Chapter 7
Street Food and Street Smarts (Days 14 and 15)
During the third week of the term, we have a field trip with Chef Tim. A field
trip for even one day is a welcome reprieve. No running with knives or
sweating it out in the kitchen. No sorry failures brought on by fatigue and
our ever shorter attention span. It’s probably a good thing that we have a
day off and are not around sharp objects, open flames, and boiling water.
These first few weeks have been hard. We came out to our first day of
school thirsty for knowledge and raring to go. They obliged us and turned
the hose on full blast. There’s way too much new stuff, too much water
coming out of the fire hydrant, and we’re drowning. The intensity of trying to
drink in so much so fast, the unfamiliarity, the relentless demands for
excellence by Chef Patrice and Chef Bernard, and the sheer physical
demands of the work are weighing on me. I’ve been two gulps short of
drowning since day one.
We’re not sure who Chef Tim is yet or what he does, but he’s a presence and
he’s a player. He’s
visible and stands
out around the
school. We usually
see him in a suit
and tie, and not the
usual chef whites.
He’s about the
flashiest dresser
I’ve seen in a long
time, with a flair for
colour that borders
on Mississippi river
boat gambler. He
seems to manage
events, the front of
the house, and the
restaurant, and he
seems to be
respected by the
other chefs. Chef
Tim styles himself a
Renaissance man, with more going on in his head than the best way to sauté
a steak. He’s clearly the best and most convincing speaker of the bunch, and
he seems to relish his role as the maverick amongst the chefs at the school.
The field trip is Chef Tim’s idea – his own personal tour of the downtown.
He’s using the walking tour to open our eyes and widen our range of vision
beyond the PICA kitchen. He wants us to consider more than our knife skills
or our ability to create a good hollandaise sauce. Already, we’re being
prepared for life after cooking school.
I get it. His perspective is unique. He’s a consummate marketer, and he
wants us to see the whole marketplace, and not only the market for our
skills but for our careers. His objective is to use this day to expand our
horizon and open up our thinking.
Our first stop is the Vancouver Convention Centre. It’s the new addition to
the downtown core, arresting in design and perfectly located on the water at
Coal Harbour. It’s been built to attract and serve the lucrative convention
business on a grander scale than previously possible. It has also been
conveniently completed in time for the 2010 Olympics. Truly epic, the grand
ballroom alone will seat 3,500 for dinner.
Chef Tim walks us through the centre’s kitchen. “Look at this,” he says. “It’s
the best food service kitchen for big groups I’ve ever seen.”
We can only imagine what goes on here during a big dinner.
He does the math for us. “If one cook spends only 30 seconds plating each
meal, it will take 28 hours. That won’t work, so the convention centre needs
an army of cooks and servers for each event. Lots of part-timers for short
shifts.”
This is massive assembly line food preparation and service. Plating and
serving 3,500 meals in less than 30 minutes takes some preplanning and
some careful thought.
Chef Tim points out that it’s a good part-time employment option with great
learning possibilities. “It isn’t Gordon Ramsay territory,” he says. “It has
little sex appeal, but it can be quite lucrative when layered with other parttime gigs. Think about it.”
He points out real possibilities in the hospitality business. He broadens our
range of options, showing the potential of the big hotels, big restaurants,
and food service and convention operations as viable employment
opportunities. He gives us a very personal and unvarnished view of the way
things in that world work – the economics and business dimensions to the
world of food. Obviously our possibilities reach beyond just being a chef in a
small restaurant.
We get Chef Tim’s first lesson in the economics of non-traditional food
services. He stops and points out the Japa Dog pushcart parked on the
sidewalk. Japa Dog is a hot dog stand with a wrinkle. The Japa Dog guys
figured out that they can differentiate themselves from other hot dog
vendors by offering Japanese-type condiments, such as a wasabi
mayonnaise and other vaguely Japanese-sounding additions. Chef Tim goes
through the economics of this little money machine. The price is $6.50 for a
Japa Dog. For every Japa Dog sold, it costs the proprietors about $1.50 for
the food, condiments, employees (who are obviously not trained at our
culinary school), the pushcart, and licences.
It’s been a resounding success. They charge premium prices and have
driven their volume to the point of having lineups down the block. They’re so
unique that even The New York Times raved about them, which has
increased their profile even more and has given them free publicity and a
buzz that’s even better than advertising. They make big margins with a low
capital investment.
“This pushcart doesn’t meet the haute cuisine test,” Chef Tim says, “but they
make more money per dollar invested than any restaurant in the city. Think
about it.”
He doesn’t actually suggest that we open a hot dog stand. By this time he’s
become, to us at least, Chef Tim, the Pied Piper of possibilities. Cactus Club,
across the sidewalk from Japa Dog, has found its own niche – Chef Tim calls
it a “breastaurant.” The servers are all young, gorgeous, and dressed to
catch the eye. The chain built its reputation on being a hip place with lots of
eye candy. “Making a buck in the restaurant business is more complex than
what’s on the menu or whether the chef has skill. Your kitchen and your
menu may not be the most important success
driver for the restaurant. Get used to it,” he says. Although Cactus Club’s
original success was not based on the reputation of its food, they’ve recently
rebalanced by hiring Rob Feenie, one of Canada’s best chefs, to redo the
menu.
We charge through downtown while Chef Tim delivers his discourse on the
hospitality business. A few blocks away, the Hyatt’s convention business and
its bar are the hotel’s profit centres. It has high margins, and it’s easy to
staff with part-timers. Conventions pay the bills and deliver the profit for the
hotel. The second-floor restaurant is a convenience for guests, but it may
only break even. The hotel rooms are profitable, but only because they’re
filled by conventions.
Chef Tim notes the challenge of hotel restaurants. “Most attempts by hotels
to have an upscale restaurant are failures,” he says. “They need separate
entrances, their own brand, and a unique marketing program. A
sophisticated traveller’s first choice for a fancy dinner is not usually the
upscale hotel restaurant, unless it has created its own reputation for its food.
Convenience only takes the hotel kitchen so far. Guests usually use it for
room service and breakfast.”
On Robson Street, we tour a succession of ethnic food holes- in-the-wall.
“Think about the low capital cost, the high margins, low staff costs, and the
chance to make some serious entrepreneurial coin,” Chef Tim notes. “These
places make money with high volume and quick turnover. There’s not a
white tablecloth in sight, and the cooks are trained on the job. Get used to
it.”
By the end of Chef Tim’s tour, five hours later, he has opened our eyes to a
whole new dimension of our city. The Pied Piper sets us free from his spell.
The youngsters all head for the nearest bar, a craft brewery he’s pointed out
along the way. We’re connoisseurs now, so a regular beer is not an option.
I drag my sorry ass home, as I do every Friday night. With age comes the
capacity to know my limits. Weekends are for sleep.
Chef Tim’s tour offers a convenient point for self-evaluation. My decision to
learn how to cook like a chef is irrevocable, but I still wonder if this is worth
it or not. There’s nothing like a dose of self-doubt just before my head hits
my pillow.
So far, I think culinary school was a good choice. After many years of no
structure, it’s somehow comforting to have a schedule. I have a routine.
Mornings are for my clients and me. My afternoons are full to the top with
school. I end every day tired, but pleasantly so. I have had to put my social
life on hold. I have no time or energy for anything else during the week, and
weekends have now become the only way to recharge my batteries.
Being around so much good food is like being a diabetic confined to a candy
store. So far I’m resisting the inclination to enjoy my new cooking too much.
I’m carrying an apple to ward off bad nibbling habits. As always, it’s vital to
choose your habits wisely.
I love the manic vitality of the kitchen. It feeds my deep desire to be in the
middle of too much going on. I am calmest in the middle of a firestorm of
activity. I have a short attention span, and I thrive on lots of sensory
stimulation. Is this a perfect description of a kitchen or what? When you add
the element of danger, it’s an ADHD mecca.
Cooking challenges me to plan, improvise, execute, and deliver. It feeds my
anal retentive twin brother. All my senses and synapses are focused on a
complex set of tasks to be done in a tight sequence. The brights become
brighter, and the sights, sounds, and sensations are an adrenalin rush.
I do pay a price, though. My legs ache and my knees complain. I’m getting
used to being on my feet a lot. It requires adaptation. I’m burning a ton of
energy and going down the road at 100 miles per hour with my hair on fire.
But it really doesn’t matter if I ache, because I’ll never admit it to the rest of
my classmates. They’d pounce on me like starving sharks on chum.
The learning curve is steep. It’s noisier, more complicated, and tougher than
anything I’ll ever face in my home kitchen. I’m learning everything I want to
learn – the basics. I can chop and cut with more speed, precision,
confidence, and authority than ever before.
As I drift into sleep, I smile at it all and decide that this is fun.
I’m not on my own on this adventure. My colleagues are surprising me and
are providing an eclectic and positive dimension to my cooking experience.
Learning together is complicated, and figuring out how to work with one
another every day is a real challenge.
Tyrell is my station mate the week leading up to Chef Tim’s tour. He’s a
good mate, focused, and eager to learn. He’s here for all the right reasons
and doesn’t shrink from a challenge. Tyrell wants to do the tough stuff, the
part of the cooking that presents the greatest challenge and therefore poses
the greatest risk of falling short of Chef’s expectations.
I decide to play sous-chef for Tyrell for our week together. I’ll work with him
and help him try the stuff that really turns him on. It’s tough to be
supportive; humility doesn’t come easily to me. I repeat to myself regularly,
“This is my hobby, but this is going to be his new job and future career.”
Tyrell is bean-pole thin, tall, and lanky. He has Coke-bottle glasses, and he
says if they fog up, we should get out of his way, especially if he has a knife
in his hand. He is warm, friendly, and easy to talk with, and he wants to
learn.
Tyrell is a good cook, diligent, and has a good sense of cooking. He tells a
great story of growing up on a reserve in northern Saskatchewan and
watching cooking shows on TV. He and his grandmother would watch James
Beard while the other kids played, then his grandmother would teach him
how to cook. He moved to Vancouver, worked at many jobs, and saved his
money. He’s finally following his dream to be a cook based on a real desire
and nostalgia for those happy days with his grandmother.
He’s emptied his bank account to attend this school. The way he and several
of my colleagues chow down their staff meal leads me to believe there may
not be much in the fridge at home.
We’re cooking venison. The deer steak is easy. It’s rolled in quince and
crushed pepper, pan-seared, then roasted at 375 ̊F and sliced. The challenge
is getting it cooked to a good medium rare. We’ve been taught to measure
degrees of cooking by touching the meat. We make Berny potatoes, a fancy
French name for croquettes. It’s a bit laborious, but the result is visually
satisfying and different.
The French seem to use potatoes as a carrier and useful agent to bind egg
yolks, cream, fat, and all sorts of bad things. Beware of potatoes at your
favourite restaurant. They taste great, are filled with yummy stuff, and they
stick to your hips for a month. Most French potato recipes are part of one of
my favourite special diets – the “if it tastes good spit it out” diet.
Even the green beans that complete the meal can be a calorie trap. We
partially cook them in boiling water, cool them in an ice bath to stop the
cooking process and preserve the bright green colour, dry them, and set
them aside. Then, when needed, we can sauté them in butter. This process
is guaranteed to give you green beans that have a lovely green gleam and
great crunch. Being dipped in butter helps with the gleam.
Chef Bernard is very strict about asymmetry as a display technique. “You
should use odd numbers,” he advises. “Do not make dishes symmetrical.
Find eye-catching colour combinations, be careful how the sauce looks, and
add a sprig of colourful herb for decoration.”
These flourishes are touches that Chef Patrice and Chef Bernard try to
ingrain in us. I struggle with all this extra care and attention to small
presentation details. It takes work, and I know I’ll benefit from the
discipline. I’m here to prepare dishes that can match both the taste and the
look of restaurant food. I also want to amaze my future dinner guests. Show
Time, remember?
Tyrell and I plate a damn good meal for ourselves: venison steak, Berny
potatoes, and sautéed green beans with deglazed pan juices. It tastes great
and looks even better. We’re legends in our own mind. Hot damn, let’s open
a restaurant and do a TV show. Our cookbook will follow.
The next night, our cooking is a near disaster. We have a relatively simple
meal to prepare – pork tenderloin stuffed with mushroom duxelles (another
fancy French word for finely chopped mushrooms sautéed with shallots and
parsley). It’s to be plated on a gastrique sauce. Gastrique is made by taking
a sweet ingredient, usually a jelly, and mixing it with a tart one, usually a
vinegar. The two are heated and reduced to a caramelized state. It’s not an
easy sauce to make, requiring an important balance of sweet and tart.
Getting the sauce to work is a serious test of our ability.
Our starch for the meal is another French potato creation, pommes Anna,
which is thinly sliced potatoes and lots of finely chopped garlic, drowned in
butter – literally. It requires stuffing the thinly sliced potatoes and garlic in a
ramekin, filling it with clarified butter, and baking it until it has a delicious
crisp crust with a soft interior. Again, I rest my case – the potato is nothing
more than a vehicle to absorb butter.
Our vegetable is a parsnip-pear quenelle, made by using two large spoons to
shape the cooked vegetable into an oval. It’s one of those little presentation
things that takes a long time to master and must be practised at home.
Tyrell and I lurch from one misstep to another. He cuts his potatoes too
thick. Chef spots him and yells, “What are you doing?” This is a regular
refrain from Chef these days. It’s usually a warning that he’s coming over to
your station to show you a major error, make you correct it, and start over.
After being outed like that in front of the whole class, Tyrell wisely decides to
chuck the potatoes and start over.
I burn the clarified butter. This is not easy. In fact, I doubt I could have
done it again if so instructed, but I do waste about 500 grams of butter. I,
too, start over.
We forget to add the parsley to the duxelles. As one of only three
ingredients, it shouldn’t be that tough to remember. Chef doesn’t catch this
one, so we charge ahead. We decide we’re innovative and creative as we
throw the chopped parsley in the garbage, destroying the evidence of our
oversight.
Tyrell burns the gastrique and, yes, starts over.
I overcook the parsnips and forget to peel the pear before adding it to the
mix, making the process of putting things through the food mill a bit more
challenging. Looking at the result, with bits of peel showing everywhere, I
throw it out and, continuing our theme for the night, start over.
About the best that can be said for our evening is that we get a lot of
practice. We get to do everything at least twice, and we destroy a lot of
expensive food. We’re late plating our meal, and if we had real customers,
we would have had to feed them a ton of bread sticks as they waited.
On the positive side, we remain cool through the crisis, and we maintain
enough composure to plate our meal. We don’t cut or burn ourselves, and
we even manage to laugh through it all. Learning through failure was not
invented by us that evening, but we took it for a good run.
Tyrell and I decide to postpone the opening of our new restaurant. The
cooking show will have to wait until next season, since we’d hate to face the
embarrassment of recording our cooking failures for an audience of millions.
As for the book, well, we’ll put off calling the agent. The ignominy of working
in a prison kitchen is still an option.