of a spicy oil is painted (with a thick paint brush) across the plate horizontally. The canelon, which is comprised of fatback carpaccio and an oyster and bone marrow mixture, is placed at an angle, vertically, across the swipe. Two pieces of sliced octopus top the ends of the canelon and an additional mixture, which I have yet to determine, tops the octopus discs. On either side of the canelon, a pair of soapy, melting foam spheres are gently dropped onto the plate and finished with a red and green herb.

My job is to slightly melt the bone marrow, leaving chunks still intact. The bone marrow is strained to rid the chunks of the liquid fat and mixed with minced oyster, shallot, chive, mustard, Tabasco, Worcestershire and a type of tomato sauce. Once everything has been combined, I fill the canelon down its center and wrap the mixture from either side, forming a long tube or canelon (cannelloni) with the fatback carpaccio. The canelon is quickly put under the salamander to melt the fatback just until the moment it turns translucent and then placed on the plate by rolling it off its slip of parchment with a spatula.

My heart pounded at a rate that made me feel like it was visible through my veins. During the lunch service, my chef instructor did not allow me to physically perform any of the steps mentioned above. I was instructed to watch and to listen. I attached myself to her like a magnet, ridiculously moving my hands to mimic her movements to get a sense of how to form the canelon and get it from the slip of parchment to the plate.

Finally, our chef instructor gave me the chance to do everything myself once the dish was fired. (I have a very difficult time following service. It’s not a difficult system, but the language barrier presents significant obstacles for me. When tickets are called, I panic a bit because I have to look around, watch what teams are moving into action and ask if the course is being called or fired. I don’t like being so dependent on other people and not being able to automatically know what’s going on. I will never take working in an English-speaking environment for granted again.)

I had been repeating the steps to myself in my head before the dish was called so that I would hopefully execute everything properly and quickly. She kept barking RAPIDA into my ear. Without having practiced the dish, I feared my movements would be awkward, superfluous and take more time than they should. Part of being “good” in a kitchen is having developed muscle memory that allows you to move without thinking. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to plate the dish quickly, but I wanted to do it right so that I didn’t lose my chance to stay on this Canelon de Pulpo.

My chef instructor stood as close to me as she could, talking in Spanish without stopping. She examined every single movement I made and to be honest, I blocked her out. The part that was going to be difficult was not letting the very slippery canelon slop onto the plate from the parchment and break open. Somehow, I nailed it. I think she was surprised—her eyes said as much. Then she actually said, “Muy bueno. Muy, muy beuno. Muy beuno.”

One tiny little task and holy crap, I felt like I had split the atom.

Got Milk...in Lasarte

Flo and I are staying put

Flo and I had discussed the possibility of moving out of our flat and finding a rental. Having one bathroom in an apartment of 12 is a serious challenge. When we get home in the evening, all 12 of us want to shower. The other evening (when our hot water returned), I didn’t get to shower until 2:15 in the morning because I had to wait so long for the people before me to finish. That’s tough when you’ve worked a 16-hour day and need to get up at 7:30 the next morning.

But we are not moving. We love our flatmates already and too much. They are wonderful, warm and make our gross flat feel like a home. We stayed up for a couple hours last night talking in the kitchen, having an English/Spanish session with Wonder, Flo, Amir and Leandro. Wonder is trying so hard to speak English and he is tentative and nervous and always asks me how his pronunciation is (last night he wanted to learn “bad” words, so every time someone walked in the kitchen he said “Hey! A--hole!”). I don’t know if it’s a European thing or what, but our flatmates are incredibly tactile. For instance, Wonder holds my hand or puts his hand on my shoulder when he talks to me. Our flatmates like to be close to you and it has nothing whatsoever to do with any possible attraction (no one in our flat is romantically involved). At the end of our working day, there is a girl named Valentina, from Argentina, who grabs my face and kisses both of my cheeks with hard, deliberate and loud movements before we leave to go home. It’s sweet and very different from how we interact in the United States. It also takes a little getting used to.

Once we decided that we were in the flat for good, Arnoldo took us to the shopping mall to buy some things that make life a little bit easier in the flat, like a small stand to put our bathroom items on next to the sink. I bought a comforter and put it on top of the mattress but underneath the fitted sheet to make it softer and to protect myself from the protruding coils. It made a huge difference. We also rounded up a couple of additional blankets so that I don’t have to sleep in leggings, fleece pants and a running top anymore. It feels a little bit more civilized, even if I have to change in the bathroom or under my covers like I'm a 12-year gold girl at summer camp.

When it got down to it, we chose people over comfort. I think it will make all the difference in the next three months.

Weekend!

We stayed out until 7:00 AM on Sunday night/Monday morning. It has to be the latest I’ve ever stayed out in my life. On Sundays, we only work through lunch service as the restaurant is closed Sunday evening. Unlike most restaurant schedules, we have a true weekend. Sunday afternoon, Monday and Tuesday equal a traditional Friday afternoon through Sunday. We are back at it Wednesday morning. It amounts to 73 hours in five days.

Some of our flatmates, Arnoldo, Maria, Florencia, Amir, Palafox, Borja, Leandro, and I, started the evening with tapas at a small bar, Epel, down the street from our flat. The small, dingy and fluorescent-lit space was completely packed. It was 11:00 on a Sunday night and people of all ages were still out, eating and socializing with no intention of going home. I told my flatmates that I had never had dinner so late and that I was shocked that on a Sunday evening people would still be out. My flatmates made fun of and laughed at me. Americans eat so early, they exclaimed! Even old people in Spain eat and stay out late. What was wrong with us?

We ordered delicious meatballs, Albondigas, sitting in a small layer of fat that never congealed and was sopped up by dense, moist pieces of baguette. We had fried potato wedges covered in mayonnaise and ketchup and creamy croquetas that I would subsist on for the rest of my life if I could. San Miguels were in no short supply. At this rate, I might return to the United States looking like I did when I got back from being abroad in Aix, like une petite vache or a little cow as my host mother called me.

After we finished eating, we went to a small bar that had a pool table and table soccer. The bartender, Nia knows all of my flatmates and speaks very limited English. She looked like an East Village transplant—slightly hipsterish with multiple facial piercings hair that was both bleached and died black. She made a deal with me—she would help me learn Spanish if and I would help her learn English. She knows far more English than I do Spanish. She gave me a strawberry lollipop before we left.

We spent the rest of the evening and morning in San Sebastian. The city is stunning. The architecture reminds me of Paris. It is romantic and soft and elegant and in certain pockets, on certain bridges, you stand over the ocean. There is one bar in San Sebastian where all of the cooks from our kitchen go, Tastas, and every cook was out. It is clear that everyone knows that I am American, because I couldn’t move an inch without someone saying, “Hello, how are you?” in a very thick, heavy Spanish accent and then laughing like they had made a joke.

After Tastas we went to a disco bar, a discotheque, essentially a club that was right on the beach. I felt like I was in college and had a moment with myself that I was too old to be doing this. The age range of the cooks spans (on average) 21-34, but it seems that there are fewer of us on the higher end of this spectrum. But for however old I may have felt, I had a great time. It was nice to be out of the kitchen and to able to talk with people (those that I could communicate with) outside of the primeras group. We are not permitted to talk in the kitchen (aside from necessary, fundamental communication regarding work), so it felt good to let loose and get to know people on a personal level.

I couldn’t believe that we walked through our flat door at 6:59 in the morning and again, my flatmates laughed at my disbelief. It’s not late! This is normal! It felt anything but…

We got up at 1:30 in the afternoon. I felt incredibly disoriented and anxious. I am so accustomed to getting up early in the morning, doing errands, laundry and being productive, so to speak. My flatmates were leisurely. They made a large meal of pasta, salmon, broccoli and onions. I pulled out my yogurt and museli and Arnoldo asked what I was doing. I told him I was eating breakfast. “You are part of this family now and we eat together.” They are lovely people. And again, they laughed at me. Flo told me I have to relax and stop being so “American.”

73 Hours in Five Days

Make no mistake—we are here to work in this kitchen and do nothing else. I’m beginning to think that our living conditions are as appalling as they are in order to reinforce that notion. We work from 8:30 AM to 12:30 AM or later, depending on the number of reservations, go home, shower, sleep, and repeat the process the next day. We haven’t had hot water in the flat, so Florencia, or Flo, my bunkmate and I have had to pack a bag, trek back to the restaurant and shower in the basement bathroom. It’s a process that is not welcomed after a 16-hour work day, when somehow my unpadded mattress with exposed coils and two fake fleece (if there is such a thing) and wool blend blankets inside my cigarette smoke infested flat are calling my name.

It’s amazing how people bond under these types of conditions. Unfortunately, the cliché proves true—misery does love company. There is an enormous amount of commiserating going on (and a lot of talk about finding rental apartments or “getting the hell out of this place” altogether), which has pulled people together from all corners of the globe. Flo mentioned to me today that the first and last time she ever slept in a bunkbed was when she did volunteer work in Uganda and I (terribly, I admit, I know it was wrong, it’s sounds very unsympathetic and uneducated and awful) told her that our entire situation was probably very similar to life in Uganda anyhow.

For an environment that is utterly cutthroat and competitive (at the lowest level people will steal brooms out of each others hands in order to make it look like they are doing the most work), most of the kitchen staff is friendly and warm with each other, so long as you can exude the sense that you know what you are doing. I can’t say that I expected this, especially in a three star kitchen. I thought, perhaps, that due to the fact our chef-instructor is so incredibly demeaning (You’re so stupid! Do you even have a brain up there you SOB?!), that our group has been spared the normal kitchen hazing that might take place otherwise. There is definitely a certain amount of sympathy that is expressed for people in her group.

When our chef-instructor is out of earshot, there is a lot of translating going on. In my case, Pablo, who speaks only Spanish, will speak to Las, who speaks both Spanish and French and will speak to me in French. I then (obviously) speak to myself, translating the French into English. In some instances, it takes a village, and I am truly grateful for the effort. The amount of gesturing, the close talking and the stares that will understanding are simultaneously amusing and frustrating. I’m not sure that anyone is speaking in full sentences—there are a lot of basic words being thrown around to get the point across (so long as I am in the picture).

My brain is working overtime. If I don’t have my eyes on every demonstration, I miss out completely. I can’t passively listen or be a lazy listener; I am desperate to understand everything and at the end of the day, I understand almost nothing. It makes my brain hurt. Although a lot is translated for me, it is mostly truncated due to time, ease and making sure that our chef-instructor does not hear the translation. I end up missing a lot of the little stuff—the insights regarding method and theory—the real important tidbits. It makes me miss my chef at db. I miss his phrases that will be forever engrained in my brain—low and slow, treat the gas like a car pedal—the tweaks that make my cooking just a little bit easier and better. I think I mostly miss the time he took with me to teach me because he thought I was worth it. No hablo Espagnol and consequently, I’m not worth the time.

I don’t like constantly asking for translations because it feels like I’m a bother, but if I don’t, I’m completely left in the dark. There is a 32-year-old Portuguese man, Freddy, who speaks Portuguese, Spanish and English in our group who looked at me funny when he entered our kitchen. (A significant majority of people that pass me in the kitchen that I have never met before now greet me with some English word—I constantly feel like I have a sign plastered on my apron that says, I AM AMERICAN. I ONLY SPEAK ENGLISH UNLIKE EVERYONE ELSE HERE.) When our chef-instructor had left the kitchen, Freddy came up to me, introduced himself and explained the funny look. He had recognized me from the Institute of Culinary Education, where we were students at the same time, albeit in different classes. Unfortunately, I didn’t remember his face, but I’m glad he remembered mine. He wears very rectangular glasses and has wildly thick black hair that makes his hat shift positions on his head so that the tie or bow part that should be in the back at the base of his neck ends up on the side of his head.

Freddy is my lifeline. Maybe it’s the ICE connection, or the fact that I endlessly praised Degustation, the restaurant he worked at in the city, but he is incredibly patient with me and translates almost everything when the time permits. I would be far more lost without him.

I have a good understanding of how service works having worked through five at this point. The servers come into the center of the kitchen, post hand-written tickets, and read the entire ticket into a microphone. There is a response on the part of the kitchen, “Oido,” which acknowledges the server and the called ticket. The server then returns to the center of the kitchen and fires specific courses as the table becomes ready for them. Plates are placed on a rectangular, modern-looking, black mahogany tray and brought to the center of the kitchen for inspection and then to a small table just outside the doors that separate the kitchen from the dining room. The cook indicates to the server which table the plates are for and once the server has acknowledged this information, “Mesa cinquo, Oido,” they pick up the trays and take them to the dining room. There is never any deviation from this system.

I was terrified the first time I picked up a tray from our kitchen and brought it to the small table. It took me three services until I forced myself to do it; the best way to succeed in a kitchen is to know how to do absolutely everything, especially the small stuff. It simply makes you more valuable. I was nervous that I wouldn’t properly pronounce the table number and that the server wouldn’t understand me and I would get in trouble. It’s not terribly difficult, however, and I needed to get over the mental hump that was keeping me paralyzed in our respective kitchen. The second time I took a tray out to the drop-off table, the plates were for table R3. Instead of properly rolling the R like the Spanish do, I pronounced the R with a French accent. The head server, or captain, Fillipe, looked at me funny and made me say it again and again until finally he pronounced the rolled R and made me repeat it after him. (He found this amusing and was laughing while I tried maneuvering my tongue). The next time I had to take a tray for an “R” table, I nailed the pronunciation in front of an audience of servers and they all put their arms up in the air like they were cheering and said, “Yes! Si!” A small victory.

We have been assigned to specific dishes within our group (our group, Primeras, is responsible for four total dishes) and mine is Ensalada Tibia. It is stunning and colorful but serene on the whole and I love it. The dish is presented on a white rectangular plate that has a shallow but wide indentation in its middle. A tomato consume made with Agar Agar is very carefully and slowly poured onto the dish to just fill the indentation. It must not go over the edge of this gully, so to speak. The dish is then placed in the refrigerator, where the tomato consume turns into a gelatin. Right before service, the dish is taken out of the refrigerator and two paper thin slices of Avocado, which must be perfectly green—a graduation of dark green to light from the outsides to the inside of the strip—are rolled like fruit roll-ups and placed vertically in the middle of the gelatin. Four baby lettuce leaves (two romaine, one spinach, one red leaf) are placed on top of a small scattering of yellow frisee and around the avocado. The avocado pieces then become hidden—a small surprise inside the miniature salad. On the outsides of the salad, two chive batons, exactly the same size, are placed vertically on the dish and then rested on the salad leaves. Ten fava beans, covered in an oyster aioli-like mixture, are separated into two groups of five and make small footprints on the outer edges of the gelatin. Next to each grouping of fava footprints is one spring onion (two total on the plate) that are laid on one side with the bulb facing towards the top of the plate and on the other side with the bulb facing towards the bottom of the plate. Miniature flowers with colors like violet, rose, baby blue, aubergine, mustard orange and yellow and one parsley leaf with three segments are made to look like they fell on the gelatin, scattered with no certain pattern, when in fact they are placed in precise locations with tweezers. The dish is finished with two pieces of lobster—one claw piece and one tail piece—at two and seven o’clock, seven dots of salsa verde, four dots of an oyster and lobster aioli, a parsley vinaigrette for the salad and one half sphere of tomato pulp at four o’clock topped with a chervil leaf with three segments.

The dish is tedious and time consuming. Everything is placed on the plate with long, oversized tweezers. It’s like playing a prolonged game of Operation, but instead of the buzzer going off when you hit the side, there is a crazy lady chef who screams at you when you place something incorrectly. For instance, once a component is laid and positioned on the gelatin, it cannot be moved. If it is moved, it will create tracks and disrupt the surface of the gelatin. The surface must stay completely smooth and even so that it appears like tinted glass or like very light brown lenses in sunglasses where you can still see people’s eyes clearly looking out at you.

One thing that really bugs me is having the feeling that my chef-instructor thinks I’m stupid. She seems to equate the communication barrier with stupidity and it drives me nuts and makes me feel small and inconsequential. She constantly pulls or yanks on my arm to move me out of position. We are only allowed to plate at her prompting and she will hover and stare and scream until you are finished plating. The best feeling I have had in the kitchen was during the third service, when she finally pushed me in front of the plates and allowed me to season the salad with pepper and to place the small piece of chervil on top of the tomato pulp. It was another small victory, but exhausting to achieve. I really do have to put in twice as much as everyone’s best efforts in order to earn my right to do anything and to prove that I have a functioning brain. Even though I know how to do more, I am not allowed to do anything but what she permits. It makes me want to stick my knife through my eye. This applies to everyone, however, and has nothing to do with the fact that I don’t speak Spanish.

The Candy Man

One of my roommates (actual room/bunk-mates) goes to sleep eating candy. He has big boxes of SweetTarts and Gobstoppers in his suitcase. I can hear him chomping away on the hard bits before he dozes off and snores worse than Ol when he’s sick. We just had this very intelligent and enlightening conversation:

ME: “You eat so much candy. You are like the candy man!”

PALAFOX: “Yes, I like candy very much. Do you like candy? Heh, heh, heh.”

(Palafox speaks like a cartoon character. I feel as though I'm talking to Speedy Gonzalez. He is Mexican and punctuates every sentence with a Beavis and Butthead laugh.)

ME: “It’s not my favorite, I like desserts.”

PALAFOX: “Oh. Do you know what candy I like in USA? Wonka. I like the Wonka candies. Heh, heh, heh.”

ME: “I like Wonka, too. I love Nerds. I like the pink and green ones.”

PALAFOX: “Do you like Gopstopper? Heh, heh, heh.”

ME: “Gobstobbers?”

PALAFOX: “Si. Heh, heh, heh.”

ME: “They are OK.”

PALAFOX: “Here, take two. Heh, heh, heh.”

ME: “No thank you.”

PALAFOX: “Why you not take two? Please. Heh, heh, heh.”

ME: “OK.”

PALAFOX: “Do you like SweetTarts? Heh, heh, heh.”

ME: “Not really.”

PALAFOX: “Take a SweetTarts. Heh, heh, heh.”

ME: “I’m OK. I haven’t finished my Gobstoppers.”

PALAFOX: “You are slow. Heh, heh, heh.”

ME: “That’s because I don’t like to bite them like you do, it’s bad for your teeth.”

PALAFOX: “But it’s muy bueno for tongue! Heh, heh, heh, heh, heh, heh, heh.”

He stared at my mouth until I had just finished my Gobstoppers and then said, “Ok. Now, SweetTarts.” I was scared he was never going to let me stop eating his candy and move away from my bunk. I felt like a Pez dispenser that he kept loading up.

This is Palafox. And this is what Palafox does all the time—sleep, in his clothes, in weird positions, with no blankets.

Day One, One Day Later

(I haven't had an internet connection since Thursday, so I have to post these entries at once. It's frustrating, but hopefully we will figure out how to get internet in our flat soon.)

We spent at least fours hours on the morning of our first day cleaning the restaurant. I use cleaning loosely—we essentially cleared out the resulting debris from a demolition and renovation. The amount of dust in the air had to be toxic. We used our bare hands to pick up piles of swept junk. My non-calloused, two month kitchen-leave-of-absence palms, were quickly and jarringly reintroduced to manual labor. Once we had scrubbed, scoured and cleaned the kitchen from floor to ceiling, we hauled all of the restaurant equipment down to the forks, knives and spoons, up three flights of stairs. Just the day before, I could not comprehend how the kitchen would be assembled on time. I was shocked at how relatively quick the process went. I guess many hands make light work, and more to the point, free work according to our employers/captors.

The kitchen is mesmerizing. Everything gleams, is state of the art and pristine. The number of cooks is baffling; in a quick glance, I counted just over 60. Having only cooked in a New York City kitchen, I am accustomed to small, windowless basements. The section of the kitchen that I work out of has one full wall with floor to ceiling glass windows and exposed caramel stained beams. There is a dense, lush and well-manicured hedge that grows on the outside of the wall, obstructing any view we may have had, but it’s still refreshing by comparison.

Within this enormous arena, there is a central kitchen in which tickets are called, plates are inspected and the carnes and pesces are cooked. It should come as no surprise that in the very heart of the room, the center of the kitchen universe, around which all activity flows, the Executive Chef and Sous Chefs congregate. Radiating off of this point are three separate kitchens for production, pastry, and primeras. I was chosen to be part of the primeras (starters) group.

It’s not like I was hand selected—we were in the center of the kitchen and the sous chefs literally grabbed bunches of people to form their respective teams. Work experience and specialty were rendered irrelevant.

Our chef-instructor reminds me of the schoolteacher in Matilda. She is relatively short, with hard brown eyes, non-descript brown hair and a slight overbite. Her jaw structure reminds me of a Simpsons character. I’ve since been told by some of our roommates—veterans of the kitchen at this point—that the other head chefs believe she is mentally unbalanced. There are many rumors that circulate about her, my favorite being that she was a nun and got kicked out of her convent.

As soon as we entered our area of the kitchen, she lined us up against the back wall and started yelling at us. We were like small school children at recess being yelled at by our teacher. It was amazing! We hadn’t even done anything yet! I was standing with my hands on my hips and when she made eye contact with me she marched over and pulled my arms down in one swoop. She pointed in my face and repeated NO over and over. She made a show of the fact that hands could not be in pockets nor clasped in front of or behind your body. Instead, they could only be at your sides when you were “at attention.” If not, she made a motion to the door. Did I understand her? I told her yes. She went through the charade again and instead of motioning to the door, she drew her hand across her neck. Did I understand her? Yes—thanks to her universal gesture. Hands anywhere but at my sides equaled execution. So far, so good.

She also indicated that for the three of us in the group who do not speak Spanish (myself, a Japanese man, and a Malaysian woman), we would not receive any help from her nor from any members of our group. We had to acknowledge that we had chosen to come to her country and we had to adapt accordingly. The fact that we didn’t understand Spanish was not her concern—we could plan on spending a lot of time watching everyone else unless we learned the language. So far, so awesome.

Her attitude astounded me, made me sad, confused and nervous. Communication in all kitchens is essential, no matter how many stars it may or may not have. There are too many variables at play—safety, quality, efficiency to name a few—that depend on articulate and clear direction. Communication is the foundation and glue that enables a kitchen to function at its highest level by executing whatever systems are in place. Not surprisingly, I had my doubts regarding how well I would perform in a kitchen in which I didn’t understand the language. I expressed this concern to the stage recruiter once I had been accepted. She assured me that not speaking Spanish would not be a problem and that people came from all over the world. What she failed to mention was that “all over the world” really meant only SPANISH SPEAKING COUNTRIES. While there are very few of us in the kitchen that do not speak Spanish, fortunately, there are many that speak English. It is humbling. The majority of kitchen staff is trilingual.

It’s not that I expected encouragement or positive reinforcement during this experience. People who need constant approval and caretaking do not do well in kitchen environments. However, I expected a little bit more of an “I’ll work with you if you work with me” type of attitude. I couldn’t have been more wrong. I realized this—I was going to have to work twice as hard as everyone in my group, individuals already working their hardest in order to get something out of these three months. I was going to have to bust my you-know-what ten times over to earn my right to be given tasks, to plate food, and to be involved in service.

Our chef-instructor made it clear that the chefs would accept nothing less than perfection. It had to be the foremost thought on our minds. And this absolute perfection extended to everything—perfectly white, pressed chef jackets, perfectly ironed black pants, perfectly starched aprons, perfectly coiffed hair, perfectly swept and scrubbed floor, perfectly cleaned out trash bin—you get the idea.

We cut a tub (that I could fit into) full of fennel into 1/2-inch batons that were sliced as thin as my nail for hours and hours. I didn’t mind the work—in fact, I was relieved to have something to do that I understood. I felt even better when our mini chef-instructors, two experienced stages who have been elevated to head-of-the-group status, commented on my muy bueno knife skills and used my batons as examples for the group.

We only worked an 11-hour day (as opposed to 16) and I was exhausted. I was happy to hear Wonder call out, “How was your day Al-lay-jahn-dreet-ah?” when I walked through our flat door.

Two Items

I forgot to mention two items yesterday:

1. There is an American kid in my flat. (There are currently four American stages, including myself, at the restaurant, out of approximately 38 stages total.) He came into the kitchen last night and asked if anyone wanted to take “knife hits” with him. I told him I wasn’t sure what “knife hits” were, but I was sure I didn’t want to take one with him. He asked one of our Spanish roommates if he wanted to join in or did he mind if he started to take “knife hits.” Our Spanish roommate kindly declined and then looked at me and said, “I’m thinking of an expression Americans use.” He thought for a moment and then looked at the American kid and said, “It’s a free country man, you can do whatever you want.”

(In case you were wondering, knife hits are taken by heating up two everyday knives over a stove flame, putting hash between the heated knives, and inhaling the smoke that comes from the "cooked" hash.)

2. I met the man, the myth, the legend yesterday—in other words, the Executive Chef/Owner of the restaurant, which bears his name. (I am tentative to identify the restaurant and therefore his name, as he is known all over the world.) Directly after meeting Sany—previously Sunny, in my last entry, but I’ve since been corrected—she brought me to his private apartment above the restaurant to meet him. I’m not sure why she did this, but in hindsight, I’m glad I wasn’t aware of what we were about to do. Think cold sweats and panic—two responses I've become very familiar with in the past couple of days.

He was eating lunch when we walked in and he pulled a chair out for me to sit next to him. Sany stood off to the side. The whole set-up made me very uncomfortable. For starters, I was meeting a legend—culinary royalty. What really unnerved me for some reason in that moment was why we ALL couldn’t sit at the table TOGETHER.

In any event, when we established that I spoke French, the legend, (as I will refer to him) and I were able to converse. When we established that I worked for Daniel Boulud, or more specifically, at a Daniel Boulud restaurant, his entire face lit up. He went on about what a close friend he was and how he visited in November and how lucky I was to work for him. I agreed, of course. And then he got a phone call and I was literally whisked out of the room by Sany and another woman.

This morning, when he entered the kitchen and greeted everyone, he came over to me, shook my hand and said, “Bonjour!” It made me happy.