Our first podcast is now live here. A huge thank you to Violet Blue for making this happen, and to Corey Nead for recording it with me. More stuff coming tommorrow!
ps
yes, it's a little quiet.
ps
yes, it's a little quiet.
2.20.2009
2.14.2009
Decisions.
"You need to decide if you're going to be a cook, or if you're going to be a chef." -Kelly Degala, my former chef.
What is it that your chef sees when he looks at you? Does he see a chef? Does he see a cook? Does he see an invaluable member of his team? Does he see a complete shithead? Is he counting on you jumping ship so he can hire back the sautee guy that's been in Mexico? Is he counting on you becoming his chef de cuisine in 6 months? Or does he just see a body that fills a station?
One thing that's for sure is that your chef does not see your hopes and aspirations. He does not see your dreams and goals. And he doesn't have to. All the shit going on with him, how could he? He has people to answer to, and a family, and and endless list of people to call back. He's got his food cost on the brain, and a stack of special events to sort through, and did the schedule get finished yet? So how do you fit into this list of priorities?
Like I said before; you don't. It's not that he doesn't care--he might if he had the time. But the way things are going, it's on you to make things happen for yourself. You need to know what you're working towards. There has to be a goal, and an unwavering focus on that goal. You have to believe in your cooking. You need something worth fighting for. And when I say fighting, I mean fists and elbows.
You need to be a true believer. Have you ever been blinded by passion? A girl or guy that made you so completely fucked up that your friends just couldn't understand? This is the way you need to feel about your cooking. Your craft should be sacred to you. Let's face it, you don't have time to go to church...so if cooking is where you find "God", that's probably not a bad thing. If you're not willing to make sacrifices on the way up, you might be doing it the wrong way.
Bukowski said this about writing. You should feel the same way about the kitchen.
quotes and conversations.
"Hey Merrell, have I ever told you that your ankles smell like Milk Duds? And that Milk Duds are my favorite candy? I ate them at the movies last night. I like to pour them on top of my popcorn."
-Corey. Not sure what to say about this one.
"Ann, six months from now you're gonna think 'shoulda busted a move.'"
-Maritess. Gives good advice.
"A six pack of Pliny, and she has to make me a BLT afterward."
-Ponder. Ladies, this is what gets him in the mood.
"If i'm still rocking that same look when i'm 50, just give me the Coming to America haircut."
-Paul. Ponytail rocker.
Me: If there was one person I could punch in the face, it would be Rod Stewart.
Corey: What's wrong with Rod Stewart?
Me: Corey, I have a coupon for a free Grand Slam breakfast for seniors. I can't use it, do you want it?
Corey: How about a foot in the ass? You don't need a coupon for that shit, i'm giving it out for free.
Me: Are Bolivian's fat?
Alejandro: Very. They barely fit on their goats.
Goose: You don't want her in a Chinese shop.
Me: A China shop.
Goose: Oh.
Me: Paulie, I need lil' gems.
Paul: I got your lil' gems right here.
Me: That's what i've heard.
Me: Hey dude, another person google searched Ronald McDonald blowjob and landed on my blog.
Corey: You're welcome.
below:maritess and eddie, bloody floor, caamal hearts, merrell and a quart of cola, gluten allergy flatbread, awesome cake!, ernster's nopalito drawing, foil burger, new knives, station, fire!, edward and ponder, v-day blue bottle, j-lo
What is it that your chef sees when he looks at you? Does he see a chef? Does he see a cook? Does he see an invaluable member of his team? Does he see a complete shithead? Is he counting on you jumping ship so he can hire back the sautee guy that's been in Mexico? Is he counting on you becoming his chef de cuisine in 6 months? Or does he just see a body that fills a station?
One thing that's for sure is that your chef does not see your hopes and aspirations. He does not see your dreams and goals. And he doesn't have to. All the shit going on with him, how could he? He has people to answer to, and a family, and and endless list of people to call back. He's got his food cost on the brain, and a stack of special events to sort through, and did the schedule get finished yet? So how do you fit into this list of priorities?
Like I said before; you don't. It's not that he doesn't care--he might if he had the time. But the way things are going, it's on you to make things happen for yourself. You need to know what you're working towards. There has to be a goal, and an unwavering focus on that goal. You have to believe in your cooking. You need something worth fighting for. And when I say fighting, I mean fists and elbows.
You need to be a true believer. Have you ever been blinded by passion? A girl or guy that made you so completely fucked up that your friends just couldn't understand? This is the way you need to feel about your cooking. Your craft should be sacred to you. Let's face it, you don't have time to go to church...so if cooking is where you find "God", that's probably not a bad thing. If you're not willing to make sacrifices on the way up, you might be doing it the wrong way.
Bukowski said this about writing. You should feel the same way about the kitchen.
if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.
if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.
don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.
when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.
there is no other way.
and there never was.— Bukowski
notes:
- i don't want for money or fame. i just want more time.
- coi on the 28th. hell yes.
- new features are coming to this blog - a "next chefs" q&a, and the podcast, which Corey(!) and I recorded yesterday.
- two blog posts in one day?
- I love Ponder. Paul is a bitch.
- Boys night in the kitchen is just as awesome and vulgar as it sounds.
- One of the worst feelings in the world is feeling like the food isn't coming out fast enough. I felt it a lot this week.
- He's neither a fresh water nor a salt water fish. He's a ponder fish.
- Some people have grace...and some really don't.
- After almost buying a second Blue Bottle hoodie, I settled on one from Park Life.
- Corey, do whatever it takes to get that TV.
- My wife might make the best BLT's ever.
- Violet Blue is far more talented at all this tech stuff than I am. That she helps me is pretty fucking awesome.
- I said it last week, but Nopalito will blow your head off. It's that good.
- I think my rabbit is diabetic.
- If you come into Nopa, don't be afraid to say hi or give a wave.
- 400+ followers? Word?
quotes and conversations.
"Hey Merrell, have I ever told you that your ankles smell like Milk Duds? And that Milk Duds are my favorite candy? I ate them at the movies last night. I like to pour them on top of my popcorn."
-Corey. Not sure what to say about this one.
"Ann, six months from now you're gonna think 'shoulda busted a move.'"
-Maritess. Gives good advice.
"A six pack of Pliny, and she has to make me a BLT afterward."
-Ponder. Ladies, this is what gets him in the mood.
"If i'm still rocking that same look when i'm 50, just give me the Coming to America haircut."
-Paul. Ponytail rocker.
Me: If there was one person I could punch in the face, it would be Rod Stewart.
Corey: What's wrong with Rod Stewart?
Me: Corey, I have a coupon for a free Grand Slam breakfast for seniors. I can't use it, do you want it?
Corey: How about a foot in the ass? You don't need a coupon for that shit, i'm giving it out for free.
Me: Are Bolivian's fat?
Alejandro: Very. They barely fit on their goats.
Goose: You don't want her in a Chinese shop.
Me: A China shop.
Goose: Oh.
Me: Paulie, I need lil' gems.
Paul: I got your lil' gems right here.
Me: That's what i've heard.
Me: Hey dude, another person google searched Ronald McDonald blowjob and landed on my blog.
Corey: You're welcome.
below:maritess and eddie, bloody floor, caamal hearts, merrell and a quart of cola, gluten allergy flatbread, awesome cake!, ernster's nopalito drawing, foil burger, new knives, station, fire!, edward and ponder, v-day blue bottle, j-lo
Farm to table.
We've only been out the car for a minute, and already i'm starting to realize that my Blue Bottle hoodie and Nike's may have been a bad idea. It's cold--bitterly cold. And raining. Oh, and bloody. We're in Sonoma county, somewhere. I'm not sure exactly where because the map on my phone stopped updating itself 30 minutes earlier. It's early, and i'm tired, and excited, and nervous, and probably far more lit up on coffee than a guy attending a pig slaughter should be.
A couple of weeks earlier Chef told me we were doing a pig dinner. Brandon Jew, one of my favorite chefs in the city would be coming by to help out. Start thinking about what you want to cook he said. This whole idea was very cool to me...I had always wanted to go to one of Oliveto's whole animal meals, but had never had the chance. So here we were, about to do it our way--what could be better? What I didn't expect was Chef announcing a couple of days later that we would actually be attending the slaughter of these animals. Anyone could attend--it just meant waking up early.
As a chef, my whole career has been spent opening cryovac bags of meat, patting them dry with a towel, and butchering. I was aware of where the meat came from, but it was convenient that I didn't have to see it. One time I sawed a pigs skull in half to make headcheese. And for some reason, catching and gutting a fish never seemed particularly upsetting to me. But the pig. Oh, the pig. In the days leading up to the slaughter, I heard from so many people about how smart pigs were...that they would scream...that my level of hell would consist of me and my fellow cooks being made in bacon. However, like Chef said, it seemed like something that we had to do. It was our responsibility as cooks.
Which brought me to the wet, muddy, bloody mess that I was standing in. A short, yet wrong turn filled trip had led us here. Jessie from Marin Roots had been raising pigs and goats, but wanted to get out of the livestock game. We were to take two pigs back with us, but coming up the hill I saw a boar, very dead, yet convulsing and bleeding everywhere. This was not the white tiled abbotoir that I thought it was going to be. We were outside, in the mud and rain, a hunting rifle and scalding tank at the ready. The man doing the work that day was named John; blue collar all the way, with strong shoulders and a gruff voice. He was one cool ass motherfucker.
Watching the precision that he worked with was astonishing. Sadly, he told us that he was the only one doing this kind of work in the area--no one wanted to learn the craft and carry on these traditions. His tools were simple; two de-boning knives, a steel, two guns, a torch for burning hair off, and a hook for pulling the bodies where he needed them. In minutes the boar was skinned, gutted, and split in two.
A couple of weeks earlier Chef told me we were doing a pig dinner. Brandon Jew, one of my favorite chefs in the city would be coming by to help out. Start thinking about what you want to cook he said. This whole idea was very cool to me...I had always wanted to go to one of Oliveto's whole animal meals, but had never had the chance. So here we were, about to do it our way--what could be better? What I didn't expect was Chef announcing a couple of days later that we would actually be attending the slaughter of these animals. Anyone could attend--it just meant waking up early.
As a chef, my whole career has been spent opening cryovac bags of meat, patting them dry with a towel, and butchering. I was aware of where the meat came from, but it was convenient that I didn't have to see it. One time I sawed a pigs skull in half to make headcheese. And for some reason, catching and gutting a fish never seemed particularly upsetting to me. But the pig. Oh, the pig. In the days leading up to the slaughter, I heard from so many people about how smart pigs were...that they would scream...that my level of hell would consist of me and my fellow cooks being made in bacon. However, like Chef said, it seemed like something that we had to do. It was our responsibility as cooks.
Which brought me to the wet, muddy, bloody mess that I was standing in. A short, yet wrong turn filled trip had led us here. Jessie from Marin Roots had been raising pigs and goats, but wanted to get out of the livestock game. We were to take two pigs back with us, but coming up the hill I saw a boar, very dead, yet convulsing and bleeding everywhere. This was not the white tiled abbotoir that I thought it was going to be. We were outside, in the mud and rain, a hunting rifle and scalding tank at the ready. The man doing the work that day was named John; blue collar all the way, with strong shoulders and a gruff voice. He was one cool ass motherfucker.
Watching the precision that he worked with was astonishing. Sadly, he told us that he was the only one doing this kind of work in the area--no one wanted to learn the craft and carry on these traditions. His tools were simple; two de-boning knives, a steel, two guns, a torch for burning hair off, and a hook for pulling the bodies where he needed them. In minutes the boar was skinned, gutted, and split in two.
Next up were our pigs. They were fed, and snorting and sqealing. There were goats in the pen with them looking on warily, as was their mother, who was in the pen next to them. As they were being led away, they screamed and fought, but soon they relaxed and started eating grass. John walked over and would casually say 'here piggy' and then a muffled pop. That was it. No ceremony, no final words. This was business. Collecting pig blood for blood sausage proved to be fairly difficult, what with the animal convulsing and all. Soon John got to work again, working with the same efficiency, but this time scalding, burning, and shaving the hair off instead of complete skinning. (apparently the boars skin is more like armor than hair)
And that was it. We headed back cold and wet, but excited for Monday, when we would be cooking the animals. I came back from my weekend on Sunday. Brandon had already been working stock, headcheese, sausage, and the porchetta's. On Monday, Chef made a porchetta filling and tied them up. They spun away on the rotisserie for hours. Brandon set the headcheese, finished his sauces, and blanched sausage. It was inspiring thing to see, and hard to even picture the animals as they had once been.
The dinner was a success. Nopa was slammed on a Monday night. Pork liver, headcheese, the porchetta, Amy's bacon brittle...it was one of the most interesting nights to be in that kitchen. Jessie came out and ate dinner, as did most of the kitchen crew. It was gratifying, to have seen the process from beginning to end. And I got to have a delicious porchetta sandwich to boot.
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