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
