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.