Here they lie before you, not reflecting light but absorbing it. They don’t shine like the commercial novelties on television. No, they are professionals—hand-folded virgin carbon steel. A bloomy patina colors each of them, nearly obscuring the signature of their maker. To some people, this gives the kit the tatty look of disuse. For you, it does the opposite. You see care and commitment in their dusky finish. You see a decade of daily work: a farm’s worth of produce cut, whole schools of fish filleted, entire flocks of lamb broken, thousands of hungry mouths fed. You see their maker’s hand in crafting them so well that they would last you this long. And you see a lifetime more in them, so long as you remain committed to keeping them clean and rust-free and razor-sharp.
Stefan, the closing sous chef, is due in shortly, and Bryan, the executive chef, won’t be too far behind him. You’ve been here almost an hour; the real work must begin. Espresso jolts you into action.
You start by greeting anybody who might be in the kitchen. There aren’t many people in at this hour—an A.M. prep cook, a baker maybe, a dishwasher or two—but you must see them and shake their hands. It’s an opportunity to confirm that anybody who is supposed to be in is in, and that everybody is working on something constructive. It’s also an opportunity to let them know that you are here, in case they get the idea to mess around. Moreover, it’s a signal of respect. A handshake in the morning is an important mutual acknowledgment of the fact that outside our work, we are all human beings, not just cooks or chefs or dishwashers.
“Dimelo, baby,” you say to Kiko, the senior dishwasher.
“¿Que onda, güero?” he says, turning from the slop sink to greet you. His hands are perpetually wet; he extends one out for the shake.
“Where’s Don Rojas?” you ask. “He’s here?”
“Sí, papito, ahi atrás.”
“Bravo,” you say. “¿Todo bien contigo?”
“Sí, güey. Siempre.”
You make your way to the back prep area—the production kitchen—to greet Rogelio, the A.M. prep cook. He’s loading split veal shins into a fifty-gallon cauldron. His forearms are thick and rippled from decades on the steam kettles and tilt skillets. You shake his hand and leave him to his work.
After the greetings, it’s time to do the rounds. First is a walk-through of the line.
The line is the nexus of the kitchen—the main stage, where thrills reside. It’s where the cooking gets done, where mise en place is transformed into meals, moment by moment, hour by hour, day by day. The three-hundred-square-foot section of the kitchen where half a dozen cooks and chefs work long into the night, straying seldom but moving much.
Our line—generously sized and uncommonly well appointed for a downtown New York restaurant with ninety seats—is set up in the traditional fashion, with Escoffier’s brigade system in mind. The hot side is T-shaped, with a made-to-measure Bonnet stove as its centerpiece. This five-by-fifteen-foot gas range of Herculean capabilities is the island suite around which the cooks run their various stations. At the far corners of the range are a grill and a plancha, for meat and fish roasting; in the center are a row of steel-grid burners, a pasta cooker, and a fryolator; at the near end are a pair of cast-iron flat-tops. Above the stovetop is an open-flame salamander and some pan shelving; below is a fleet of gas ovens and hot cupboards.
Perpendicular to this apparatus and forming the horizontal line of our T is the pass—le passage. The pass is composed very simply of a flat, sturdy stainless-steel table, above which hangs a set of telescoping heat lamps and below which rests an assortment of clean china. It’s called the pass because this is where the cooks pass their food to Chef for plating, and where Chef passes the food to the back waiters for serving. Nothing comes or goes in the kitchen without a stop at le passage.
Flanking our T on either side is a row of lowboy refrigerators, one a mirror image of the other. The lowboys hold the cooks’ cold mise en place throughout service. They also act as work surfaces, upon which the cooks do their cutting and seasoning and arranging of ingredients. Above the lowboys are welded shelves that hold the sections’ printers and ticket racks, along with some side materials—C-folds, gloves, bar mops, etcetera. Below the lowboys lie the black carpet runners, which keep the cooks from slipping as the tile floors get slick with this or that refuse throughout the night.
Our cold side is set up to the right of the T, beyond the fish station’s lowboy. The cold side is home to garde manger and pastry. It’s composed of a roll-in freezer, two lowboys, and a connecting table that combine to form a narrow U shape inside which two people can work comfortably. Since most of the food emanating from this section is cold, the emphasis here is on refrigeration. There is not much in the way of heat, not even a gas feed. The two stations are rigged up sparingly with two induction burners, a circulator, and an electric tabletop convection oven, nothing more.
These two areas, the hot and cold sides of the line, are central to the restaurant, both spatially and ideologically. The entire operation revolves around them. Without a kitchen there is no restaurant; without a strong line there is no kitchen. Therefore, it is essential to maintain cleanliness and order in these areas.
When they arrive in the morning, Rogelio and Kiko perform an opening routine. They turn on all the equipment: ovens, fryers, flat-tops, and hoods. They deliver health code supplies to every section: sanitizer buckets, latex gloves, fancy caps, and probes. They re-up the stations with all the basics: pepper mills and saltshakers, as well as ninth pans for mise en place and squeeze bottles for fats and acids. In your walk-through, you double-check this work. You also double-check the work of the cooks from the night before, their scrupulousness with the closing procedures. You make sure that any mise en place left over in their lowboys from last night has been consolidated, properly labeled, and neatly organized. You make sure that their ovens and fridges have been thoroughly cleaned. You make sure that the prep lists they’ve written for themselves are clear and comprehensive. Then you check the equipment. You make sure that all the fridges are holding a temperature below 40°F, to prevent bacterial development. You make sure that all the pilot lights are lit and that the burners are running clear. You make sure that all the hand sinks are stocked with soap and C-folds, that they’re streaming both hot and cold water, and that their drain screens are free of debris. Finally, you make sure that all the hinges, handles, knobs, gaskets, and spouts are gunk-free, that everything, every corner, every tabletop, every surface, looks shipshape, like new, next to godliness. These are the conditions we need in order to cook well.
After the line, it’s time to hit the storage fridges—the walk-in boxes. The watchwords here are the same as on the line—cleanliness and order—but each walk-in also requires its own specific attention.
You start with the fish box. A briny waft of sea air strikes you as you enter. This is good. If another aroma hits you—of chemicals, say, or rot—you know something is wrong, perhaps expensively so. Fish is the most delicate of all foodstuffs in the kitchen. It has the shortest shelf life, the highest price tag, and the weakest constitution. The flesh is easily damaged, and exposure to temperature fluctuations can denature its physical properties. It easily takes on an unattractive “fishy” smell. It becomes mealy. It develops slime. Not only do these transformations happen quickly, but they can also be of great detriment to the cooking process. The minutest degradation of quality impacts the ability of a given piece of fish to undergo the administration of heat. It loses its capacity to retain moisture; it fails to take a sear; it crumples, falls limp, goes floppy. This can harm the business significantly. There is an expectation among discerning diners that fish be cooked to perfection. In their minds, it is a chance for the chef to exhibit his skill, or lack thereof. People know that cooking beautiful fish at home presents a marked degree of difficulty. It breaks apart; it dries out; it’s flavorless. It sticks, even to nonstick pans. When people go to a restaurant, they expect to see a better performance. The fact is, fish is alway
s difficult, even for professionals. To be chef poissonnier in a good restaurant requires extensive experience and mastery of technique. It is one of the most honorable positions on the line, and for good reason. To complicate the exercise by allowing the protein to deteriorate through negligent storage can be ruinous.
So when you enter the fish box, you’re checking on several things:
First is temperature. Whereas most foodstuffs keep well below 40°F, the fish box must remain between 34°F and 38°F.
Next is the manner of storage. All fish must be properly covered, protected from air, and shrouded with an abundance of ice. Whole fishes must be sitting upright in the ice—dorsal fins to the sky as if they were swimming—in order to preserve their anatomical constitution. Laying a whole fish on its side predisposes it to bruising, bone breaks, bloodline punctures, uneven air circulation, and a host of other unwanted conditions that compromise the integrity of the fish. Portioned fishes, on the other hand, must be wrapped tightly with food-service film, laid out flat and even in perforated trays (which keep liquids from pooling), and overspread with ice. Any deviations from these methods of storage must be rectified at once.
Next is the quality of the product. Everything must look fresh and smell fresh, or else it goes in the garbage.
Finally comes general hygiene. All surfaces—shelves, walls, ceilings, and floors—must be spotlessly clean. The fish box, above all places, must be immaculate.
The other boxes come under a similar level of scrutiny. The produce box should smell of fruits and vegetables, the dairy box should smell of milk and cheese, the beverage box should smell of beverages—typically keg beer, which can be nauseating in the morning—and the meat box should smell of blood. Like the lowboys on the line, all these boxes should be below 40°F. The standard pathogens—Clostridium botulinum, Listeria monocytogenes, Trichinella spiralis, Escherichia coli, salmonella, etcetera—have difficulty thriving under 40°F.
In the case of produce, everything should be properly kitted up in plastic containers. Fresh lettuce glows green in Lexans, gold bar squash shines in Cambros. Every container should be easily visible and clearly labeled with its contents, the packing date, and the initials of the handler. If the product has not been properly organized in a “first in, first out” fashion, you should be able to identify the issue immediately and correct it without difficulty.
In the dairy box, your focus is on expiration dates. A major error to look out for when the deliveries have been unpacked is the placement of new milk in front of old milk on the shelf. It’s an easy corner that’s often cut. The way to solve the problem is to figure out who’s responsible for the error and bring him into the box to observe the situation. You might even read him the riot act. He’ll likely snicker or apologize, blame somebody else, and fix it.
In the beverage cooler, you check the inventory. While it’s usually the duty of the bar manager to maintain the beverage cooler, you keep your eye on certain pars, such as bar fruit and juices. Additionally, you check the bottled beer for evidence of tampering. Most missing beers in the restaurant are blamed on the kitchen staff—your staff. A bottle here or there is usually no cause for concern, but you check to ensure nothing’s gotten out of hand.
You have one main objective in the meat box: to keep the chicken below and separate from everything else. Owing chiefly to production methods in most American bulk chicken facilities, the Department of Health considers the bird a terribly dangerous creature. It marinates in its own filth from the time it dies until the time you put it in the oven. It is a haven for bacteria. And its exudate—chicken juice—travels like quicksilver. No other protein can cross-contaminate its neighbors quite like chicken. When you enter the box, you make sure the chicken is never above and nowhere near anything else.
Likewise, you ensure that the eggs are safe. An intact egg is relatively innocuous. The expected bacterial distribution in industrially produced eggs is one contaminated unit per twenty thousand. Once that egg breaks, however, the potential for contamination spikes remarkably, as does the capacity for that contamination to spread, making the egg, too, a considerably dangerous entity. And so the Department of Health levies steep fines against restaurants for broken eggs. You take care in the meat box to check all the eggs.
When you are satisfied with the state of all the boxes, you go to task on checking the deliveries held therein. Overnight stewards and A.M. prep cooks are usually responsible for unpacking the deliveries, and they’ve been trained on how to put things away properly. But if something is amiss, the hammer will come down on you, so it is essential, again, to double-check their work.
For this you need the invoices, which are usually in Rogelio’s custody. He will have decorated each invoice with check marks next to all the items that have arrived. You confirm with him that everything seemed to come in. He undoubtedly says yes, but you go through the invoices with a careful eye anyway. Often something will appear in one area of the invoice as delivered, but on spare sheets in the back it will be marked “unavailable” or “out of stock.” This happens most frequently in dry storage and with exotic produce items. Even though you might order and receive such items all the time, they are often secretly unavailable, which is to say: special-order. Just because violet mustard and crosnes seem to be readily available doesn’t mean that a given purveyor keeps them stocked in the regular catalog. It’s not uncommon to get shorted on things like this from time to time, especially when they require importing.
You also always have to check the invoices against the order sheets that the closing sous chef prepared the night before, to ensure that nothing extra was delivered. This is another phenomenon that the A.M. prep cooks and stewards are typically unaware of, but a technique that some purveyors enjoy utilizing. Sales reps are often held to delivery minimums, which they might not tell you about in order to keep your transactions smooth and comfortable. On some occasions, though, when your order is shy of that minimum, they’ll sneak something they know you use regularly onto the truck for you in order to prevent their bosses from taking it out on them. If this error has occurred, you call that particular purveyor on the phone, communicate your feelings about the matter aggressively, and insist that they retrieve the unneeded product and strike it from your invoice. If that hasn’t occurred, however—if you’ve received everything that’s been ordered and nothing else—you complete the invoices with a signature of approval and put them in a file with the rest of the week’s paperwork.
Then, when the line is set and the fridges are clear and the deliveries have been meticulously checked, you do a final pass of the kitchen, making sure that all cardboard has been broken down, all trash has been bagged and taken out, all floors have been swept and mopped and are sparkling.
And like that, you’re done with rounds.
It’s ten-thirty now. Probably just enough time for one more cigarette before Chef arrives.
FINESSE JOBS
ON YOUR WAY OUT TO THE LOADING DOCK, YOU’RE MET BY your fellow sous, Stefan, who’s on his way in. He’s just been smoking himself—you can smell it on his fluffy parka. He decides to join you for another one. His breath smells of whiskey; his eyes are bloodshot. He was out last night. You sit on greasy milk crates and talk about it.
“Bro, shoeless drunk,” he says, blowing a pair of smoke tusks out his nostrils. “Completely shitballs wasted.”
It’s morning still and neither of you wants to discuss service yet. Instead, you chat about what happened at the bars after work, share gossip about coworkers. The food service industry is incredibly incestuous, and licentious things are always happening between colleagues after service. Stefan regales you with the evening’s inanities.
You stamp out the cigarettes and head in.
While Stefan changes beside you in the confined office—his bristly skin stretching and puckering just inches from your face—you sit at the computer and check on the numbers for the night. It comes as no surprise that the cover count is at two hundred
and rising. You knew when you woke up that it was going to be busy. It’s Friday night. This is your reality.
“Yo, is this the Brinata?” he says, picking up the sample of cheese. “Nice, guy.”
He cuts himself a wedge. You give him the breakdown.
Rogelio has been hard at work since 0600 and he’s gotten us off to a good start. The herbs are snipped, the garlic is peeled, the baby vegetables have been turned. The stocks are up and the chicken bones have been roasted for the Château-Chalon. The demi-glace is reducing. The shrimps are peeled and deveined. Croquettes are being formed. Brianne, the P.M. prep cook, is due in at noon and she’s scheduled to start immediately on the tomato confit. The prep lists that hang over the individual stations are side work for the cooks who are assigned to work there tonight. Items such as pommes purees, soubise, and other garnishes are the daily responsibilities of the entremetiers and will be completed closer to service, when they arrive in the afternoon. The majority of the meat fabrication is in the hands of Julio, our swarthy rôtisseur, who should be in by 1300 to set up his station. Much of the heavy lifting has been delegated down the hierarchy by rote. The only tasks that fall to you and Stefan are the finesse jobs: butchering the fish, rolling out the pasta, generating the specials. It’s up to the two of you who does what.
Sous Chef: 24 Hours on the Line Page 2
