Happiness is Risotto and Tough Love

Friends, good morning from snowy (snowy!) New York City, where your good friend Sarah is happy and tired and thinking back on that day in the kitchen yesterday, as I am tested, taught, and measured with ridiculously Tough Love.  This life in the kitchen is so hard, and it is so good for me.  I am so happy today, and I am utterly exhausted, but I am relieved to report that I am not yet, apparently, diagnosed as being borderline retarded, as Sous Chef would say.

 

Yesterday I worked another 19 hour day, including 7 hours of medical research work and 12 hours in the kitchen.  I learned to make risotto from one of the toughest Sous Chefs I have worked under.  He is incredibly intense, with (wholly justified) expectations of perfection and consistency, every time, every day, every dish.  I knew how to make risotto, of course, but when this Chef tells you he is going to teach you to make risotto, you shut the hell up, you say “thank you, Chef,” and you go learn to make risotto from him.  He is a machine, moving faster and harder than I ever will move in my lifetime when it comes to cooking.  This is an incredibly delicious Hungarian goulash I made at home for myself using paprika from Budapest.  If I made this in the kitchen where I work, this would not pass the test because it is too messy, it is “not nice” to look at, and I would be asked to make this again, most likely while being called names. 

 

He is more than a little intimidating to me, and I fear and respect him and admire him, even as I hear him announce many times that several people “must be borderline retarded” to have put out a dish of that (lack of) quality together.  He actually got right in a few people’s faces, flat out asking them multiple times in multiple ways if they were retarded, as he waited for them to answer.  It went like this:

 

Sous Chef:  “I swear this kitchen is full of borderline retarded people.  Tell me, are you retarded?”

 

Line Cook Chef:  “No, Chef.”

 

Sous Chef:  “You have to be.  You must be retarded.  Seriously, are you borderline retarded? Tell me that.”

 

Line Cook Chef:  “No, Chef.”

 

Sous Chef:  “I think you are.  I think you have to be borderline retarded to be doing this task for 3 months, 3 f**king months, and still not have it right.  So are you retarded?”

 

Line Cook Chef:  “No, Chef, sorry Chef.”

 

Sous Chef:  “How many f**king times do I have to show you this?  How could you possibly be this behind on your schedule in the morning to leave it up to now, right now, and have it wrong again.  How many times do we have to go through this? Or are you retarded?”

 

Line Cook Chef:  “Would you like me to remake it, Chef?”

 

Sous Chef:  “No, I would like you to be less retarded.  Throw it out.  Start again. From the beginning, and get it f**king right this time.”  And as he walked away, he turned to the next station of chefs and me and said, “Bunch of f**king retards,” before saying, “Hey Sarah, how’s the risotto coming?”

 

Sarah:  “Fine Chef, thank you, Chef.  We’re on the 4^th ladle of liquid added. Would you like to taste it?”  (as I held my breath, waiting for my turn to be pronounced retarded.)

 

Sous Chef:  “No, keep adding, keep stirring.  I want that less al dente, just like I told you.”

 

Sarah:  “Oui, Chef, thank you Chef.”

 

I had to bite my tongue from laughing because it was not funny in that moment, but it would be later.  We are not allowed to use language like that in the medical world, but I see how he gets his point across and how it was effective.

 

Can you imagine me saying this to any of my mostly all women teams as we work on patient safety?  Can you imagine the amount of crying and coffee talks and HR sessions we would need? Not here. Not in the restaurant. You listen, you learn, and you get it right, or you will hear about it.  And you should.  At one point, he came over to me and quietly asked me if I had heard him yelling at our team, and I nodded but said, “I understand, Chef, thank you Chef,” which is what I am supposed to say, and so, I did, and I kept working, faster and harder than I even thought I could.  My role is not meant to be coddled, and when they cut me slack even though they do not have to, I am aware of it and grateful for that kindness and swear I will do better next time.  In these moments, gratefulness is key, and I make a point to be grateful for being corrected, because that only makes me better. If they did not care, this would not be a Michelin star restaurant, and I would not be coached and corrected.  But they do care, and so I work hard and feel really good when they say nothing but just give the slightest nod to show approval.

 

And so, I learned to make risotto, and I learned again the whys and hows of the searing of the rice in hot oil or butter and how that brings out the nuttiness and flavor, even though I already knew these things.  I learned to then put in the chopped onion, and to make them sweat to bring out the sweet, just as I have added onion 40, 50 60 times already in my life.  I learned again how and when to add what amounts of liquids, and that in this kitchen, we do not use broth (as I would at home) but instead use water, in case someone is vegetarian.  The risotto can be finished later using broth, to pop the flavor in, but we need to think ahead, always, to make sure we accommodate what guests need.  

 

I relearned how to season and taste and constantly, constantly, constantly stir the risotto, so that it would not stick, so that it would not get gummy or inconsistent in its texture.  I relearned how steam burns happen on one’s arm over a super hot industrial stove, and how to keep quiet and keep working.  My first steam burns in this restaurant, under his watch, were, I’m sure, a test of my endurance.  I did ok. I did not stop stirring, I did not complain.  He looked at my arm and its red spots forming, looked at my face, saw that I could keep going, let me keep going for 45 seconds more, and the he took over so that I could rest from the heat, which I am not used to.  Then, without a word, he would hand me back the spoon, and I would stir again. He would go check on others and come back, tasting, stirring, explaining to me the things I knew already but needed to learn from him, to know his language about it, his style, his expectations.  I craved it.  I want to learn it all.

 

Being in the kitchen, like being in surgery, is not just about the skillsets and knowledge.  Being together like that and learning each other is about the Flow you need to make it right, to make it nice, to be consistent and quickly communicate critical information.   You learn how to communicate with looks, with nods, with short phrases, quickly, concisely.  You learn to recognize each others’ breaking points and limits, and you know when and how to push.  He was tough, he was tense, and he was awesome.  He scares the bejesus out of me when he uses his Big Voice across the kitchen to scold Chefs, but I love how he teaches me to think about efficiency, about repeatability, about how to work faster and smarter and with a mind of a chess player, always, always, always thinking about how what I do impacts someone else, down the line, later that night.  He was awesome.  I am exhausted working alongside him, but I would have it no other way, I loved it that much, and I want to work alongside him often, so that I keep learning and learning and learning some of the same things, only better.

 

I knew how to make risotto.  I knew the hows and whys, but this was not just about him teaching me and me learning him, this was about him assessing what I knew and how I would do and figuring out where I would go next and what it would take to get me there.  I have so much more to learn about the basic moves of speed and language on a hot line, but yesterday I graduated to the hot line for a brief time of the day, and without words, without shaming me or making me feel inadequate, that Chef and I both knew I am not even close to ready yet.  I am not yet ready for that challenge, and I need to keep practicing for hundreds of hours before they put me in that position of pressure.  He knew, I knew, and we did not need to talk about it because we respect each other, and so I stepped back to breaking down 50 heads of cauliflower into 3 different sizes, standing in one spot for 3 hours, while popping back over to my garde manger station to make brussel sprout and lettuce salads when the other Chef called on me.

 

Friends, today as I morph back into my medical research role and review about 90,00 lines of Excel safety data for my patients to see how their heart devices performed, I am thinking about how I can teach my teams in the medical world to be faster, smarter, and strategic about how their choices and work impacts everyone else down the line.   This kitchen work is out of my league, and I am so far behind the skillset of everyone there, but I am a fast learner, and I will keep coming back 36 hours a week, to re-learn as much as possible, for as long as they will let me. 

 

May we all have people who push us, who intimidate us, who insist on excellence, because even in that intensity, often, that is the kindest thing of all, even in its un-PC presentation.  When That Guy stops and shakes your hand and says, “Nice job,” after service, you know you did well, and it means everything.  Today I am reflecting on Tough Love and how important it is.  I get it every day in that kitchen, I give it out often on my teams, and I hope they all know just how much I care about them and want them to be successful and the best, just like that Chef and that kitchen want for me.

 

Wishing you a good day today, Friends, and some Tough Love, too,

From Your Not Yet Borderline Retarded Good Friend Sarah