Have Blade Will Travel: The adventures of a traveling chef (8 page)

And ever so slowly, he began to lighten up and come my way.  After all, we did spend seventy hours or more each week working side-by-side.  While still preventing me from excelling in front of others, he gradually came to appreciate that he could count on me.  He discovered that I was an asset to him, a help in maintaining his own star status, even if it was a delicate balance, a very fine line.  So I kept the banter light, worked hard to show the community I was as good as the best of ‘em, and avoided excelling to the point of stepping into Malcolm’s limelight. 

As the summer wore on, I became more proficient at my work, gained more self-confidence, and began seeking new opportunities to stretch. During the daytime hours, Malcolm and I were responsible for preparing many of the peripheral dishes offered during the dinner service.  We would cut and blanch the vegetable of the day – three crates of summer squash, sliced, seasoned with salt and pepper, sautéed in butter, sprinkled with Parmesan cheese and baked briefly as the front line required it.  We also were responsible for scrubbing and baking several hundred potatoes nightly, clarifying butter for the lobster dishes, preparing Rice Pilaf, Clam Chowder, Béarnaise Sauce, the Soup of the Day, chopped parsley.  We loaded skewers with chunks of marinated beef tenderloin, bell peppers, and onions; roasted twelve-to-fifteen prime ribs of beef; and twice as many ducks, then cut them in half and partially boned them for service. 

In the meantime, Billy Byrd and I continued to bond. One afternoon I watched him cut double pork chops from a loin of pork.  After all the chops were cut, there remained another six-to-eight inches of the butt end of the loin.  From this he trimmed four-to-five-ounce slices of meat, then pounded them into scaloppines, about one-quarter-of-an-inch thick.  He then put them through “standard breading procedure” – seasoned flour, salt, pepper and paprika; then beaten eggs; and finally into dry bread crumbs seasoned aggressively with dried oregano and basil, salt and pepper. 

 “I hope that’s not what I think it is,” I blurted out. 

“What’s that?” he asked, looking up.

“Veal Parmigiana?”

He laughed, “Yes, young man, indeed it is.  At least in this elite establishment.” 

“I thought that was against the law?” 

“What, serving pork in place of veal?  As in `truth in advertising’?”

“I’m referring to honesty in restaurant operations, and standards of culinary excellence.  This is incorrect.” 

“You’re right, of course, but I am only the Sous-chef here.  If Dave (Chef Jacobs) tells me to use pork for the Veal Parmigiana, then I use pork for the Veal Parmigiana.  And you know where that directive comes down from.”

I was stunned.  “But what if someone is allergic to pork, or prohibited from eating it because of religious beliefs?”

“No one has complained so far.”

Billy was a great source of information and lore, and most everything he lectured about was as fascinating to me as it was to him.  About 5:30 each afternoon, kitchen work would come to a halt.  Some of the crew would use the break to eat, while others would step outside to smoke a cigarette.  Byrd was very punctual and unvarying in his eating habits.  He’d make himself a fine salad to accompany a pork chop or piece of fish he had thrown onto the broiler grill.  His salad always consisted of cut and washed lettuce greens topped with fresh fruit and vegetables, the fruit sprinkled with salt.  I’d never seen that before, and asked him why he did it.

“Well, for one thing, we lose a lot of salt in a twelve-hour shift.  Salt tablets are rough on the stomach and difficult for the body to absorb in such concentration.  It’s better to get it in food.”  He was right about that.  There wasn’t a night that summer when I hadn’t ended up completely drenched in perspiration.

Byrd continued: “Unripened fruit is sour because its sugar content is in the form of starch.  As it ripens, the starch converts into sugar, while the acid content declines.  Yet sweetness, as our taste buds perceive it, is not produced solely by the presence of sugar, but by sugar in combination with amino acids and ionic compounds.  So, the absence of acid has a direct negative correlation to our ability to detect sweetness.  That’s why adding salt, an acid compound, actually enhances the perception of the sweetness of the fruit.  That’s in addition to replenishing the salt we lose in this harsh industrial environment we call a production kitchen.”  

“Oh.  I see.”  I watched him munch away at his salad for a few moments, then went outside for some air. 

Late one afternoon, after the crew was well-prepped for the evening’s production, we had some time to kill, and pretty much do whatever we wanted.  Malcolm was in a frisky mood, and flipped a lemon to me.  I caught it, as he stepped back towards the steam kettle.  He picked up the four-foot-long wooden paddle that was used to stir huge quantities of sauce and soups assembled in the sixty-gallon kettle, and he lifted it paddle up to his shoulder.  He was hunched over slightly, with knees bent, and motioned to me to pitch.  I accepted the invitation, and lobbed an easy one, which Mal slapped into a fast grounder to my left.  I ran for it, picked it up, spun 180-degrees, and threw that poor lemon just about as hard as I could.  To this day, I don’t have a clue what in the heck I imagined I was throwing towards, but it hit double-paned glass window on the far wall of the kitchen.  Needless to say, it was hurtling so fast, that its impact cut a hole not just through both panels, but both double panels, since the window was open.  The lemon struck just about dead center, and hurtled so fast, that it left a perfect outline of that lemon.  It reminded me of a scene from a Tom-and-Jerry cartoon, in which frightened Tom the Cat runs through a wall, leaving an opening in the wall in the exact outline of his fleeing body. 

Malcolm was laughing, mouth covered, as he stood cowered in a corner.  I was in a similar state, but the chef, and the rest of the crew, did not find it amusing.  Two kids goofing off in the back of the kitchen, and look at what we did.  Manager Ricci wasn’t too far away, and hearing a ruckus, marched into the area  “What happened?!”  I could see he wasn’t pleased.  Just the kind of thing he could use to jump on my case.  “Um, I was sweeping up by that sink Fran, and slipped.  The broom handle hit the window and broke it.  Look, it’s broken.”  He was not amused either. 

“I can see it is broken,” he said tersely.  “I just don’t understand how you managed to do it with the end of a broom handle?” 

“I don’t know,” I stammered.  “It just happened.”  I prayed he would leave it at that.  He looked at the damage more closely, then looked at me, and said, “Well, in the future, be more careful.” 

“Sure,” I said.  “I guess this floor can really get dangerous sometimes.”  Ricci left the kitchen, but by the way he looked at me as he walked out, I knew he didn’t believe me.  Mal and I cleaned up the mess and went back to work.

The next day, early in the afternoon, Ricci was in the kitchen chatting with the chef.  At one point, he turned towards the back kitchen where I was working, and asked, “Hey Larousse.  How did you really break that window yesterday?”  Without hesitation, I replied, “Malcolm and I were horsing around back here, and I hurled a lemon through it.” 

“It’s a good thing you told me that pal,” he responded.  “If you hadn’t, you’d be out of a job at this very moment.  And I don’t want any more horsing around in this kitchen.  Understand?!” 

“Yes sir.”  He left the kitchen.  I had done just the right thing at that moment, which was easy – I had no reason to hide anything at that point.  After a long, hard, emotionally-and-physically-grueling summer, we were entitled to blow off a little steam.  Life is short.  Days in the kitchen are long.  I felt I had earned the right to get a little crazy after all these hours.

At 6:00 PM the restaurant opened for business, and orders began to trickle in.  Chef Dave Jacobs, Sous-chef Billy Byrd, and first-cook Paul took their places on the main line.  Paul operated two four-rack convection ovens on one end, where all of the baked items originated, including Baked Stuffed Scrod, Baked Stuffed Shrimp, Baked Cape Cod Scallops, and a Fish of the Day.  Billy Byrd was at the far end of the line operating the broiler station, which produced steaks, chops, brochettes, and grilled fish.  The middle station was occupied by the chef, charged with slicing the Roast Prime Rib of Beef au jus, deep-frying breaded shrimp, scallops, and veal – mock veal, that is – as well as dishing up vegetables, rice, steamed clams, and so on.  The duties of the various stations were not cast in stone, but allowed considerable overlap.  If one station-master was occupied with one task, another might step in to work on another of his orders. 

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Baked Stuffed Scrod  
(Serves 4)

For the stuffing
(Use for all three fish dishes)

1 cup (240 mL) Panko bread crumbs

½ cup (60 mL) melted butter

¼ cup (60 mL) chopped parsley

1 cup (240 mL) premium crab meat

1 teaspoon (5 mL) “Old Bay” seafood seasoning

salt, white pepper, and paprika as needed

For the scrod

4 – 8-ounce fillets of fresh scrod

melted butter as needed

the juice of one lemon

salt, white pepper, and paprika as needed

• Preheat an oven to 375-degrees F (190-degrees C).
  

To prepare the stuffing

• Combine all of the stuffing ingredients in a bowl and blend.  Add additional butter as needed. Season to taste.
  

To prepare the dish

• Brush the scrod fillets with the melted butter and place a heaping tablespoon of stuffing on one end of the fillet.  Roll up, and place into a shallow baking dish.  Sprinkle with lemon juice, salt, white pepper, and a light dusting of paprika.
  
• Place in the oven and bake for 12-to-15 minutes, or until the fish flakes when a fork is gently inserted.
  

― ● ― 

Baked Stuffed Shrimp  
(Serves 4)

24 U-12 shrimp, peeled and de-veined (U-12 = under 12 shrimp per pound)

melted butter as needed

1 cup (240 mL) stuffing (See recipe for
Baked Stuffed Scrod
above)

the juice of one lemon

salt and white pepper to taste

• Preheat an oven to 375-degrees F (190-degrees C).
  
• Take approximately 1 heaping tablespoon (20 mL) of stuffing, and press it into the inside curved space of each shrimp.  Arrange six stuffed shrimp in each of four individual, shallow, oven-proof casserole dishes.
  
• Drizzle with melted butter, a little lemon juice, salt and pepper.  Bake 15 minutes and serve.
  

― ● ―
 

Baked Stuffed Scallops
    (Serves 4)

2 pounds (1 kg) fresh or frozen sea scallops

melted butter as needed

1 cup (240 mL) stuffing (See recipe for
Baked Stuffed Scrod
above)

the juice of one lemon

salt, white pepper, and paprika as needed

1 stuffing recipe 

• Preheat an oven to 375-degrees F (190-degrees C).
  
• Place a 4-ounce (120 mL) scoop of stuffing into the center of each of four individual oven-proof casserole dishes and press the stuffing down.
  
• Arrange ½-pound (¼ kg) of scallops (six-to-seven-each, depending upon the size) on top of each portion of stuffing.  Top liberally with melted butter, lemon juice, and sprinkle with salt, pepper, and paprika.  Bake for 10 minutes and serve. 
  

― ● ―
 

Around the corner in the pantry station, Richard prepared most of the cold food items on the menu.  If he fell behind schedule, the chef sometimes sent me over to help him.  Though he had a helper on the busiest nights, he still had to set up all the small dinner salads that were included with every main course.  Nothing fancy, just some chunks of Iceberg Lettuce tossed into a cheap, pressed-wood bowl, topped with a slice of cucumber, a wedge of tomato, and a pitted, canned black olive – the kind of salad that wouldn’t stand a chance in most restaurants nowadays.  Still, on busy nights, the restaurant would need as many as six-hundred of them.  The other items the pantry was responsible for were shrimp cocktail, oysters and clams on the half shell, plus all the desserts.

One afternoon, with the pork-for-veal scandal still fresh in my mind, I observed Richard pouring a viscous white liquid from a large, aluminum-foil-wrapped can into the bowl of a large mixer.  Into that he poured part of a #10-can of “Murray’s-brand” chocolate fudge topping, followed by a cup of cheap kitchen brandy.  I walked over and asked, “What’s that?”

“That’s Chocolate Mousse.”

“You’re kidding.  Chocolate Mousse?  What’s that white stuff?”

“That’s Rich’s non-dairy commercial topping base.  I just whip it up in the mixer, and it looks and tastes just like whipped cream.  I think it is rather pretty, myself.  It glows in the dark.”

Richard was being sarcastic, but he knew as well as I did that this was pure garbage, not fit for man nor beast.  Non-dairy topping is about as close as one can get to a non-food, this side of margarine.  I wondered what other unscrupulous acts this kitchen operation was involved in, besides mock-veal and non-dairy mousse.  Such practices were contrary to everything I had learned in school, and everything I believed in.  It is one thing not to use the most expensive ingredients.  It’s another to deceive the customer.  The customer, and his or her satisfaction, were the whole reason for the existence of a restaurant.  By the same token, it is also the dining public’s responsibility to respond to such deception, by not patronizing that establishment.  If I were served mock mousse, I would know, since I know what a proper mousse looks and tastes like.  But our clientele apparently could not tell the difference, and their untrained palates permitted such deceit.  I wondered who was more at fault – the patrons whose tastes were un-informed, or the restaurateur who placed profits above culinary excellence.  I put the issue out of my mind for the time being, imagining that it would make for provocative reading in a book some day.