The other night, I went to sleep on what was by all accounts a pretty normal night…I don’t even think I had a glass of wine before bed! Anyway, while I slept I had a rather interesting dream.
I dreamt I was at our restaurant, running between stations and trying to make a Pumpkin & Cheddar soup while the orders kept piling up. No matter how quickly I worked, it didn’t seem to matter the tickets came out faster and faster…and everyone seemed to be ordering soup. Worse yet, for some reason I had to make every bowl of soup from scratch. Now, for those of you that don’t know, I'd say probably ninety-seven percent of the restaurants out there do not cook your food to order from scratch; it’s just too hard. Not to mention, most people don’t want to wait forty-five minutes for someone to boil and then mash their potatoes.
I’m sure everyone has had this dream, where they’re at work and nothing goes right; naked, computer crashes, trying to cook with no hands, &c…or maybe they haven’t. I’m pretty sure though, that at one point or another, every cook has had a nightmare where they’re in the weeds and there’s nothing they can do to get out (being in the weeds is when your station gets hit with a large number of orders and you get behind, slowing down the entire kitchen. It happens to everyone and the best you can hope for is to put your nose down and stat cranking out plates). Anyway, nothing was working out for me, but instead of being discouraged when I woke up the next morning, I was inspired. And all I’ve been able to think of has been making pumpkin and cheddar soup.
Since I was at a wedding this past weekend and had to go into the restaurant last night, I haven’t had a chance to make it yet. By the middle of next month, however; I will post a recipe for what I hope will be a fantastic pumpkin and cheddar soup…you’ve been put on notice.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Sometimes it Pays to Complain
Last week, I read a restaurant “review” in the New York Times written by Frank Bruni, which reminded me of a dinner I had with my mother and her husband a few months ago. He was writing about the new Upper East Side restaurant Bloomingdale Road. Bloomingdale Road has been on my radar screen for a while now, mainly because I majored in History and have an abiding love of New York City History. Bloomingdale Road was the old name of Broadway, well one of the names that Broadway used to go by. Despite the name, the menu seems to be a whimsical take on standard-fare comfort foods (grass-fed sliders, buffalo chicken lollipops, coca-cola glazed ham, &c.); rather than a return to the foods of Old New York…which is what I was hoping for when I first heard about this place.
Anyway, Bruni was maybe a little unkind (to the point that he didn’t actually bother to rate the restaurant), and one Times reader posted a review, giving the restaurant one star. They claimed, “the service was terrible. One member of our party didn't get his meal until the check was delivered. There were no apologies offered by the waiter, no offered adjustments to the final bill. The food was as dismal as the service.” I immediately thought back to that night at dinner with my mother and her husband.
We went to a very highly Zagat-rated restaurant in New Brunswick, New Jersey and had a meal that was nothing short of awful. Right after we were seated I snuck off to the “bathroom,” found our waiter and informed him that it was their anniversary and that while I wasn’t looking for anything special, I wanted to make sure the staff was attentive to their needs. My mother ordered an appetizer of seared foie gras, she received a Swiss Chard tart. When we alerted our server, he removed the tart (which would’ve been thrown in the trash…another pet peeve of mine) and then returned fifteen minutes later with the proper appetizer. At this point, we had inquired after her dish once before and my step-father and I both finished our appetizers. Our waiter did a half-assed job of apologizing and we moved on to our entrées. Once again, my mother was on the short end of the stick. She ordered a Berkshire Pork Porterhouse, medium…because ya’know, she wanted to taste the pork. Her entrée was the third to arrive at the table and when she cut into it she discovered that her medium piece of pork had been cooked to well done “perfection.” Dare I say, that the meat had been cooked so far beyond well done that I could have put one of my loafers on a plate and it would’ve been barely indistinguishable from her pork. A second time, our waiter had to be called over and informed of the situation. He left and returned about fifteen minutes later with a properly cooked porterhouse. Shortly thereafter, a woman who I assume was the general manager or the waiter-captain came over to our table and informed us that my mother’s glass of wine was gratis. She then felt the need to add, “I know its not a free appetizer or an entrée, but at least it’s something.” I was so shocked that a restaurant employee would have the gall to say something like that, my jaw nearly hit the table! To add insult to injury, when our waiter brought a platter of assorted “complimentary” sorbets, it looked as though the platter had spent a few minutes sitting on the pass; because the platter held nothing more than pools of melted fruit puree.
We left the restaurant that night disappointed, and I left especially pissed off because I felt like the staff let me down. But I didn’t get on the New York Times to complain (although I did get on Zagat and savage them), or sit and stew in the dark in silence…I wrote a letter. I wrote a long angry letter to the owners of the restaurant highlighting the problems with the service and food. When I was done, I sent it off and essentially forgot about it. About a week later, I received a letter of apology from one of the owners along with a gift certificate for a free dinner for three people.
I know it’s a pain to sit down and compose your thoughts on paper or even via e-mail, and I know most people in this world have an attention span of about 40 seconds, but taking the time to write a letter is actually a win-win situation. The restaurant wins because no matter how scathing your letter, it will actually improve the restaurant…so long as they have management that cares. They will talk to their staff and they will probably hang it up outside the office so that every waiter who walks by will be reminded of it when they walk by. And you win, because if they do care, they might try to make amends; and even if they don’t send you a gift certificate you will have made the experience of every person who eats there after you, better.
So the next time you go to a restaurant and have a bad meal; don’t get mad, get even.
Anyway, Bruni was maybe a little unkind (to the point that he didn’t actually bother to rate the restaurant), and one Times reader posted a review, giving the restaurant one star. They claimed, “the service was terrible. One member of our party didn't get his meal until the check was delivered. There were no apologies offered by the waiter, no offered adjustments to the final bill. The food was as dismal as the service.” I immediately thought back to that night at dinner with my mother and her husband.
We went to a very highly Zagat-rated restaurant in New Brunswick, New Jersey and had a meal that was nothing short of awful. Right after we were seated I snuck off to the “bathroom,” found our waiter and informed him that it was their anniversary and that while I wasn’t looking for anything special, I wanted to make sure the staff was attentive to their needs. My mother ordered an appetizer of seared foie gras, she received a Swiss Chard tart. When we alerted our server, he removed the tart (which would’ve been thrown in the trash…another pet peeve of mine) and then returned fifteen minutes later with the proper appetizer. At this point, we had inquired after her dish once before and my step-father and I both finished our appetizers. Our waiter did a half-assed job of apologizing and we moved on to our entrées. Once again, my mother was on the short end of the stick. She ordered a Berkshire Pork Porterhouse, medium…because ya’know, she wanted to taste the pork. Her entrée was the third to arrive at the table and when she cut into it she discovered that her medium piece of pork had been cooked to well done “perfection.” Dare I say, that the meat had been cooked so far beyond well done that I could have put one of my loafers on a plate and it would’ve been barely indistinguishable from her pork. A second time, our waiter had to be called over and informed of the situation. He left and returned about fifteen minutes later with a properly cooked porterhouse. Shortly thereafter, a woman who I assume was the general manager or the waiter-captain came over to our table and informed us that my mother’s glass of wine was gratis. She then felt the need to add, “I know its not a free appetizer or an entrée, but at least it’s something.” I was so shocked that a restaurant employee would have the gall to say something like that, my jaw nearly hit the table! To add insult to injury, when our waiter brought a platter of assorted “complimentary” sorbets, it looked as though the platter had spent a few minutes sitting on the pass; because the platter held nothing more than pools of melted fruit puree.
We left the restaurant that night disappointed, and I left especially pissed off because I felt like the staff let me down. But I didn’t get on the New York Times to complain (although I did get on Zagat and savage them), or sit and stew in the dark in silence…I wrote a letter. I wrote a long angry letter to the owners of the restaurant highlighting the problems with the service and food. When I was done, I sent it off and essentially forgot about it. About a week later, I received a letter of apology from one of the owners along with a gift certificate for a free dinner for three people.
I know it’s a pain to sit down and compose your thoughts on paper or even via e-mail, and I know most people in this world have an attention span of about 40 seconds, but taking the time to write a letter is actually a win-win situation. The restaurant wins because no matter how scathing your letter, it will actually improve the restaurant…so long as they have management that cares. They will talk to their staff and they will probably hang it up outside the office so that every waiter who walks by will be reminded of it when they walk by. And you win, because if they do care, they might try to make amends; and even if they don’t send you a gift certificate you will have made the experience of every person who eats there after you, better.
So the next time you go to a restaurant and have a bad meal; don’t get mad, get even.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Someone Needs Their Blankie
So apparently some of you; or at least one of you; was offended by my previous post about dish washers. God forbid I offend anyone, but seriously, you can eat it! I said I wasn’t trying to sound callous and ended the piece by saying that occasionally one of those guys goes on to do great things. They are called examples for a reason and I’m sorry, but I don’t have too many stories about dish washers going above and beyond the call of duty or sharpening my knives without my asking. My old sous chef and I KNOW it was dish washer who used his knife to open a can…I KNOW a dish washer drank 20 beers during dinner service, I practically saw him do it…dropping my knife, I’m not so sure of. But judging by the number of times the dish washer/prep guy used to reach for my knife roll, there’s a pretty good chance I didn’t knock a chunk out of my own knife, forget and put it back.
In short, some of what you read might upset you…I probably wouldn’t be doing my job if some of it didn’t.
Update: Thursday, October 16, 2008.
Because I’m a man, and because my parents taught me to stand for what I believe and stand behind what I believe; from now on, if you want to post on this blog, you’re going to have to put your name behind any comments you want to leave here…anonymity breeds cowardice.
In short, some of what you read might upset you…I probably wouldn’t be doing my job if some of it didn’t.
Update: Thursday, October 16, 2008.
Because I’m a man, and because my parents taught me to stand for what I believe and stand behind what I believe; from now on, if you want to post on this blog, you’re going to have to put your name behind any comments you want to leave here…anonymity breeds cowardice.
Can’t Take My Eyes Off You...
You can’t trust a dishwasher. I don’t mean that to be as callous or as cut and dried as I make it sound, but from time to time you’ve got to watch them like a hawk; and thes guys are the exception to the rule. Dishwashers are an interesting sort. Almost always immigrants from Central America or occasionally one of the African countries, they work in the basement or ante-room of the restaurant doing the same fucking thing for about 8 hours a day, for very little money and leave work with a sheen on themselves from constant spraying of a high pressure hose. If they’re lucky the chef might ask them to do a little light prep work; such as de-boning some chicken or cutting vegetables for a stock; to break up the monotony of sliding trays of dishes into and out of a power washer. This isn’t a piece on hardships however…
The first instance that springs to mind was several months ago when I was still working at the Meatpacking District restaurant, formerly owned by a young “European” superstar chef (you’ll probably hear more about this place and the people I worked with as the weeks progress) that I first mentioned in “Knifey-Spooney.” Our sous chef, the guy who told me the aforementioned story, had this absolutely beautiful knife. I don’t remember exactly what kind it was, but suffice it to say it was a 10 and a half inch piece of steel with a wooden handle that retailed for around $400…I’m sure when he bought it was closer to $500. Anyway, one day he got into the kitchen and he found his knife, where he usually left it under the pass, (the area where cooks put food up for the chef or sous chef to inspect and “finish,” who in turn give it to the runners where it ends up in front of you) except it was mangled and wouldn’t have filleted a salmon, let alone properly sliced a tomato. How did this happen? How did a piece of Japanese steel end up looking like it got ran over by a lawnmower? By a dish washer using it to open a can of god-knows-what, that’s how. I’m not saying he did it callously, but these guys don’t know the difference between the plastic handled “house” knives and a piece of forged steel that costs over a grand. Incidentally, we suspected it might’ve been the same guy who was helping himself to the vodka we used in our Granita’s (that’s a story for another day).
I also similarly found one of my knives in questionable condition when just last week, I pulled out my boning knife to find a huge chunk missing from the handle; the kind of missing chunk that could only be made by someone dropping the knife onto the tile floor of the kitchen. And also the kind of missing chunk that I would not notice until I personally pulled the knife out of my bag to de-bone another chicken; because who ever dropped it had been kind enough to slip the knife back in my bag without telling me.
Another interesting example came a couple weeks ago (at my new restaurant) during a particularly busy dinner service; so busy in fact that it saw me running up and down the stairs several times because we kept running out of things we had prepped earlier. Around 9:30 there was a great deal of yelling from the basement and our GM came to investigate. He asked me if I knew what had happened and I had to plead ignorance; he went downstairs and I went back to work…running between the garde manger and fry stations. At some point I ran out of fries or mixed greens or sardines and had to run downstairs again. That’s when I saw our GM in our uniform room with a red-faced dish washer who was attempting to change into his clothes, but having great difficulty due to his teetering about. I went back upstairs, briefed my colleagues on what I’d seen and went back to work. It was only a little while later when I had a chance to get back down that I found out this particular dish washer had taken it upon himself to have a “few” drinks while he was working. How many you ask? Well, our GM usually picks up two cases of beer for us on a Thursday or a Friday that slowly get drank after service by the entire staff over the course of the weekend (do the math, 48 beers, about 12 or so different people a night, that’s like 2 beers). Well, Friday was busy and we treated ourselves, which meant there was only one case left on Saturday. This guy had polished off 20 beers from a case and was still standing…albeit with a great deal of difficulty. Needless to say, he is no longer employed by our restaurant, but more importantly we had no beer to drink that night.
I guess what I’m saying is that from time to time you need to check up on the dish washers because you never know when one of them is going to be using your knife to open a pickle jar or a can of tomatoes or half in the bag or taking a nap in the walk-in. But at the same time you should remember that every once in a while, one of those guys rises through the kitchen ranks and opens a place of his own, so whatever you do, don’t treat him like outright shit.
The first instance that springs to mind was several months ago when I was still working at the Meatpacking District restaurant, formerly owned by a young “European” superstar chef (you’ll probably hear more about this place and the people I worked with as the weeks progress) that I first mentioned in “Knifey-Spooney.” Our sous chef, the guy who told me the aforementioned story, had this absolutely beautiful knife. I don’t remember exactly what kind it was, but suffice it to say it was a 10 and a half inch piece of steel with a wooden handle that retailed for around $400…I’m sure when he bought it was closer to $500. Anyway, one day he got into the kitchen and he found his knife, where he usually left it under the pass, (the area where cooks put food up for the chef or sous chef to inspect and “finish,” who in turn give it to the runners where it ends up in front of you) except it was mangled and wouldn’t have filleted a salmon, let alone properly sliced a tomato. How did this happen? How did a piece of Japanese steel end up looking like it got ran over by a lawnmower? By a dish washer using it to open a can of god-knows-what, that’s how. I’m not saying he did it callously, but these guys don’t know the difference between the plastic handled “house” knives and a piece of forged steel that costs over a grand. Incidentally, we suspected it might’ve been the same guy who was helping himself to the vodka we used in our Granita’s (that’s a story for another day).
I also similarly found one of my knives in questionable condition when just last week, I pulled out my boning knife to find a huge chunk missing from the handle; the kind of missing chunk that could only be made by someone dropping the knife onto the tile floor of the kitchen. And also the kind of missing chunk that I would not notice until I personally pulled the knife out of my bag to de-bone another chicken; because who ever dropped it had been kind enough to slip the knife back in my bag without telling me.
Another interesting example came a couple weeks ago (at my new restaurant) during a particularly busy dinner service; so busy in fact that it saw me running up and down the stairs several times because we kept running out of things we had prepped earlier. Around 9:30 there was a great deal of yelling from the basement and our GM came to investigate. He asked me if I knew what had happened and I had to plead ignorance; he went downstairs and I went back to work…running between the garde manger and fry stations. At some point I ran out of fries or mixed greens or sardines and had to run downstairs again. That’s when I saw our GM in our uniform room with a red-faced dish washer who was attempting to change into his clothes, but having great difficulty due to his teetering about. I went back upstairs, briefed my colleagues on what I’d seen and went back to work. It was only a little while later when I had a chance to get back down that I found out this particular dish washer had taken it upon himself to have a “few” drinks while he was working. How many you ask? Well, our GM usually picks up two cases of beer for us on a Thursday or a Friday that slowly get drank after service by the entire staff over the course of the weekend (do the math, 48 beers, about 12 or so different people a night, that’s like 2 beers). Well, Friday was busy and we treated ourselves, which meant there was only one case left on Saturday. This guy had polished off 20 beers from a case and was still standing…albeit with a great deal of difficulty. Needless to say, he is no longer employed by our restaurant, but more importantly we had no beer to drink that night.
I guess what I’m saying is that from time to time you need to check up on the dish washers because you never know when one of them is going to be using your knife to open a pickle jar or a can of tomatoes or half in the bag or taking a nap in the walk-in. But at the same time you should remember that every once in a while, one of those guys rises through the kitchen ranks and opens a place of his own, so whatever you do, don’t treat him like outright shit.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Ooh Mami, I did not Know you Could do it Like Dat!
A couple weekends ago, I went out to New Jersey to visit my mother and while I was milling around Penn Station, I bought a copy of Food & Wine magazine; mainly because it beat standing around, staring at the wall and twiddling my thumbs.
As I was flipping through the pages, I came across a recipe for Goat Cheese – Stuffed Mushrooms with Bread Crumbs (F&W, pg. 134); which immediately got me thinking. You see, several weeks ago, a friend of mine contacted me regarding recipes that involved goat cheese; and it was then that I started working on the Prosciutto-Wrapped Watermelon Stuffed with Goat Cheese & Jalapeño recipe. Today, I’m happy to say I’ve worked out a new recipe which combines my love of bacon with the mushrooms and goat cheese from FW’s recipe…I call them Umami Bites. They combine the meaty taste of the mushrooms with creamy goat cheese, savory bacon and a bit of sweetness from Grade B maple syrup. For those of you not familiar with it, Grade B maple syrup is a darker, thicker late-harvested syrup that is traditionally used in cooking, but as far as I’m concerned is pretty damn tasty on waffles or French toast too.
Umami Bites
24 Large Cremini Mushrooms (stems removed)
4-5 Slices – Bacon
6 oz – Goat Cheese
4 Tbsp – Grade B Maple Syrup
Salt & Pepper, to taste
Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees. Slice bacon crosswise into ¼ - inch strips, then fry until crisp. Remove bacon from pan, allow to cool and reserve rendered fat. Quickly sauté mushroom caps in bacon fat, seasoning with salt and pepper, until slightly soft and dark. Remove from pan and place in an oven safe dish or baking sheet. Place mushrooms in the oven for approximately 10 minutes. While mushroom caps are cooking, combine remaining ingredients (goat cheese, bacon and Grade B maple syrup), if necessary, adjust seasoning with salt and pepper. When mushroom caps are cooked, remove from oven and immediately place filling inside. Serve warm or at room temperature.
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