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.