Michael Laiskonis

Eureka!

 

Sometimes the only thing better than finding inspiration yourself, is seeing someone else overcome by it.

From a distance, I've been watching a young cook I know, a guy who's not exactly on the bottom of the ladder, but steadily climbing past the middle for sure. I wouldn't say he's gotten ragged or burned out either; let's just say that it's easy to fall into a fog of ennui given the hours and days of repetitive action required by professional cooking. And it doesn't really reflect upon the kitchen or the chef who runs it, this kind of thing just happens. Sometimes it can be a matter of becoming so good at what you do, that without the occasional fire under your butt, you get complacent. I think there are also those cases where all one feels is the heat, and that simply leads to leaving that kitchen with a bad taste in his or her mouth.

 

There's another cook, who after struggling for the first few months- stressed, frantic, and frustrated- finally seems to be hitting her stride. Suddenly, an air of confidence, which in turn generates awareness and excitement, and not least of all, better food. Certainly, these two cooks are at different stages of the game, with varying experience and perhaps different expectations and aspirations as well. Both were in need of that Eureka! moment, that short sharp shock of inspiration that fuels our sense of drive and purpose. For the second cook, I think it just clicked after a singular triumph- one dish, one dinner service- which, however small, allowed the rest of it to fall into perspective for her. Or maybe it was an isolated disaster. Something positive can be spun from that too. But either way, it's about meeting a personal challenge head on, and then pursuing the next.

With regard to the first cook, it was a day off. Not a real day off mind you, but 14-hours doing a stage in another kitchen. We had discussed some options a few weeks earlier, and this particular restaurant came up. It is, in my mind, the most exciting game in town these days. If I were a young line cook looking for a job in the city, I'd be casing this joint myself. This line cook doesn't have one foot out the door just yet; such trails and stages happen everyday all over the globe, regardless of whether there is an permanent opportunity awaiting or the desire for one. Sometimes it's just good to get out and see what other chefs are doing.

 

So the next day I was curious to see how it went. Well, I don't know if 'giddy' is the right word, but I also don't know that I've ever seen someone so energized by a 10am-to-midnight shift in any kitchen. It's that sense of excitement when you have so much to say that you don't know where to begin, so it all just pours out in random bits in fear that some detail might be forgotten in the process. Needless to say, it was the topic of discussion du jour among all the cooks within earshot. The only possible downside to such an onslaught of inspiration is the difficulty in holding onto it long enough to be able to process it all. But it's not like this guy is going radically change his cooking style based on what he saw; the important thing is that he saw it in the first place. Now he knows.

I sometimes notice this wide-eyed sort of thing when we host our own stages; at least it's my hope that we can provide a spark of some kind. And it's not often that it happens, but I've come to recognize the glazed-over look of sheer boredom too. But it's a great feeling to see someone 'turn on' right there in front of us; that in turn gives us a little push in return.

It's really about being receptive. Based on someone's level of experience or awareness, different people will see different things that apply to their world. It might be a technique, the flavor of a sorbet, or how we interact as a team. It's the big picture, but sometimes it's the smallest detail that stands out. Even I got a little rush last night as I snapped this image quite by accident; it hit me that a stack of clean plates represents so much possibility- sustenance, pleasure, and perhaps a potential memory about to be formed:

These Eureka! moments don't necessarily have to be life-changing. We sometimes use them just to get us through one day or a particular task, or it provides the missing link that brings an old idea full circle. We remember vividly the moments that have altered our courses; when we think back on them, we recall with a certain romanticism the mood and atmosphere. The act of remembering them at all can be inspiring, as it transports you to a distinct time and place, a precise moment of 'before' and 'after'.

I've had so many little such sparks that I've no doubt forgotten the majority of them. But off the top of my head, some grand moments, and some just slightly less so...

• There was that dish at Gagnaire that amazed me so much I nearly burst into laughter.

• Blueberry pie and coffee at a picnic table in Massachusetts.

• In Aspen, after an event with Takashi, eating simple Japanese home-cooking from Nobu; everyone else in the room looking over in envy.

• My breakfast of coffee, churros, and about a dozen gelati at a shop in D.C.

• Or breakfast at the Tsukiji market in Tokyo, of raw fish so fresh it was still moving.

• After my own three hour lunch at Arpege, being asked if I wanted to join Alain Passard as he sat and ate his humble salad (yeah, I instantly forgot every word of French I ever learned in that instant, but clung to every syllable he uttered nonetheless).

• Pizza at 2am in Charleston, straight out of a mobile wood-burning oven in the FIG parking lot.

• Tasting my way through a bag full of pastry from Pierre Herme while sitting on the bed of a tiny Paris hotel room.

• The first time I seared a piece of foie gras.

• Philippe Conticini's five course Teaser at Petrossian.

• Albert Adria knew who I was.

• Making mochi- the old school way- in Osaka.

• Tasting my first batch of home-brewed beer. Dumping my second batch down the drain.

• Strolling the garden at the French Laundry between courses, peeking into the kitchen and noticing how quiet it was. After dinner, seeing the word finesse posted above the kitchen door.

• Picking apart lechon with bare hands in Puerto Rico.

• The day I bought a copy of Larousse Gastronomique.

• The unmistakable smell of financiers down the block from Poujauran at 7am.

• My first ever blood orange, from a food co-op in Boise, Idaho.

• Pad Thai with dried cuttlefish and banana leaf in Bangkok- sitting on plastic patio furniture a few feet away from bustling traffic, under an umbrella in the pouring rain.

• Fishing for striped bass off Nantucket, with Susur Lee, Francois Payard, Celina Tio, and Kirk Avondoglio.

• The first time I wrote 'Happy Birthday' on a cake; I got a one-dollar tip.

• Cooking at a winery in Napa: we needed a lemon, and I was told, "Just go outside and pick one."

• Skate sauteed in goose fat with a squab jus. Lunch at Le Bernardin in 1998.

• Meeting Emeril some ten years ago, and him saying, "I'll be hearing about you in a few years."

• The first and only time I've ever tasted raw pulp from a cacao bean.

• Eating the tiniest, greenest, most perfect fava beans you can imagine at Alain Ducasse, while also being conscious of sitting in the space that Joel Robuchon occupied just a couple years earlier.

• Age 16, summer semester at art school in Savannah, calling my mom to ask how to bake a potato.

 

You'll notice the great majority of those moments were the result of travel. It's true, our senses are hyper-acute when we leave our familiar surroundings, so it makes sense that we would notice more. But most of us, myself included, can't just hop on a plane for France or Spain or Thailand whenever we feel like it. And I remind myself all the time how lucky I am to live in a place like New York City. Again, it can be even more special finding inspiration when we aren't actually looking for it, in our everyday, like the cook who found her way in the monotony of mis en place. If you can't get to San Sebastien or Yountville or Bray, at least go out to dinner down the street. Or go to the supermarket with a pair of fresh eyes. Talk to your ingredients; listen to what they may have to say in response.  If there's a food you can't stand eating, force yourself to try it again and ask yourself why. Plant a garden, or at least a pot of herbs, and consider the processes at work. Learn how to make bread, or how to clean a fish; really study the architecture and anatomy. Intentionally 'break' a sauce or ganache and see if you can fix it. Make a dish from the Alinea book or from Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking; as long as it's something you've never done before, the source really doesn't matter.

Look for the answers to your own questions. Then turn every answer into another question. Challenge yourself, if not once a day, then once a week.

It may or may not change your life, but it certainly will make your day way more interesting.

Infectious Creativity

 

Over the years my professional focus has slowly shifted. I'm still as hands-on as ever, yet my thoughts are less about oh-my-god-I'm-so-in-the-weeds, and more about ideas, both big and small. It's about being a manager first and foremost, but also about personal evolution, and having a much broader range of reponsibility and opportunity. I just have more to think about. What we put on the plate, for sure, but also every decision along the way from conception to execution. The running of a kitchen (even a small kitchen within a larger one) is to understand a complex culinary systems theory, to speculate how one good or bad decision can affect all of the other moving parts.

Cooking, at least on a certain level and among the food-obsessed, often finds itself mired in the debate of art versus craft. Without a base of solid skills, creativity is meaningless, yet it's through creativity and inventiveness (and developments in science and technology) that we stumble upon new techniques. The same is true of the other 'arts'; you can't write a concerto without knowing first how to play piano. And while good food trumps all, there is a certain pressure to be creative. It comes not just from our peers, but also from a fair proportion of the dining public. At this point in history, it feels like there is precious little that has yet to be done; is there not a finite number melodies to be sung or plots to be written or flavor combinations to taste? Yet there remains in all creative disciplines enough variation and rearrangement to keep us quite busy. But where do these 'new' ideas come from? How exactly does the creative process work? I don't know that there's one answer to that question. I do know, or at least I've come to ponder, how it might work for me. And surprisingly, it's not when I'm thinking about food. Or maybe it would be better to say that it's when I view the rest of the world through the lens of food.

 

 

 

It hit me the other day how I've come to meet some pretty interesting people- as a result of my job, the social circles I tend to gravitate toward, or at least the proximity to them by living in Manhattan. Granted, 90% of my interaction is with other cooks and chefs, and I'm all for talking shop. But it can be quite refreshing, if not fascinating, to learn about someone else's job and experiences. I love stories from the world of foreign relations or high finance. I even like talking to my dentist about what he does. But it's those who trade in culture, the creative folk among my friends that I admire the most. The actor, writer, musician, and filmmaker. The sound engineer, architect, record producer, and painter. The film critic, photographer, jewelry designer and interior decorator. I'm so curious about what they do, the nuts and bolts, that I fear I sometimes come off as creepy. The processes behind such endeavors are like foreign languages; I may never learn to speak them fluently, but I like knowing some basic key phrases. And somehow I feel immersing oneself in a culture of creativity rubs off, no matter what you do in life.

But I'm also at heart a fan of culture. I tend to frame everything I see in a sense of aesthetics, even when I'm walking down the street. Maybe because my tastes tend to run far from the mainstream, I've always had to seek out my entertainment. I never swallowed what was served up by the conventional outlets, so I think for me it became something to hold on to, something closer to my soul. And though food and cooking has eclipsed my interest in art, or it at least takes up the time available to appreciate it, I still see artistic possibility in every facet of life. But how does all of this find its way back to food? What does an appreciation for Sonic Youth or Thelonious Monk, Stanley Kubrick or Hubert Selby, Edward Hopper or Man Ray- how could they possibly influence my cooking?

I have absolutely no clue.

 

But I know they do, simply for the fact that they have kept my mind and my senses fertile over the years, just as fertile as cooking has. So the question begs itself. Can we express the same sense of 'emotion' in food, and in the same langauge as other art forms? We can certainly trigger sense memory and convey nostalgia through food, and I think I've seen more attempts at culinary irony than I can shake a spatula at. Beyond that, is it just taste and a pretty plate? Is it that next step, that little extra ineffable nuance, that defines and separates the very best cooking from mere food preparation? As I was walking to work yesterday, I began to think of artistic devices that would be interesting if they could somehow be applied to cooking. I'm not talking about mere plating technique or a direct 'representation' of a work of art but more theoretical concepts...

Music: How might one express the culinary equivalent of a minor chord? Can flavors take on a rythmic syncopation? How about a ska-like backbeat? Would you filter a dish through a distortion pedal? How would you go about 'unplugging' an already amplified ingredient? Does the song still work if the instruments are out of tune?

Writing: Can two different ingredients rhyme with each other? Does the dish/menu provide a narrative? What forms of punctuation can we use to good effect: peroids, exclamation points, question marks, ellipses? When we cook, are we telling a story in third person? Can the ingredient speak in first person? How can we express a metaphor without cuteness or irony?

Painting: How does one create a chiaroscuro, or contrast, in tones? Can you build flavors to create a painterly application of texture? Is it possible to practice culinary pointillism? Is a quick sketch less valid than a laborious masterpiece?

Architecture: Do you create space? How do we assemble our supporting structure? Is the design ultimately dependent on the building materials? How does the food interact with its environment, the plate, the table?

Design: Have you taken into account a sense of comfort, utility, and ergonomics? Can flavor be aerodynamic? Is the dish a one-off or suitable for mass production? Can food sell itself in a graphic sense?

Theater: As a chef, is it possible to slip into character, to become the ingredient, to see the dish from its point of view? Do flavors listen to and play off of each other in the form of a dialogue?

Photography: Is a dish just a random snapshot in time? Or is it a delibrately posed portrait? How might we shift focus and create a depth of field? How might we open or close the aperture in our cooking? Can a dish express a slow time lapse exposure? Do you prefer to cook in color or black and white? Digital or film?

Fashion: How does that garnish or sauce 'hang' on the food? Does the fabric of the dish 'breathe'? How might you tailor an ingredient for a specific client? Do you take it in or let it out? How important are accesories?

 

I admit, some of this is a little 'out there'. But the process of simply writing it down has my head spinning with about a dozen possibilities. I'll no doubt forget every single one of them by time I enter the kitchen tomorrow. But such an exercise is almost a form of meditation, just as anything else can be. We practice manual skills all the time; giving your brain a work out can be just as useful.