Thumbs Up From “the Swedish Guy”

Everybody likes validation, right? I mean, is there anything better than the day when your boss tells you, “hey, you’re doing a good job”? It’s not going to kill me if my boss doesn’t say anything, although eventually you get the feeling you’re just going through the motions without feedback, or even worse, you start to think your boss hates you almost as much as Anderson Cooper hates Heidi Montag and just doesn’t care enough to even yell at you. But if there’s gonna be feedback, I like the non-yelly, non-screamy variety.

When I was working in the West Village for “the Swedish Guy” I had a pretty interesting chef de cuisine. Obviously, when you’re trying to run a restaurant empire, even a small one, you need have people minding the store for you so you can do things like hit investors up for money or make television appearances. Interestingly enough, he went outside to get his chef, but that’s not important. What is important is that the chef he hired was a little, um, emotional. To say she wore her emotions on her sleeve would be an understatement; she wore her emotions on her crisp white chef’s coat in fucking Technicolor! One day she flipped out on the entire kitchen staff, the GM and a poor reservationist who had the misfortune of wandering by; and told everyone that if they didn’t want to work there, we could all get the hell out…no one left. We were, or should I say I was, a little more confused a couple hours later when she walked into the prep kitchen, put her arm around me and asked how I was doing and if everything was okay with me (um, yeah, feeling great with maybe a touch of bipolar).

I know it takes all kinds in the kitchen, but most people (especially head chefs) end up on one side of the spectrum: either they scream and yell and act like lunatics or they’re pretty even keeled and realize you “catch more flies with honey.” Chef Lithium ran the gamut from both sides, so you never knew what to expect from day-to-day, hour-to-hour. I guess you could say she was more dangerous than typing “Jessica Biel” into my Firefox nav-bar.

So one night, the Swedish Guy showed up while I was prepping and asked for a little help for a television appearance he was getting ready for. Considering I had a light day (meaning I’d gotten done everything I needed to get done) I was more than happy to help him out. He and I got down to business and when he stepped out to take a phone call, Chef Screamy swooped in like an angry gaggle of crows to ask what the hell was wrong with me listening to music while the Swedish Guy tried to get work done? I didn’t see it as a big deal because before she came in and started her yelling; I’d stood across the steel table from him while he nodded his head along with the music as he perfectly…and I mean perfectly diced pumpkin.

Later that evening, I was plating appetizers during an especially busy service. I was picking up Yellowtail, a Lobster Salad, a Mixed Green Salad, Tabbouleh, Oysters and about five other dishes during a Friday night and word had apparently spread that the Swedish Guy would be there, as we only got busier as the night wore on. I was also running between my station and the grill helping plate the shrimp app and the duck salad because my sous chef was super cool and was smart to occasionally put me in the weeds to help me learn to maximize efficiency. The Swede was downstairs finishing getting ready for his television appearance and I was trying to ease into service. Around 8:30 a big ticket (like Alaska big) came out and I, and the rest of the kitchen, furiously got to work.

Things were going well until Chef Screamy turned around from the pass to see me plating somewhere around dish number seven of the ten (I think it was a Lobster Salad), or so, I was responsible for and had a grand mal flip-out. Seriously, it was a tantrum of epic proportions, complete with choice phrases like: “that looks like shit,” and “I’d be embarrassed send that out,” and “you’re so goddamn slow I’d have you re-plate it, but there’s no time.” At some point during the yell-fest, unbeknownst to me or Chef Screamy, The Swedish Guy had made his way back into the kitchen. He’d quietly been surveying things from the corner and before the dish went out, he walked over and took a look at it. I held my breath, the waiter cowered against the wall, Screamy fumed, arms folded across her chest (and in retrospect this entire exchange probably took place in about four seconds), the rest of the cooks paused. The Swede looked at my dish, looked me square in the eye and nodded his head. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. His silent implication was clear: nice job, keep doing what you're doing.

I gloated internally for the rest of the night and every day after that.

Next Time: Making the best of a bad corn situation.

Picture: Courtesy Sesame Street

French Toast, Eggs Benedict and Other Small Tragedies, Part II

Last time I gave you a recipe, this time I’m going to give you a couple recipes…for disaster. All kinds of funny stuff happens in the kitchen, especially during brunch service when everyone working is tired and everyone sitting in the dining room is too damn chipper…or hung over or drunk or high…for their own good. Or maybe it’s not so much that funny stuff happens, but that you’re so miserable you just have to laugh. Originally, I was going to give you a bunch of brunch stories, but I realize brunch is just too long/funny/sad to throw at you all at once. Instead, here are the first few shots across the bow, for I hope will be a series of procrastination inducing stories. As always, the names have been changed to protect the guilty.

When I was working at the East Village gastropub with Dopp (my boy Dopp, that I’ve told you about? My “white doppelganger”? Okay, whatever, I’ll tell you about him later), we had this bus boy who knew it all. When he wasn’t slouching against the coffee station, texting; he was hovering around telling us how to plate dishes, complaining about running simple errands (such as: “I’m trying to pick up five tables here and you’re standing around eyeing a half-eaten piece of chocolate bread pudding, can you please get me a quart of heavy cream?”), marking tables or running plates to the wrong tables because he wouldn’t wait for us to tell him where things were supposed to go. Anyway, one of our brunch menu items was French Toast which we served with maple syrup in a shot glass. So a couple weekends in a row Dopp & I noticed he was running plates of French Toast to tables with the shot glass balanced precariously at the edge of the plate. Dopp and I told him numerous times to carry the shot glass separately so it didn’t wobble off the plate and onto the floor; but he knew better and continued to do it. So one Sunday he scooped up a plate and ran it to a table. A few moments later, there was some commotion in the dining room and Mr. Know-It-All came running back into the kitchen looking for napkins and a wet towel. In his infinite wisdom, he had ran plates to a table and held the plate with the French Toast in his hand while he set down some Polenta & Eggs…moving his hand slightly, the shot glass fell (I imagine in slow motion) onto the table, spilling its contents all over the white-Miu Miu-pantalooned lap of a young lady who was there expressly to break up with her boyfriend. You ask how I know she was there to dump her boyfriend…? Because she wrote about it on Citysearch or Yelp or somewhere the very next day. Just goes to show you, you should listen to the guys in the clogs and white coats…we know what we’re talking about.

When I was working in the West Village (not with “the Swedish guy”), I worked brunch on a super small line; cranking out frittatas and sausage and broccoli rabe. It was what you would call a hotspot and as a result we used to get all kinds of people in there: Dr. Evil, the Green Goblin, Sally Heap, Liz Lemon’s boyfriend, Darla Marks, and others.
So one day a certain Lady Editor of a certain famous magazine came in with the Green Goblin and some friends and orders brunch for six: frittata, sausage, salad, broccoli rabe, pancakes and polenta. The waitress also asked that we make a separate frittata with very little salt, withhold sausage and make a separate rabe with no chili flakes for the Lady Editor, as she was apparently not in the mood for eating meat, didn’t like spicy food or salt. If you’re keeping score at home: “picking up, frittata for five; frittata for one, no salt; sausage for five; salad for six; polenta for six; rabe for five, straight up; rabe for one, no chilies; pancakes for six; heard.” Now, my chef and I were friendly, but not friends and while we got along well, we did not see eye on eye on one major kitchen issue: the use of salt. Now, anyone who knows me knows I love me some salt, but this guy worshiped at the Church of Salt! Nothing was ever seasoned well enough to his liking. Any time he tasted part of a dish I was plating, the problem (in any) was invariably lack of salt.
So I started picking up the order and Chef Salty came upstairs and after some back and forth about why I was making two different frittatas for a table of six; I started plating. Guess what happened? “More salt.” Same thing with the rabe…more salt. I noticed Greeny looking over wondering what was going on and where his frittata was. Long story short, the solo frittata came back for being too salty and I had to pick up the rabe three times before it was “right,” all of this to the seeming amusement of the Lady Editor. When it was all said and done, with Chef Salty back downstairs and Greeny and the Lady Editor on their way out, she leaned across the bar and said, “thanks for trying.”

Next Time: The Biggest Compliment I Ever Got

Somewhere Down the Line: More brunch stories

French Toast, Eggs Benedict and Other Small Tragedies

I hate brunch. Or rather, I hate cooking brunch. I would even go so far as to say that brunch is the bane of the existence of the culinary professional. Whether you are a cook, a hostess, a bus boy or dish washer every weekend when you come in it sucks out a little piece of your soul. Look, I don’t; and I haven’t met a cook who does, hate cooking scrambled eggs, bacon, French Toast, pancakes, omelettes and whatnot; hell, I even like going to brunch. It’s just that I don’t think there are any cooks out there who enjoy cooking a busy dinner service on a Friday or Saturday night, getting home at two in the morning and then waking up six hours later, to drag ass back into work and cook that stuff for six hours when you’re bleary-eyed, your mouth tastes like Makers Mark, cigarettes and shame and you’ve got a strange pain in your side you know wasn’t there nine hours ago.

Every time I’ve said, “if I never have to cook brunch another day in my life, I’ll die a happy man,” I get a knowing nod and a shrug from the cook I’m talking to. Almost as if he or she is saying, “yeah, I hear ya, but brunch is a necessary evil; so just suck it up and deal.” Many a Saturday and Sunday I wake up hating myself because of what I’ve done to my body and brain the night before and then stand over a hot stove scrambling eggs, pulling omelettes out of Salamanders, frittatas out of ovens and French Toast off of griddles…a zombie in checkered pants and a white jacket.

Last weekend, I had an opportunity to cook brunch more to my speed. I found myself in Hoboken visiting my old roommate, who through no fault of his own, has been fully domesticated with a dog, girlfriend, apartment combo. He’s come a long way from the booze chugging, skirt-chasing guy I remember from college; he’s grown up, he’s grounded, hell, he’s fucking responsible…and I say that in a good way. So we decided to catch up on one of the free weekends he’s probably had in months and hit some of the bars in Hoboken. I won’t waste your time talking about Hoboken; but suffice it to say, I care about Hoboken about as much as I care about the Rebecca Gayheart sextape. (NSFW)

Sunday morning, we went out and got a loaf of whole wheat bread, some heavy cream, bacon and eggs and then I loosed myself on my buddy’s kitchen. I mixed the eggs and heavy cream with some of the leftover buttermilk from the fried chicken I had made the previous night (not the same buttermilk I soaked the chicken in, c’mon!) and added a couple ounces of bourbon for good measure. Then I got to work cooking my bacon and saving the rendered fat to cook the scrambled eggs in. When it was all said and done, my buddy and I feasted while watching ESPN and discussing the merits of feeding bacon and eggs to a twelve pound dog. I’m including my recipe for the Buttermilk-Bourbon French Toast, just bear in mind this recipe isn’t winning any diet awards. It will, however; cut down on your sugar; because I never saw the need to put sugar in something I was going to cover in Maple Syrup ten minutes later. In addition, it does benefit from healthy whole wheat or filling brioche as opposed to useless white/Wonder Bread (which has a tendency to fall apart like Phil Mickelson at Torrey Pines). Just remember to watch your heat. I personally like my French Toast slightly crispy on the outside, but you don’t want it taking on a whole lot of colour beyond a nice burnished gold.

Buttermilk-Bourbon French Toast

Toast Batter
1 Pint – Heavy Cream
½ Pint – Buttermilk
3 oz – Bourbon
3 Eggs
Cinnamon & Nutmeg, to taste

8 slices of Whole Wheat or Brioche Bread
4 oz – Unsalted Butter

Place an oven-safe plate in the oven and pre-heat to 200 degrees F
Whisk eggs in a large bowl with heavy cream, buttermilk and bourbon then combine with cinnamon and nutmeg. Melt butter in a sauté pan or skillet over medium heat. Soak bread, on both sides, in batter then place in pan and cook until lightly browned on both sides. Remove slices from pan and place in oven until all slices are cooked.


Yield: 8 pieces of French Toast

Bought, Paid for & Cooking…for Vegetarians!

I know I was supposed to write this a few months back, but considering I had to actually undertake the “date” before I could write about it, things got pushed back. I’ve been a busy little cook recently and unfortunately had to push the date back a couple times. Anyway, here we go…with a Quinoa Salad, to boot!
You know that scene at the end of Groundhog Day when Bill Murray rolls over and is surprised to see Andie McDowell lying in bed next to him…? And then he asks her why she’s there and she says, “I bought you, I own you.” That line always made me laugh, in an uncomfortable sort of way. My good buddy from Berkley and I used to joke about those words coming out of her mouth with her Southern accent and the strangely uncomfortable feeling it would give me. Anyway, I joined the overactive, overexcited digital high school that is Yelp a couple months back and have been writing reviews and attending their “parties” and defending myself against the many word twisting, antagonistic fussbudgets that seemingly spend the better part of their lives “helicoptering” the site. They're not all bad, and they do try to do some good; especially the people in charge. They hold little parties for their “Elite” members, which is basically a reason to get drunk and hook up and hold other events.

One such event was a Silent Date Auction for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society of New York. Now, I’ve lost two grandparents to Lymphoma, so I thought that if nothing else it would be a nice gesture to help raise money for a good cause. Seeing as I’m more of a, “how can I help you with my time?” kind of guy, I decided to offer my services, via food. The bidding was going well, okay pretty well and I was excited that I might get a chance to cook for one of the people I actually knew. Then came the day of reckoning and the name I expected to see next to my name, in the “win column,” was different. So I reached out to her (or actually, she reached out to me…I was a busy boy) and congratulated her on her winnings and then asked if she had any food allergies or perhaps if there was anything she was unwilling to eat. And then it came, like a piano falling on Daffy Duck’s head…she was a vegetarian. Now, those of you that know me know I do not suffer vegetarians lightly, so I was in no mood to cook or assemble something that didn’t have parents. Hell, just the other day I walked past a guy who passed Maoz Vegetarian Café to hear him mutter, “commies.” Oh wait, that was me. Anyway, I was fresh off of cooking at a dinner party with a menu that included: Fried Chicken Breast Strips; Thai Beef Salad and a Corn Salad with Chicken Sausage. Not to mention, I had seriously pushed for making a bacon vinaigrette for the salad, but was vetoed.

So while I was cooking Friday night, I was mentally cheating on my dinner companions trying to figure out what the hell I was going to cook the following day. And it came to me quite easily. I set aside a small amount of the Corn Salad, sans the chicken sausage; as well as some of the Peach Crumble, then ate dinner, threw my orange clogs on and tried to figure out my next move.

When I woke up in the morning I found that the quinoa I had brought to my friends house had been cooked, drained and was sitting neatly in the refrigerator. I was working on borrowed time (probably because I made some questionable decisions with my orange clogs on and got to bed late), so I made my way to Whole Foods; with a Solo cup full of quinoa in tow to do my shopping. I decided on a different salad, but one with protein that most vegetarian meals lack or mask with things like beans and whatnot. Quinoa has got a little more than four grams of protein per ounce, which is pretty substantial for something that never had cute ears or a family. So like a tornado, I picked up a plum tomato, a cucumber, some black olives and a red onion; and knew I had mint and feta cheese at my friends place. Then I hightailed it back there, and got to mixing.
Then I put my vegetarian meal in some containers I “procured” from Whole Foods and was on my way to the Belvedere Castle.

Turns out, she was a fan of charity:water, the wonderful organization started by a good friend of mine and even had a charity tote bag; so she scored a few more points for vegetarians everywhere in my book.When it was all said and done, she professed the peach crumble delicious and the corn salad super tasty, but spent the majority of the time eating the Quinoa Salad.

Mediterranean Quinoa Salad

3 Cups, cooked Quinoa
1 small Cucumber, skin on small diced
½ Red Onion, small diced
1 Plum Tomato, small diced
1 Handful, Grape or Cherry Tomatoes
4 oz., Sliced Black Olives
4 oz., Feta Cheese, crumbled
20 Mint Leaves, chiffonade
2 oz., Red Wine Vinegar
2 oz., Extra Virgin Olive Oil
Salt & Pepper, to taste

Combine all ingredients except oil and vinegar and mix well. Season with salt and pepper, to taste, but more pepper; as the olives and feta will be salty. Then dress with the oil and vinegar and mix again.

Serves 4-to-6