Michael Laiskonis

Tiny Dots

 

I find myself in a dilemma over tiny dots. And thin lines. And smears, bubbles, and dusts.

I've mentioned from time to time the importance of the essential, and the subtractive method of isolating the vital from the unnecessary in a dish. Yet I'm still guilty of committing the tiny dot of sauce, the part of the dish that most certainly adds more to the design and composition of the plate than to its overall flavor.

I certainly don't think such flourishes are altogether bad, I'm just beginning to question my reliance upon them more often. Back in my days at Tribute, we would boast of how many components we were putting on the plate- a drop here, a sprinkle there, a line of sauce that might start at the center of the plate, but ventures off the rim into space. Indeed the style I've been immersed in for nearly five years has left its minimalist mark, but that's still in a relative sense. I still tend toward heavy-handedness; looking at a dish with only three spartan components, I immediately start to second guess myself, like I'm forgetting something. Maybe it's a confidence issue. And perhaps given the nature of what we do- as opposed to cooking on the line- because virtually everything is already made, our most important job during service is to simply make it all look good.

Like I said, I'm an offender, so I'm surely not knocking anyone else with similar habits and aesthetics. There is something to be said for visual appeal in a dish, especially at a certain level of cooking. It's pretty much expected to some degree. And rusticity is expected and appreciated in its own context too, but I imagine cooking wouldn't be as much fun if that's all there was. I'm still not a fan of the truly non-functional or inedible garnish. Remember in the 80s and 90s, when the sign of a classy establishment were thick sprigs of rosemary protruding out of every other dish? I think the pastry equivalent were the sugar elements: the pulled loops and spirals and cages (though I did love making those; I remember attempting a few big cloche-like caramel domes after seeing Jacques Torres make one over a Kitchenaid bowl). The one thing that I'll be happy to never see again? The ubiquitous sprig of mint.

It ultimately comes down to refinement, an idea, which like everything else, might mean different things to different people. But it continues to evolve. And for better or worse, fashions and trends will continue to push us in this direction or that. In the end, I do believe that good food is good food, but if it looks amazing, the same dish just might taste that much better. As long as the element doesn't detract from the composition, every drop of reduction or smear of puree is valid. Maybe my quest is not ultimate minimalism, but rather a sense of delibrate intent, making the right choices, and making everything count. And if those artfully placed dots of sauce make the dish better, then it's all good. And if they don't, well, I guess that's ok too.

Uploading the image below, it struck me how it resembles an ellipse, signifying a continuing train of thought. Maybe that's what is most important, the simple act of thinking about it...

Good Times

 

 

There are certain times of the day and brief moments that give me an inner happiness. Sometimes it's these random, fleeting things that matter most, that speak volumes about yourself or other people.

 

One of my favorite happens early. I only get to see it once or twice a month, when, for whatever reason I just have to be at work by 6am. I get a kick out of being first in the kitchen, and watching the other pre-shift arrivals. These are the cooks that look like they rolled right out of bed and into the train, because, well, that's what you do. These are the cooks that treasure those few minutes of silence, the only time you actually notice the hum of the lowboy coolers, or the one time of day you get to hear the whine of the exhaust hoods as they're turned on. These are the cooks who like to have a first pick of their ingredients and mis en place, everything they need for the day, grabbed in one efficient pass and crammed into a hotel pan to take back to their station. These are the cooks that earn a right to the flat sheet pans, the fresh stack of towels, that favorite whisk or ladle.

 

Unlike those who manage to make it to work just in time, whose days begin- and sometimes continue perpetually- under the gun, the early cooks appreciate ritual. They make that first pot of kitchen coffee; they take a few precious minutes to sharpen their knives. And they seem to know more: the number of covers for lunch or that the produce company shorted us a case of oranges (again) or that so-and-so called in sick. They may be the most responsible cooks or the most paranoid, or the ones who simply recognize their weaknesses and thus need that extra time to get everything done.

 

Or perhaps they just live for the job. Despite however late they were kept the night before, or however many beers they had post-shift, this place and time, the kitchen, is where they belong.