It's extern season in our pastry kitchen, and with summer vacations and slowdowns at other restaurants, we're seeing a lot of stages too, from here in the city and from around the country. I see this as an important part of what we do. Only one in dozens will ever become a permanent part of the team, in part because I'm lucky to have very low turnover. We've even come to refer to the pastry staff as the "Supreme Court"- once you're in, you tend to stick around for awhile. While my mentorship of the staff is continuous, these transient faces help to broaden that role, and we learn as much from them as they do from us. With the externs, who log a more structured schedule, I get a sense of who's entering the industry and what the schools are teaching. The stages, some with established positions, some in search of their next opportunity, tend to "hang out" for a day or two, most often on their only days off. That commitment and eagerness alone is inspiring, but we also hear a little bit about what is happening in other restaurants too.
Teaching others tends to reinforce what you already know, and how to better communicate that knowledge. As the boss, plugging new personalities with varying experience levels into the daily equation also strengthens management skills, not to mention my insight into human psychology. It's not uncommon to hear about stages elsewhere being given the most menial of kitchen tasks, often just to keep them busy. But busywork doesn't necessarily translate into learning, so I try to mix it up, to expose everyone to as many facets of the job as possible. Though they begin with the simplest tasks, they eventually graduate to perform the more complex.
The externs also offer my own staff their first opportunities to manage others, allowing me to step back and assess their development as future chefs. I'm able to see not only their problem-solving and organizational skills, but also how well they translate our standards, enforce our level of quality, and maintain a sense of urgency. And I always emphasize that our kitchen and repertoire is completely open. Tasting and asking questions and sharing recipes are a vital part of the exchange. People occasionally remark on this generosity, both in the kitchen and on this blog; my response is that I wouldn't be anywhere without the generosity of others, and besides, keeping ideas and techniques a secret just seems silly to me. Someone "copying" what we do is the very last thing I care about.
Through these exchanges, by trying to inspire others, it's not uncommon to learn something about yourself, or at least to remember something you don't think about everyday. There is a benefit in seeing your kitchen through the a pair of fresh eyes. Our most "senior" extern (we have three at the moment), has passed the halfway point of her time with us, and has equally split those few weeks working both morning production and evening service. The other day, I asked which aspect she enjoyed more. She said that service and production were so different, but leaned toward preferring the latter. She expressed her inner frustration at trying to execute our dishes perfectly, but also very quickly. It didn't hit me until a few minutes later, but I realized that is the one single compromise that eats me too.
Don't get me wrong, at our level, we don't really speak in such terms as compromise or limitation; the system is set up to ensure that we provide the best products and the best service possible. And I don't want to sound as if I'm weeping from the ivory tower of a successful, acclaimed restaurant. There are days, however, that the stresses of two services, the volume, and the speed at which we must turn those numbers... well, it can wear you down both physically and mentally. My own internal struggle revolves around that need to do better, do more, and do it all faster, to make the impossible, well, possible. It can feel as if the external pressures of our environment keep me from performing at that highest level, the logistics always seem to keep me from doing the kind of things that I'd like to do. At least that's what I tell myself on the worst days.
I often refer back to my last job as "candyland"- a huge, modern kitchen space, open only five days, and for dinner only; our busiest nights there would feel painfully slow to me now. I've worked at other smaller- and slower- restaurants, too. I look back fondly at what I achieved in all of my experiences, but I've since understood the greater freedom that actually comes from a busier restaurant. Many of us have seen firsthand that a "creative" atmosphere doesn't necessarily make for a packed dining room, and the perceived culinary benefits of a smaller operation (fewer covers and less turning of tables) don't always provide sustainability. If anything, we don't have to skimp on ingredients, and while I sometimes wish I had just one more body, we're also provided with ample, dedicated staff. And the satisfaction of actually pulling off what we do every day are worth the challenges we face in getting it done. So really, my biggest worry is that compromise of time- the time to experiment and research, the time to inspire and allow my staff to realize their own ideas. But mostly the time we can realistically spend on each plate that we send from the kitchen. So no, we're not really compromising in terms of quality. It's just that I yearn to stretch our potential.
I've come to realize that it's not about what resources you may or may not have at your disposal, but rather the passion and inner determination to carry out your goals. It's about attitude, cleanliness, organization, and the discipline to never compromise your vision. A sense of order and calm- two words not often used to describe professional kitchens- are vital in order to work at the highest level. I prefer this quiet kind of intensity. When we lose that fluid serenity, when we teeter on the edge of chaos, that's when we risk compromise. That's when I get depressed. Interestingly enough, I've often looked to Thomas Keller as a source of inspiration when it comes to how one should carry him/herself in a kitchen, and how that ultimately effects what goes onto the plate. The one amazing thing (of many) that will always stick with me after visiting the French Laundry some 7 or 8 years ago: there above the door connecting the kitchen with the dining room was posted the dictionary definition of the word "finesse". In trying to accomplish my own goals, that's a word that I keep in mind; I don't always live up to it, but it's worth striving for, and it can certainly make all of those other limitations seem unimportant. And I hope those around me find the concept as contagious as I did.
It has been a slow evolution, but over time, with each menu change, we have made concerted efforts to raise the bar, to push the envelope of our logistical limits. We have started baking to order- at least with the tasting menus, when we know those items are coming. And recent visitors to our kitchen have witnessed our careful pre-plating of frozen items that we very obssesively temper to serve at just the right texture and temperature. It's true, nearly all of our components are already prepared and simply need to be put on the plate, unlike working on the "line", where most everything is cooked a la minute, which means there's a greater chance for error. But because I place a significant amount of importance on the exact temperature, consistency, proportion, architecture, and delicacy in our desserts, I feel that level of intensity all the same.
I remember back, maybe 6 years ago, when the news of El Bulli's "caviar" began to spread. With the aid of sodium alginate and calcium chloride, practically anything could be transformed into tiny liquid-center spheres. Cooks around the world- professional and amateur alike- went nuts for it at the time (they still do, actually). I played with it myself quite a bit, but always came to the same conclusion: there's just no practical way that I can execute this during service. Forget the fact that the slightest change in PH or viscosity would require reworking the basic formula. And of course, these delicate spheres are fragile and they degrade over time, so can't be prepped ahead. Years later I would learn of a different technique to achieve a similar result. You could produce the same pearl (though without the elusive liquid center) by dropping a warm agar agar solution into cold oil; the temperature would instantly set the pearl, while the density of the oil helped maintain it's shape. Far more forgiving with varying liquids, the best part of this method is the do-ahead factor. And what do you know, all the kids are doing it these days.
We started using this technique in earnest last year with a sweet potato puree, using some locust bean gum in addition to the agar agar. Pictured here are raspberry pearls. A warm raspberry puree is combined with a cooked water/sugar/agar/locust bean gum mixture, then loaded into the syringe (these are from an old dentist/foodie friend, the kind used to irrigate root canal work). We then simply dispense the puree into the cold oil; I find a tall container of at least 4 quarts of oil works best, to allow ample time for the pearls to set as they settle toward the bottom. We store this oil under refrigeration so that it constantly remains below 40F. To create a sort of "natural" effect with varying sizes, we use the syringe both with and without the needle attached, but a squeeze bottle works just fine. For this new dish, they appear with our good friend panna cotta, a rose sorbet, lemon cream, basil, and those wonderful candied cacao beans from Ecuador (this came as an afterthought as I was shooting the photo at left; pictured here are small bits of an almond streusel). We also discussed using mahleb in connection with this composition, but I haven't yet decided. This dessert will hit the menu within the next week.
For general notes on the recipes posted here, please read About the Recipes. And for hard to find ingredients or equipment, please refer to Resources.
