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



What I Would Do for You

Friends, good morning from New York, from your good friend Sarah, who is happily singing little songs to myself as I re-read for the 73rd time the email from yesterday, from Mr. Unfinished Business.  It seems that there may be a little bit of an Us left, after all, maybe.  Time will tell, but for now, this was enough to get me through back-to-back 21 hours days ahead of me, as I not only work in the Kitchen but also continue to manage my 34 business clients at the same time.  Happy sigh.  Happy girl. 

 

This morning I wanted share with you all of the cool NYC things I am doing to reset my creativity.  Immersing myself in a world of art, of music, theater, and creative Kitchens helps me be a better leader in my multinational corporation.  It helps understand more paths and people in new ways.  I really love learning about all sorts of things, which is why I am also am setting up a tour of the MTA subway tunnels on Saturday.  Why not go learn something completely new and cool about your home city?  It’s a must.  Of COURSE I will wear the subway hat with pride both during and after the tour, because I love stuff like that. 

 

It feels like I am a kid again, on another field trip, and we should all have that kind of joy and happiness in our lives, so why don’t you join me for some of these adventures if and when you’re in town?  Come be silly and fun with me, because it is always more fun to have good company, and I like it when we have stories to tell, together. 

 

So, your good friend Sarah is not only training in the Kitchen and interested in subways, architecture and infrastructure, I also trained as a classical pianist and have performed with several choir ensembles.  My other world, my other happy place, is music, switching between Angie Stone and Chopin, Metallica and Usher, Artic Monkeys and Kidd Rock.  I love it all.  Music is always on in my life, and sometimes, just sometimes, you might catch me singing to myself in the Kitchen as I chop cauliflower, because I cannot help but sing when I am happy, and I am happy there.  Music should be everywhere, and so, I take it with me wherever I go.

 

This week I will see The Messiah with the NY Philharmonic, The Magic Flute at the Met, and I saw the Nutcracker at Lincoln Center, on my obligatory date with Simon last night.   Yes, yes, we went out again, and you can all just ZIP IT with the judging.  I do not know many people yet in NYC, and it is nice to have company on a Saturday night off.  Simon insisted, and I stared at that perfect mouth of his and could not help but say yes.  He is doing his very best to woo me, Friends, and I need to be careful with this one, but not yet.  For now, I am enjoying being a woman who is being courted, and I am being clear in my communications and intentions.  We’ll see what happens with Simon and Mr. Unfinished Business and with others who have caught my attention, but for now, I want to enjoy life, enjoy all things NYC, and so, I did.

 

Here are some pictures of the venue and some pictures from the VIP book we got as a gift, since I could not take pictures of the performance.  Sadly, I have seen the Nutcracker many times in many places in the world, and this was, by far, not the best one I have seen. Three dancers fell, and the 4^th scene’s choreography was a bit of a mish mash let-down.  It just did not make any sense, especially how they replaced the soldiers---one of the very best parts--- with these pink and mint green striped hula hoop dancers.  Not cool, George Balanchine, world famous choreographer, not cool. I know what I am looking for, and, sadly, this performance was not it.   I give it a 7 out of 10.

This is the big chandelier in the center of the ceiling.  They make the lights all look like sparkly jewels.  I got in trouble, as usual, shortly after this, for taking photos.  You can take the girl out of Laduree in Paris, but.....

 

 

 

I may be a bit biased, though, as I learned that people in New York talk ALL through performances, and there is NOTHING more irritating to me than to hear the pst-pst-pst around me as I try to lose myself in the music and performance.  I also have never heard, “Whoop whoop!  Atta girl!  Atta GIRL!” instead of “Bravo!” at a performance, along with multiple rounds of clapping interspersed throughout the MIDDLE of the performance, even before the song ended, as if we were watching Dancing with the Stars instead of Tschaikovsky.  These were not the sweet little girls doing that clapping, these were the clearly spoiled, 20ish daughters of the Who’s Who of New York, who also were checking Facebook and giggling as I was trying to listen to the Dance of the Flowers.  You know---the selfish, mean girls who never were taught self- awareness of anything else going on around them, including what other people want and need when attending a performance?   But I digress.  Let’s get back to sweetness, shall we?  Yes, of course we should, because I could write all day about the lack of decent girls for my little brother to date, entitled wenches that they are.  But I digress.  Let me re-find my manners, Friends.  Ahem.  Where were we?  Ah, sweetness.

 

One of the sweetest moments was when Simon and I saw a little girl, her mom, and her grandmother, in line to take a photo with one of the ballerinas from the production.  OH this little girl was so excited, in her sparkly pink tutu.  It was clear that they were visiting and that this was a very special night for them.  After getting to the front of the line, finally, they were informed that they had to pay for a photo, and the mother’s face became very sad very fast.  They decided they could not afford the $28 fee.  When the mom explained to the little girl that they would not be able to have a picture, the little girl was heartbreakingly sad because she could not meet the ballerina, and I just wanted to hug her and tell her it would be ok.

 

Her eyes were all big and glassy, and I just cannot look at a little girl be that sad without doing something about it.  She was not a spoiled girl---she was a sweet girl, an innocent, sweeter than sweet, well behaved little girl who still believed in princesses and ballerinas and joy and happily ever after.  Simon and I had a voucher for a free picture, since he had gotten us perfect orchestra seating, but he was oblivious until I gave him The Look, and then he knew what we needed to do. 

 

I was proud of him as he graciously offered our voucher to the little girl, whose mom promptly refused because she was raised right.  I watched as Simon insisted, sweetly, like a real gentleman, telling them just how much joy the two of us would have watching her have this experience, watching the three of them together have this experience.  I could not help but have my little heart melt when he did it. Your good friend Sarah is tough as nails as a businesswoman, but inside I am a romantic, a softie, through and through, and when he came back to me and looked to me with that vulnerable need for approval, I gave him a big smile as I took his hand in mine and kissed him on the cheek.  I love kindness, and I love it when men know how to take care of making sure little girls are happy.  This was a lovely moment, and I will remember it always. Happy stuff, Friends, comes easy when you do the right thing.

 

Here is a picture of the ballerina.  What a lovely moment that was. 

 



We mostly enjoyed the performance, and then we went to Boulud Sud, which is now my favorite late-night spot.  The staff was incredibly kind, comping things left and right, and I invited Raphael to join my dear Friends Julie and Andre-Luc and me for dinner at NoMad this coming Friday, when they are in town from Brussels, Belgium.    Here are some lovely pictures of our dinner last night:

 

Sea Urchin and Crab Tartine with green olives, lemon cream, and seaweed rye bread

 

Octopus A La Plancha, with marcona almond, arugula and Jerez vinegar (which has just now become my favorite dish of 2013!)

 

Sicilian Busiate:  Braised young goat with escarole and pumpkin seed---absolutely incredible flavors.  I wanted to lick the bowl.

 

And so another beautiful night in New York came to a close.  The city is struggling to know what to do with a snowfall of 2-3 whole inches as I just laugh, wondering what all the fuss is about, since this would be a light snow back in Minnesota.  I am happy and content, about to start my day, wondering what adventures come next, eagerly waiting to get back into my Kitchen to tell my Chefs all about dinner last night as we plan new adventures ahead. 

 

Enjoy your day, today, Friends, and take in as much music and happiness as possible.  Know this, today, Friends:  if you ever are in line to have your picture taken with a ballerina, know that if I can, I will make that happen, I would do that for you, because these happy days make a happy life, and I love seeing you smile and be happy, too.

 

Sending you lots of love from New York,

Your Good Friend Sarah



The Kitchen Vote

Friends, good morning from New York, for one more week before your good friend Sarah goes home to Minnesota to celebrate the holidays with her family.

 

You need to understand something.  Working in this uber-intense NYC Kitchen of mine only prepares me for going home to my family.  We are a crazy family.  No, I mean it, there is crazy, and then there is Moxie crazy, and we, are, I swear, the worst.  We are the best, do not get me wrong---I love my family, and I am part of them and come from them, but we are, collectively, I swear, the very worst family you would ever want to cook with, if you have no experience with chaos in a Kitchen. It can be overwhelming to newcomers, which is why I do not introduce my latest man of the year to the family or to many of you, ever.  There is not enough bourbon in the world to repair a relationship after that.  I swear it is one of the reasons my short-term marriage ended, because my ex-husband honest to God brought up our family Christmas cooking traditions in marriage counselling, which made me burst out laughing so hard, so long, the tears just kept coming down my face as I actually snorted at him and fell onto the floor off the therapist’s couch, which does not contribute to successful repair of a relationship that never should have been one in the first place.  His pain at just WATCHING our family cook together was just too much for him.  That is when I knew the relationship was doomed, doomed I tell you, and that is when I knew, KNEW that I belonged in a Kitchen.

 

Let me set the scene, shall we? Imagine me at my feistiest, then multiply that times 14-25 people, all in one house, all shouting and cooking and mocking each other simultaneously.  THAT is how it is when we cook at Christmas at my mom’s and stepdad’s house.  Do you now see why I love my NYC Kitchen so much?

 

At our house, there is no serene, Currier & Ives Christmas of quiet cocktails by the fire.  There is no civilized exchange of hearing about each other’s accomplishments at work or how the kids are doing in school.  No.  There is shouting and mocking and making rough fun of each other all day long. You will hear, “Sarah, did you want to put on a red leather bra for Christmas this year?” followed by, “You kiss your wife with that mouth?” and, “Let me get you another shot of insulin to go with that shot of brandy,” until Mom starts loudly singing songs about how Jesus Loves You to drown out our sassing so that my nieces and nephews do not start asking questions about what an alcoholic is. And for the record, I still have that red leather bra, and it is hot as hell.  But that bra is for Hanukkah, not Christmas.  Everybody knows that.

 

With this kind of chaos in a Kitchen, the other nerds in my family decided that we must have some sort of civility established, at least some MINIMAL framework of decisionmaking that was, of course, fair.  Friends, I give you the Moxie Family Annual Christmas Menu Vote.

 

 

 

Don’t think I’m kidding. 

 

Each year, Mom distributes a list of at least 40 items which each member of the family must vote on, in order to come to agreement on which 15-18 things we will be making as a family.  Each year, the columns have had different answer options available.  When we all lived in different parts of the worlds, options for voting “yes” included “oui, si, ja, and yes.”  Answers for “no” included “no, ne, nyet, and WTF.”   That last answer got used quite a bit when she tried too hard to incorporate quinoa into our menu options.  Mom has had it with the shenanigans of my siblings and me and has streamlined the process now.  WTF is no longer an option, unless it is written into the Comments line.  Mom also overrules anything she wants to, which, of course, she should be able to do, because she is mom after all. Note the second tab of the spreadsheet, where all of the voting results get auto-ranked so that we can have assignments given.  No, I am not kidding, and you should know that by now.

 

Mom assigns items and grocery lists, she assigns teams of who is making what, and she tells each of us from our various locations in the country or world what we will be bringing from our new home cities.  My brother Pete brings avocados, citrus and wine from California.  I used to bring chocolates from Belgium.  We all do our part.

 

We are nerds, NERDS I tell you, and this is why we are ferociously successful in business while also able to navigate extremely different personalities in the Kitchen.  Some years it is all too much for me, and I end up down in the basement bar with my stepdad, just staring at each other, drinking Jack Daniels, because I cannot take the noise any more, and neither can he.  Some years I am in the throes of it, in charge of the Kitchen, testing, tasting, stirring, chopping.  This year I have stepped back, because I am far away again, and because this is the first year our family has sorted out some really difficult background issues related to big changes, and we will be coming together again for the first time in a couple of years.  It will not always be easy to do that, because, as in any family, there are sensitive places and topics that must be carefully navigated, and we will do those things, as we chop and cut and plate our dinners, together.  I love the Kitchen because, for me, for us, for my family and for my Friends, the Kitchen is the place where we always come back together, no matter what happened, no matter what went wrong in the past.

 

And so, as I look forward to being, once again, back in my NYC Kitchen with my favorite Chefs, I also look very forward to being back home in Minnesota, surrounded by familiar chaos, in a Kitchen, with the people I love best.  I feel blessed, Friends, to be welcome in so many Kitchens, to be able to hug so many people with so many stories and jokes and so much love.  Cross your fingers, though, that mom’s quinoa salad did not make the cut.  And pass the bourbon.

 

 

With lots of love from our Kitchen to yours,

Your Good Friend Sarah

 

 

 

 

Chef Languages

Friends, good morning from New York City, from your good friend Sarah, who is running on about 3.5 hours of sleep and is dead dog tired, but happy.

 

Last night was Date Night with the guy I met while in NYC this past summer, the same weekend I first worked in my current Kitchen.  Let’s call him…..Simon.   My Friend Josephina saw him last summer, when he and I finished a coffee before I met with her, and the look on her face after she watched us kiss our goodbyes, with his left hand sliding down, down, slowly down to just above the curve of my ass as he skimmed the other one up, up, up, up along my body, up to just behind my head as he tilted my head gently back before kissing me with that perfect mouth, was a look of, “Oh REALLY now….” which Josephina has perfected.  The look on her face said it all, as she asked me, “Ok, WHO was THAT? He is HOT!” to which I just shook my head and blushed and rolled my eyes (because I still could not find words after THAT kiss goodbye.)  So, that is Simon and Sarah and our terrible wonderful chemistry.

 

Last night, Simon, of course, wanted to meet me at my Kitchen, my current restaurant, to see just what all the fuss is about, why I was so happy there. I reluctantly obliged, because this place, these people are special to me, and I want to keep that separate, just for me. 

 

That team of Chefs is incredibly kind and thoughtful, and I did not want any of that wasted on Simon, whom, I think, does not deserve their kindness yet.  Kitchens and Chefs show they care about you by sending out special things from the Kitchen, to show you they recognize that you work hard, to show that they See You and want to do something nice for you. It is always a thrill when they send out lovely little surprises that I never, ever take for granted and am always so excited to see what they came up with. People who would not appreciate that thoughtfulness do not deserve it, and I wanted to make sure my fantastic Chefs did not do anything special for us, not that night, not the night we needed to have The Conversation I have been avoiding…the one about the future of our relationship.  I needed to communicate that to Chef.

 

Now, Chefs have a secret language of sass that I appreciate very, very much, because I, too, speak that language.  One time, in Minnesota, when I showed up at one of my Kitchens on Date Night, that Chef came out of the kitchen to kiss me hello, took away the menus, and announced he was going to cook for me.  That Chef and I also had a delicious history of completely inappropriate flirtation, so I also knew I was in for trouble.  He sent out a plate that had 2 huge, and I mean HUGE asparagus spears, tips pointing up, with two huge scallops at the bottom of the spears.  Take a minute to picture this.  Got it?  Yeah, that’s how we communicated.  Hilarious to me, especially because my date did not even notice.  Do not ever, ever, ever take the absolute brilliance of Chefs for granted, Friends.  They are some of the very smartest people I know, and I love them for it.  So, back to Simon…

 

I quickly sent Chef a message saying that the Kitchen should NOT do anything special for me/us, because it was Date Night and Simon had to earn it first. 

 

Chef, of course, because he understands me and most likely gets a kick out of knowing EXACTLY how to keep me in line when I get too feisty, reminded me just as quickly that this was HIS Kitchen and not mine, that he would do whatever HE wanted, and I would LIKE it.  I should know this by now, I really should, but I like his reminders, I’m not going to lie.  There is an interesting push/pull as I switch being Kitchen Stage/Slave and CEO Sarah, and sometimes if I overstep my role, he will gently but firmly pick me up and put me back into my place all while smirking as he does it.  I love that guy, he is so awesome at knowing exactly how to talk to me no matter which Sarah is in the Kitchen that day. Not many people know how to do that, and I dig it.  I need that in my life---people who “get” me, and so I always take very, very good care of them.

 

Chef advised me that if something was sent out, comped from the Kitchen, that I should look Simon in the eye, pause, and casually say, “This is how VIP I am.”  I know better than to respond with anything but, “Oui, Chef,” by now, but I also knew I had a pretty good buzz on and should watch what I say to Chef because I was feeling feisty and most likely would say something drunkenly sassy that I could not take back and would hear about in the kitchen the next day, along with a 50 pound bag of potatoes to peel. 

 

And so, Simon and I met, and the chemistry was ridiculous, and I felt beautiful, and he lit up when he saw me walk in.  And you need to understand something, here, Friends:  after working long hours chopping cauliflower with no makeup and wearing kitchen clogs, when I get to walk into that restaurant, that Kitchen, as CEO Sarah, as Date Night Sarah, I do not walk in, I strut.  And I did.  And he noticed.  And he hated it.

 

Oh he hated it so much.  He hated the looks I got from the other men in the lobby, the looks from the ones who looked up from their dates to watch me walk by.  I am not the skinniest girl, I am not the prettiest girl, but I have a sexy confidence that makes people take notice, and I worked it hard last night.  He hated that the Chefs who walked by hugged me and said it was so good to see me.  He hated that the back bar hostesses smiled and were sweet to me.  The place was a buzzy scene of Who’s Who in New York, and Simon wanted me to himself.  He insisted we leave, and so, because I really did not want to fight and never really wanted to bring him to my Kitchen in the first place, we did. 

 

We went to a quieter place where he told me I was beautiful, I was aMAZing (and I HATE that word so very, very much I never ever want to hear it again because it is now meaningless it is so overused).  He told me he missed me, that he wanted to spend more time together, and he told me all the things he loved best about me.  All I could do was stare at his perfect mouth, not hearing the words, just trying to decide whether, in my sometimes lonely new life here in NYC since I have not yet made a circle of Friends, to jump back into this or not.  We finished one bottle of Valipocella, then two.  We replayed our favorite moments of the summer, of us, and I felt….nothing.  But that mouth, his mouth…is my downfall, every time.

 

Simon has dark hair and a perfect, perfect, perfectly sexy mouth that I cannot help staring at when I see him, because all I can think about is how I want his bottom lip between mine so that I can taste it.  I could kiss him for 2 hours and find 600 different ways to do it. There is and always has been intense chemistry between us, from moment one, and everyone around us knows it, without us even touching or talking.  All it takes is a look….he and I seem to have two separate conversations at once…one with words, one without.  I should let him more into my world, but I keep him at arm’s length, without really understanding why, and it drives him mad.  He wants me, all of me, but he doesn’t have all of it, all of me, yet, and I do not know that he ever will.

 

There is nothing better in my world than to have a smart, sexy man who I do not even need words to communicate with who knows how to gently but firmly pull me in, make me stay put for just a moment as he holds me close, close closer before That kind of kiss.  I need that. I want that. I have that, right in front of me in him, and that part of Simon & Sarah is flawless. The problem is that I just don’t know if I want that with him anymore, but I did not have it in me to figure that out last night.  Last night was about habit and the ease of history together, and so I did not fight it, I just fell into it because at that moment, that is what I needed, but someone else is on my mind and has been for a while now.  We had something terrific, something magical, and it is unfinished because it is in its simmering spot, where we both need to figure out what to do after all the cards were laid out on the table.  It may be something, it may be nothing, but I know him well enough to know he has gone away to think about it before coming back to talk about it, and I will give him that space and time, because I need it, too.  I think I need another 3 hours chopping cauliflower to shut out the rest of the world and figure the rest of it out, so I will be grateful for whatever task lists my Sous Chefs give me, in order to do just that.

 

In the meantime, we took in New York in all its beautiful lit up loveliness at night, in holiday season, and we held hands and kissed kissed kissed pressed up against the walls of the buildings on the dark side streets.

 

And so, even though I was a weak woman last night, even though Simon wants me, all of me, I want something else.  I do not know what it is yet, but I am getting closer, and I will continue chopping cauliflower until I do, speaking in the language of Chefs but not sharing it with people who do not yet deserve it.  He’s just going to have to wear a ski mask that covers his face and those lips every time I see him so that I do not forget.

 

 

Have a good day, today, Friends. With love from New York,

Your Good Friend Sarah

A Little Christmas Song for Our Sous Chefs

Friends, good, early, early morning from New York City, from your good Friend Sarah, who cannot help but be caught up in the holiday spirit, even while working in the kitchen.  This morning I am up early for a conference call with one of my European medical research teams, but I am, as usual, as always, thinking about my team in the kitchen. 

 

Sure, sure, I write about the intense moments of being called borderline retarded by my Sous Chef now and then, and I write about my love/hate relationship with the 60+ heads of cauliflower I prep each day and how much my feet hurt, but I love it.  I love it every day, and I cannot wait to get back there on Sunday. 

 

I love these Chefs, I love this energy, I love how, in the down time, they stop and take time to help with tasks for two reasons:  the first being that they care and also want to get to know me, to make sure I am doing ok, and the second, hey, let’s not kid ourselves, after working 6-8 hours in my “real job” on the days I also put in 12 hours at my restaurant gig, I am pretty tired, and I am still too slow in the kitchen and must get faster, so they help me out to teach me, always, how to be better.  And I will, thanks to their constant coaching, which I respect and appreciate, even if it comes with 86% curse words. 

 

There is a caring and a sweetness in that kitchen, even with the toughest of the tough Chefs, that is unlike anything I see anywhere except in the most intense situations.  My reference is a surgical team, as that is where I have spent my most intense time, where a lead surgeon and the team of circulating and scrub nurses and doctors assisting, including the student doctors, can result in some pretty rough days when things go wrong.  The flip side is that you work side by side with some of the most interesting and big-hearted people you could ever hope to meet---and that goes for both surgery AND the kitchen, because when it comes down to it, they have a lot of similarities.

 

So as I go about my day keeping a watching eye on my budgets and spreadsheets, my data analysis and safety reviews, my FDA inspection preparations and slidesets for teaching class, I am thinking of my Chefs, always.  Here is a little something I wrote in my head while prepping 60 heads of cauliflower for about 3 hours the other day at the French restaurant where I work in New York.  To all my Sous Chefs, thank you for being patient with me, you know I love you even as I make your life hell some days.

 

Sing it with me now….you all know the tune….

 

 

On the 12th Day of Christmas, my Sous Chef gave to me:

 

12 pounds of butter(Sarah, cut this into perfect 1cm cubes for the hot line!)

 

11 dozen oysters (don’t f’ing cut yourself!  I don’t want to do paperwork!)

 

10 minutes for dinner (is your prep done yet? No?  Then why the F*CK do you think you get dinner?!)

 

9 heads of cabbage, (shave it!  I didn’t say chiffonade, I said shave it!)

 

8 quarts balsamic (make lemon oil, too, and make it 10!)

 

7 tons of Brussels, (where’s your mandoline? We need 950 NOW!)

 

6-tee heads of cauli, (what’s this bullshit?! F that guy, do it this way!)

 

5…… quarts of viiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin! (double it, we’re out again!)

4 pounds of foie (did we forget the cognac? Dammit!)

 

3 (thousand) French beans,

 

2 boxes of salt

 

And a loooooooooooong day of meeeeeeeeeeee repeeeeeeeating OUI!

 

Lots of love from our kitchen to yours,

Your Good Friend Sarah