Make it Sexy

Friends, good morning from snowy New York City, from your good friend Sarah, who woke up this morning in the worst way possible, and that is with the words, “Oh dear God, what is that smell?!!”

 

Friends, I am so, so, happy working in that Kitchen but also so, so tired, getting only 3-4 hours of sleep a night, since I work 6-7 hours on cardiology research before 11-12 hours in the restaurant. I am so tired that I can barely see straight by the time I get home.  When I finally stumble in at 1:30 or so, I usually start stripping off my clothes the moment I walk in the door, leaving them in  a trail from front door to the shower, I am so tired, as I go shower before bed, but not last night.  Last night I passed out on the couch I was so tired.  I had barely gotten into deep sleep, when I woke up to that horrible smell---oh such a stink!  Was it dirty laundry?  No…I did laundry yesterday.  That wasn’t it.

 

Was it delivery food from Seamless, left in the hallway, some leftover club sandwich and fries?  I wondered to myself.  No…the hallway was clear, but the stink, dear God, that stink?  It was everywhere. 

 

I wondered to myself if the cleaning lady had left some raw poultry in my garbage, since I once again forgot to tip her.  I went to check the kitchen garbage:  nope, nothing but coffee grounds, tangerine peels and instant oatmeal packaging, but the smell was getting worse.  It was some combination of meaty, whiskey, buttery, sweaty, oiliness that I could not pin down.  I went to get the Febreeze from the bathroom cabinet and caught a look at myself in the mirror:  big bed hair, big circles under my eyes, and a smallish piece of roasted chicken, somehow, stuck to my collarbone.  Chicken?  I thought to myself.  How does someone get chicken stuck to their collarbone?

 

It was at this moment, Friends, that it all came back to me.  I realized that the terrible smell, the roasty/juicy/greasy/chicken/oil smell?   It was me.  I'm surprised packs of dogs did not follow me home, I smelled so much like day old chicken.

 

I smelled terrible.  Oh, God, I smelled so bad I could hardly stagger to the shower in time to get the stank off of me.  I figured out what happened, as it all came back to me, as I quickly hopped into the shower, pouring about half a bottle of soap all over myself, scrubbing everywhere all at once.  Gone was my lovely Guerlain Insolence perfume and L'Occitane cerise blossom sweetness, as it was replaced by eau d' poulet.

 

I remembered that for the past 2 days, Head Chef had sort of let me choose what I wanted to learn and do, after I completed 5-6 hours of prep work for the garde manger station---you know, cauliflower and those goddamn Brussels sprouts.   I knew this was my last opportunity to work alongside Chef, as he is transitioning to another restaurant, and things would be changing soon.  I would no longer have as much freedom to play, like a happy little kid, in all the places in the Kitchen, learning everything and anything I wanted to learn, and now was my chance to do it all before things changed.  Chef has been so good to me that way, making sure I worked very, very hard under my Sous Chefs, but also working with me to make sure that in exchange for working 24-36 hours for free each week, that I also got to learn as many different tasks as I wanted to learn.  This week was our last week working together, and I chose Expo, and I chose roasting chickens.  This, Friends, is where the stink comes in.

 

This restaurant has more write-ups about their roasted chicken than Julia Child.  People take trips, as if this was a chicken Mecca, to try this chicken.  I, personally, in the last 2 months alone have ordered or told people to order no less than 14 chickens, so I do my part in supporting this little restaurant that I love.  I had learned about how the chickens’ insides, heads and claws were removed by the dirty-mouthed guy in the back corner of the Kitchen, who refuses to address me as anything but his “novia” (girlfriend) or “mi amour” (my love.)  When I do not respond to him in Spanish with anything but an eye roll, he purrs a streak of dirty, sex-laced expletives that make the other women in the back of the Kitchen get wide-eyed and giggle as they look at me, then laugh even harder when they realize that I have absolutely no idea what he is saying to me.  He speaks in Spanish all the time, until it’s time to curse, and then he will hand you a tray of food, announcing that you are a bitchass mother*cker.  Yeah, it’s like that.  Just like office work.  Well, maybe not. 

 

Anyway, my alleged new novio preps the chickens, and he also injects a lovely combination of fat and brioche and truffle up under the skin before stuffing the insides with thyme and lemons and more foie/brioche/truffle.  I have watched him do this to no less than 80 chickens a day, every day, right alongside me as I cut and trim and lovingly curse at my 1000 goddamn brussel sprouts.  We have become family, this little corner of my Kitchen world, and I loved learning about the chickens, so I asked Chef if I could leave behind my goddamn brussel sprouts and, just for the night, work up in the place where they roast the chickens, but I did not know what that little Kitchen space was called.

 

“Chef,” I asked, as he turned to me, busy as always, but always with time for me and all of us, because he is a good Chef and a really nice guy who looks after people much more than I think they even realize.  I continued my little plea to him, “Chef, please, please, please may I learn how to make chickens today?”  He seemed surprised, because I love my garde manger station so much and specifically requested working there, but he said, “Of course!” which is not going to be happening in my world anymore, very sadly, with the changing of the Chef guard coming this week. 

I am a bit heartbroken that I now have to fall in line and not have the freedom to learn every aspect of the Kitchen, which is what I came here to do.  There is a very good chance that I may even be kicked out of the Kitchen, now that New Chef is taking over, which makes me sad to think about.  New Chef has his own ideas and of course wants to make the Kitchen his own, which Chefs should do.  New Chef does not know me very well yet and perhaps seems to have other plans than Chef did, and these new plans most likely include kicking me out and letting a culinary student in the door in my place.  We will see what happens, after New Chef and I have A Talk later this week, but I am not hopeful, and if I am kicked out, I will be very, very sad to leave this team and all my thousands of goddamned Brussel sprouts, too.  I had to make my move on those chickens, and I did, because your good friend Sarah is fearless when it comes to getting whatever she wants.  And, of course, I did.

 

“Chef,” I asked, as he again patiently turned to me to make sure I had what I needed, “Can I go work up in the place where those Muppet guys sit?”  He looked at me, confused, and a little line formed between his brows.  “What?” he asked, probably wondering if I was drunk or sleep deprived or both.  I felt stupid, but I did not know what the little balcony separate Kitchen area was called…the one that is open to the dining room, where they roast the chickens.  I wanted, more than anything, to be there, with those Chefs, learning how they made those perfect little chickens.

 

“You know,” I started, as I stumbled, trying to figure out how to describe where I wanted to be, “The DJ Booth.  The Crows’ Nest.  That balcony place where those 2 old guys on the Muppets sit and make fun of everyone,” I explained, most likely not helping my cause, but desperate to get time with those chickens. 

 

Chef is now used to my many questions and eagerness to learn everything, and he is used to my ridiculousness, because I send him one absolutely inappropriate joke every single day, because I can get away with it, and because he knows how much I respect him.  Chef may be the guy in charge, but I know from my own work leading my businesses that even the guys in charge need a little laugh every day.  One little laugh a day can flip the switch from tough day to happy day, and so I do my part.  He looked at me with amusement and asked, “You mean up in the Hearth, Sarah?” and I, not knowing what he was talking about, but as usual, of course, as I have been trained, responded, “Oui, Chef!” like the good little stage I had become.

 

He looked at me, this non-culinary student, smiling from ear to ear, nodding a thousand times a minute, like a 4 year old asking for candy or a puppy, and I think he did not have the heart to say no.  He told me I could go work there, and he called out to Hearth Chef to oversee my work and teach me.  I could not believe it!  I was so happy!  Those chickens and I would be together at last!  I had reached the pinnacle of everything I wanted to do in that restaurant, simply by asking.

 

And so, just like Hearth Chef showed me, I stuck my finger down the neck of what seemed like 5,000 chickens, and I first patted them dry, then buttered and salted the chickens’ breasts so that they would roast beautifully, crispy crackly brown.  I made sure all the chickens’ legs faced the same way on the trays, then in the cast iron roaster pans, because we make everything look nice, even if is raw chicken.  I smelled the foie gras and truffle and porcini and butter and thyme, and I knew I was meant to be here, in this moment, with “the girls” as Hearth Chef called his little chickens.  This Kitchen loves what they do, Friends, and the respect and care for every dish that these Chefs make is delicious because they take time to show love to all of us, even the chickens.

 

We took tray after tray, pan after pan, of chickens up 20 dimly lit stairs, up and down, up and down, so many times that night that my ass remembered that it has been too long since I was at the gym boxing and swimming and stairstepping, and I was grateful for the free workout. 

 

We set up a station of chicken ‘seconds,’ which is the dark meat mixed with a special combination of mushroom, brown butter and savory tart acids and other flavors.  I learned how to prepare the soft boiled egg and serve it with the seconds and the roasted chicken breasts.  This dish is pretty incredible, I have to say, but there are a lot of steps to get there. 

 

Hearth Chef taught me how to line up the chickens just right, between the 2 walls of flames inside the huge oven, using a metal stick to move the cast iron roasting pans.  We dubbed him The Chicken Pimp since he even had a cane/stick to move “the girls” around in the oven.  He taught me how to prep the parsnips, how to sauce the plates, how to choose the garnishes and, as usual, “Make it look sexy.”  

 

Here we are again, food and sex, food and sex.  I swear, I have been told so many times to make so many things sexy in this Kitchen that I am surprised babies are not made every night in the walk-in coolers. 

 

Friends, I was even told to make even the f*cking brussel spouts sexy:  BRUSSEL sprouts, for Christ’s sake.  I have lived in Belgium for almost 3 years, and the only thing sexy about Brussels is that French luvaahhh of mine, and even HE is not as sexed up as my goddamned Brussels sprouts.  I swear, one of these days I am going to pick up a big Lexan plastic bin of them and throw them, hurl the whole f*cking tray of them against the wall screaming, “I will NOT make it sexy, because brussel sprouts are NOT sexy goddamnit all to hell!”  But we will leave that for another day.  Back to my chickens.

 

Hearth Chef and I roasted chickens all night up in the Muppets Balcony DJ Booth, with Hearth Expo Chef keeping tabs on orders via the cb radio connection he had with Chef, downstairs, who let me be up working with the chickens in the first place.  And, Friends, because we were making everything sexy, we of course, talked about how this one time my first engineering job was to design a penile implant device, and, of course, Chef heard it via cb radio.  True story.  As I cupped the chicken breasts and sauced them up, I taught those Chefs how to assess erectile dysfunction, how to know who gets to have an implant or not, how they “raise the bar” and how the surgery is done.  I told stories from the operating room and confirmed rumors of sizes and explained sexual function as I sexed up my chickens, all of us laughing as we talked and worked and the hours flew by.  It was a great night, with celebrities in the house, me surrounded by happy Chefs, and me learning how to make those chickens.  It was my best night in the Kitchen yet, and I finished up, covered in porcini au jus, chicken juice, and parts, and the loss of my Kitchen virginity as I got my first burn on my arm, which is the marks by which I identify Chefs everywhere.  Everyone was getting sexed up last night, including me by being burned.

 

So I roasted the chickens, and I learned a ton of new things, and last night was the last night Chef and I were working together. We have become good Friends, and we will be Friends for a long time.  I have officially named myself honorary Auntie Sarah of his daughter and brought her presents from Budapest a couple weeks ago.  We went to the office to chat and catch up on my last night and have a shot of bourbon.  We toasted in our plastic pint containers and made plans for dinners and adventures and life in our various Kitchens.  I went home happy, so happy, and, apparently, so covered in chicken.

 

I finally woke up, after passing out on the couch, still in my Kitchen clothes, smelling of whiskey and poultry, hearth and sweat.  I smelled terrible, Friends, but you know what that means?  That means that your good Friend Sarah has finally, finally become a Chef.  I could not be happier, no matter if I get to come back to that Kitchen or not.  I did it.  I made the goddamn chickens sexy as hell, with the help of those Chefs, and as I washed all that chicken down the drain and soaped up, I could not help but wish for, pray for another night to do it all again.

 

 

Wishing you a good day, today, Friends.  Be sure to make it sexy,

Lots of love from your Good Friend Sarah