Just got back from school. From my first practical final (which just means all of the actual cooking and everything else that's done in the kitchen - as opposed to written tests, math, etc) - and I was so mad, I drove straight home and took it out on the dishes. Not throwing them or anything - just DOING them.
I know - it would be so much more exciting if I told you I threw them all across the kitchen and glass and porcelain were flying everywhere - but that didn't happen.
(Now, Mark has a GREAT 'throwing glass' story, and if he doesn't agree to write a guest blog one of these days soon, I may just write it FOR him - as heard second hand, of course!)
The thing is, these chefs are (as so many people warned me ahead of time) such ego-maniacle jerk- holes, it's hard to take sometimes. Let me, at this time, try to paint a picture of the three chefs I have had the occasion to study under so far. I shall not use their real names, of course, and as you may have noticed, I will never even name the school which I am attending for fear of being sued or failed.
First, there was the night time chef. Let us call him Churchill. He seemed like a nice enough fellow - just a little defeated and not seeming to love his job. Churchill is an older man (late 50's , I should guess?) quite tall, with a thick head of salt and pepper hair and an unfortunate goatee/mustache combo. I posit that he would be much more attractive if he would grow his full beard in. I asked him meekly one evening if he ever DID wear a full beard and he looked at me as though I had asked him to join my satanic cult.
Despite the fact that we are expected to learn about a jillion things every night and our lecture time is precious, Chef Churchill chose to amuse us with stories about his glorious youth. He told us all about how he was a super star in San Francisco - smoking weed and doing blow with the hottest chefs in town. He had been an unstoppable young gun in one of the most exciting cities in the world. He told us all about how he could do any station on the line - and how he frequently did (when someone called in sick or something) - all the while dangling a cigarette in his mouth, or resting it on the edge of his cutting board. Those were the days before health and sanitation were concerned with things like cigarettes in the kitchen. "We all smoked in the kitchen!" he laughed.
I rubbed my hands together in the freezing cold lecture room and tried to imagine him when he was young, hanging out with my heroin, Alice Waters. I imagined that he was very cute back in the day, and very cocky.
I can tell you all kinds of things about Chef Churchill. Because that's how he spent our evenings. Telling us all about his personal life. I know where he grew up, that his first restaurant job was at Mc Donalds, all about his culinary training, his 2 wives that both divorced him (he seemed a little sad about that), that he used to have a cat and he doesn't have any children...I could go on and on.
Next in line comes Chef Jefferson. That's what I'm calling him, because he thinks he's so cool. And if he had slaves and lived in the time of Jefferson, I bet he'd sleep with them. This chef seems to think of himself as the young, groovy, "hot" chef. He's married with kids (cute kids - we saw pictures), but he's not really all that. It is immediately apparent that lots of young, female culinary students get crushes on him, and of course he loves it. Why wouldn't he?
Jefferson's the one I'm so mad at right now. This man makes my bullshit detector go off like crazy. In fact, I'm so mad at this moment, that I think that's all I'll say about him right now. Except to say that he's only made ONE dish that was any good so far.
And THAT is what my sister thinks is really bumming me out so much about this whole school experience. That the FOOD doesn't taste very good. Seriously. So far, it's like we're learning to cook for a geriatric cruise ship.
You see, I'm ok working with or for megalomaniacs IF they are brilliant. If they are truly brilliant, they can be as nuts as they want to, as far as I'm concerned. And of COURSE I've worked with and for these types of people. I'm an actress! Directors have yelled at me, sometimes made me cry, sometimes I held my own...but, I guess I have this idea that one has to EARN the right to be a crazy jerk-hole.
Which brings me to my favorite chef. The only ray of hope I can see in this twisted learning environment. I shall call him Napoleon. Chef Napoleon.
I adore this man. He has made me cry already. That was embarrassing. But he is the ONLY one catching me out on my bad habits, AND the only chef so far that seems to have a real LOVE of the culinary arts.
Chef Napoleon is a smaller man (not tiny, but a hair shorter than me) with a HUGE amount of energy and sparkle. He is from another part of the world, where life is harder and he has worked harder than anyone there, I believe, to achieve what he has. He yells a lot, and his sparkle can turn on a dime into anger or impatience, but he doesn't seem to hold on to any bad feelings. He is funny and intimidating.
Chef Napoleon can yell at me or make me cry all he wants - because he is BRILLIANT. What this man knows about spices and flavor profiles is invaluable, and can NOT be found in any book. I believe he is the absolute treasure of the school. He is the reason I want to go to school every day, and dread going to school if I am even slightly unprepared.
It is another glorious day here. The sun is shining, it is barely cool and crisp, and the wind is sending the fist of the colored leaves around in flurries. Believe it or not, there are still roses blooming all over town, and the views outside my windows could not be more idyllic. All of this gentle fall beauty is taking the wind out of my little huff. And as I am calming down, enjoying the chestnut trees and the golden leaves, I have to laugh it off, shake my head and remember that I have a LOT of work to do before monday - Chef Napoleon demands perfection, you see. And HIM, I don't want to disappoint.
I know - it would be so much more exciting if I told you I threw them all across the kitchen and glass and porcelain were flying everywhere - but that didn't happen.
(Now, Mark has a GREAT 'throwing glass' story, and if he doesn't agree to write a guest blog one of these days soon, I may just write it FOR him - as heard second hand, of course!)
The thing is, these chefs are (as so many people warned me ahead of time) such ego-maniacle jerk- holes, it's hard to take sometimes. Let me, at this time, try to paint a picture of the three chefs I have had the occasion to study under so far. I shall not use their real names, of course, and as you may have noticed, I will never even name the school which I am attending for fear of being sued or failed.
First, there was the night time chef. Let us call him Churchill. He seemed like a nice enough fellow - just a little defeated and not seeming to love his job. Churchill is an older man (late 50's , I should guess?) quite tall, with a thick head of salt and pepper hair and an unfortunate goatee/mustache combo. I posit that he would be much more attractive if he would grow his full beard in. I asked him meekly one evening if he ever DID wear a full beard and he looked at me as though I had asked him to join my satanic cult.
Despite the fact that we are expected to learn about a jillion things every night and our lecture time is precious, Chef Churchill chose to amuse us with stories about his glorious youth. He told us all about how he was a super star in San Francisco - smoking weed and doing blow with the hottest chefs in town. He had been an unstoppable young gun in one of the most exciting cities in the world. He told us all about how he could do any station on the line - and how he frequently did (when someone called in sick or something) - all the while dangling a cigarette in his mouth, or resting it on the edge of his cutting board. Those were the days before health and sanitation were concerned with things like cigarettes in the kitchen. "We all smoked in the kitchen!" he laughed.
I rubbed my hands together in the freezing cold lecture room and tried to imagine him when he was young, hanging out with my heroin, Alice Waters. I imagined that he was very cute back in the day, and very cocky.
I can tell you all kinds of things about Chef Churchill. Because that's how he spent our evenings. Telling us all about his personal life. I know where he grew up, that his first restaurant job was at Mc Donalds, all about his culinary training, his 2 wives that both divorced him (he seemed a little sad about that), that he used to have a cat and he doesn't have any children...I could go on and on.
Next in line comes Chef Jefferson. That's what I'm calling him, because he thinks he's so cool. And if he had slaves and lived in the time of Jefferson, I bet he'd sleep with them. This chef seems to think of himself as the young, groovy, "hot" chef. He's married with kids (cute kids - we saw pictures), but he's not really all that. It is immediately apparent that lots of young, female culinary students get crushes on him, and of course he loves it. Why wouldn't he?
Jefferson's the one I'm so mad at right now. This man makes my bullshit detector go off like crazy. In fact, I'm so mad at this moment, that I think that's all I'll say about him right now. Except to say that he's only made ONE dish that was any good so far.
And THAT is what my sister thinks is really bumming me out so much about this whole school experience. That the FOOD doesn't taste very good. Seriously. So far, it's like we're learning to cook for a geriatric cruise ship.
You see, I'm ok working with or for megalomaniacs IF they are brilliant. If they are truly brilliant, they can be as nuts as they want to, as far as I'm concerned. And of COURSE I've worked with and for these types of people. I'm an actress! Directors have yelled at me, sometimes made me cry, sometimes I held my own...but, I guess I have this idea that one has to EARN the right to be a crazy jerk-hole.
Which brings me to my favorite chef. The only ray of hope I can see in this twisted learning environment. I shall call him Napoleon. Chef Napoleon.
I adore this man. He has made me cry already. That was embarrassing. But he is the ONLY one catching me out on my bad habits, AND the only chef so far that seems to have a real LOVE of the culinary arts.
Chef Napoleon is a smaller man (not tiny, but a hair shorter than me) with a HUGE amount of energy and sparkle. He is from another part of the world, where life is harder and he has worked harder than anyone there, I believe, to achieve what he has. He yells a lot, and his sparkle can turn on a dime into anger or impatience, but he doesn't seem to hold on to any bad feelings. He is funny and intimidating.
Chef Napoleon can yell at me or make me cry all he wants - because he is BRILLIANT. What this man knows about spices and flavor profiles is invaluable, and can NOT be found in any book. I believe he is the absolute treasure of the school. He is the reason I want to go to school every day, and dread going to school if I am even slightly unprepared.
It is another glorious day here. The sun is shining, it is barely cool and crisp, and the wind is sending the fist of the colored leaves around in flurries. Believe it or not, there are still roses blooming all over town, and the views outside my windows could not be more idyllic. All of this gentle fall beauty is taking the wind out of my little huff. And as I am calming down, enjoying the chestnut trees and the golden leaves, I have to laugh it off, shake my head and remember that I have a LOT of work to do before monday - Chef Napoleon demands perfection, you see. And HIM, I don't want to disappoint.
