ChefCarey

Well, I know Dave and Maggie have at least two more pieces I've written in the can. I take that back - all my writing is fresh, sustainable, organic prose, none of that canned stuff. One piece is about a long dining excursion I had in Vietnam in 1967-68. I did a couple of other things besides eat on that trip. The other is about day to day life at The Ordinary. It wasn't, believe me, ordinary, that is. My agent sent out the book proposal this week to a couple of interested publishers. so I don't know where we'll go after that.

Thanks for the kind words, Anne. Yep, that waiting was always the hardest part of the job. There are many I miss and have very fond memories of. I screamed at all of them one time or another.

You'll never hear me denigrate those quality practitioners of the full-time, single mom profession. They are truly an admirable breed. As to the question. I'm not sure there is an answer that will satisfy all. Lots of excellent amateur cooks like to appropriate the title "chef." And I certainly am not going to take them to task for that. Bravo(a). I have been asked so damn often, though that I am struggling to explain to the layman what a professional chef is. I'm not sure I've succeeded. Here is an excerpt from the introduction to my book: There was a long bleak break in the advancement of culinary arts between the Apicius de re Coquinaria of Marcus Apicius in the 4th century CE and Taillevent’s Le Viandier published in 1380. And there never was a gustatory Hippocratic Oath to guide us through those dark times. I think my original jejune geist, although I have never put much stock in sloganeering, could be lifted directly from Hippocrates’ game plan: "To consider dear to me as my parents him who taught me this art; to live in common with him and if necessary to share my goods with him; To look upon his children as my own brothers, to teach them this art if they so desire without fee or written promise; to impart to my sons and the sons of the master who taught me and the disciples who have enrolled themselves and have agreed to the rules of the profession, but to these alone the precepts and the instruction. I will prescribe regimens for the good of my patients according to my ability and my judgment and never do harm to anyone." When we decide to become a chef we take a step across a line. We do prescribe regimens. We call them menus. This is the medicine we say you should be taking. And, in a very real sense, those who decide to dine with us are our patients. They entrust their bellies and their health to us. It is our job to make the medicating, the dining experience as pleasant as possible. We take responsibility. And once you begin running a kitchen you are instantly, like the mantle or not, a de facto teacher. And every apprentice or student to whom you pass on your knowledge is your legacy. In the professional kitchen it is our job to teach the art without fee. Don’t quibble with me here. Yes, those of us who teach culinary arts outside the working environment require a fee of our students. But, I did give out scholarships, not reimbursed by any governmental agency, every year. And I think you will be hard pressed today to find a medical school for the penniless. I don’t want to get into the nature vs. nurture squabble here, but I never made a single chef in all my years of running kitchens and teaching. Nobody who ever worked under me or studied under me became a chef because of anything I said or did. It was already there. I’ve had the pleasure of seeing many of them go onto have their own restaurants and catering companies and even become directors of foodservice at hospitals. Let me try to illustrate this with an example. In California, I worked one time in my life in a “union house.” I stepped into a job as executive chef at a hotel. My agent, culinary, not literary, got me this job. There were two restaurants and banquets up to 1200. In my 30’s, I had about 12 cooks all of whom were at least ten years my senior and very set in their ways. These guys were hardcore cooks. They knew all the tricks. From day one there was no question who was in charge. They just knew. I changed all the menus. It was a nearly seamless transition. It wasn’t just that I knew more about cooking than they did. A chef exudes an aura of confidence and command. (I hated this job, by the way, the general manager of the hotel actually made me join the union, one of the most corrupt in the country.) It is difficult to translate this into terms the layman understands. It really does have less to do with cooking and more to do with that unnamable something that some people have and some, clearly, don’t. Yes, the chef is probably more creative than the average cook. That’s a part of it. Every one of us in that kitchen knew that I was a chef, always would be and none of them ever would be. The hotel actually changed the name of the fine dining restaurant to the name of a dish I introduced to this kitchen. The chef is the ultimate risk taker. The cook isn’t. The chef puts his ass on the line every time he puts a plate in front of a diner. His name is written all over it. The cook’s isn’t. But, also, the chef knows it’s impossible to do it alone. He relies on the cook and trusts him. There is a kind of love in the kitchen a lot like what I saw in combat. A mutual reliance, where each must pull his weight or all will sink. I rarely fired anyone. When a cook would not hold up his end his peers would push him out of the kitchen. The closest approximations to an orgasm I’ve ever experienced occurred at the end of evenings in a busy kitchen when we had just put out a couple of hundred – or more - meals, fresh food, well-prepared, timely, hot food hot, cold food cold and we KNEW we had done it absolutely spot on - as well as any team on earth could have done it. Sweaty, covered with food stains, dirty, completely spent and grinning ear to ear at each other. Damn, that felt good! I’d buy us all a drink and we would toast, clean the kitchen and then come back tomorrow and try to top today. Then there is the pedestrian work. The chef makes schedules, orders the food, does inventories, is responsible for food cost, labor cost, developing menu items, training, developing purveyor relationships, drafting task outlines and job descriptions. While not fun, except for ordering the food, these are the quotidian necessities of the job. The cook does not seek these responsibilities. I could always tell who was destined to be a chef by how they reacted to taking on some of these tasks for me. Some relished increased responsibility. Some shrank from it. The relishers give me hope for our species. And I think, to a man – and a woman, for I’ve had many talented women work with me – they would all willingly jump in that foxhole with me again. Here I trace my careening path from New Orleans to Indiana, New York, Chicago, Vietnam, Europe, Memphis and California, noting what I learned along the way, including all the character flaws, stumbles and pratfalls. Eventually, I became a damn good cook. And I think, ultimately, that’s even more important to me than being a good chef. As we wend our way, I make frequent mention of music and films. And politics and history as I lived it. This is not serendipitous. To me they are the diegesis to my narrative, an essential element to an understanding of what was going on. Try to hear the music and visualize the films as you read. This was the landscape for my life. The politics will be harder to understand as many of the issues are not yet resolved. Nearly my entire adult life has been devoted to cooking or teaching cooking and I continue to do both and will as long as I can remain upright. But, even the hardest working among us do not spend 24 hours per day in the kitchen. I hope my story will enlighten you as to what the life of a chef really entails and flesh out the cardboard cutout of a guy in a white coat and gros bonnet, as well as open your eyes about the many different routes one may take to arrive at the point where you are called “chef.” One of the most common questions from my students over the years was, “How will I know when I am a chef?” The answer is simple. You are a chef the first time a line cook begins talking to you and places the word “Chef” at the beginning of the sentence. You have been permanently imprinted. You have arrived.

Oops. Let me take that one back. Saving that story for my own book. But the other question remains. . .you know, the favorite food one. . .the one that every chef gets asked by every person that is not a chef? Always difficult to answer. Particularly when recipes are then asked for. (Did I say "meow" yet? No? Well, then. "Meow." ) ................................. I like to cook many things, but not too much of the sixties stuff. Beef Wellington. Sigh. Tournedos "however". Or alternately brown rice with mushrooms. Blech. Food to my mind has improved greatly here in the US since then. And of course food is the most important thing, sometimes the only thing, one can really talk about. I wonder what everyone reading was cooking in the sixties or seventies if they were there. ← Well, I was cooking in the 60's, 70's, 80's, 90's and 00's. And I've been eating even longer. I was born and partially raised in New Orleans, so that was my first cuisine. Spent time in the Far East, Europe, New York, Chicago, Bloomington, Indiana, California, and Memphis. What I cook was influenced by all those places. I rarely get asked *that* question anymore since I've written books and have, with gusto, taught classes on Creole cookery, the cooking of the American Southwest, California cookery, Italian cookery, French cookery, cooking techniques, Heart-Healthy cookery, Spanish cookery, soups, breads etc., and, in my day job, for the past 22 years, have taught classes to people wanting to become professional chefs. Also, during that 22-year span, I opened three very eclectic restaurants. Actually, the question I get asked most often is: What's the difference between a chef and a cook?

I think a lot can be hung on Santayana's words. I agree with you to the extent that the negative memories are there, but, then, it's really all in how we choose to view and use them, isn't it? Take, Iraq for example. Had Mr. Cheney not asked for five deferrments during the Vietnam era and had Mr. Bush not been unavailable for combat duty, we might well have never gotten ourselves into this current morass. I can't believe that anyone who saw combat duty in Vietnam could *possibly* have committed us to an unwinnable war yet again, whatever their motivation. I went to that war and upon my return went to work for The American Friends Service Committee running a draft counseling center and became a staff member and contributor to a pro-GI/antiwar newspaper, Vietnam GI. I took what could have become a bitter and ugly memory and used it in the most positive fashion I could think of. (I have a piece upcoming here about my year at that war.) Here's the link to The American Friends Service Committee's People's Park page: People's Park Thanks for your thoughtful comment.

I haven't read that thread. No cook who worked for me would ever have tampered with the food in any manner. Or he or she would have had their ass kicked out of my kitchen pronto. Despite our multitudinous character flaws, we were all very serious about feeding folk. I can sympathize with your plight. I had a girlfriend who gave her child - under 5 years old - marijuana. He would just lie on the floor and spin around in circles. It made me very uncomfortable. I have a piece coming up a little later from the book about the first time I took LSD - it was not by choice, either. I met some wolves that evening. Real, not figurative, wolves. Yes, all was not always roses during that era, but my personality is such that I retain the positive (for the most part) and trash the negative. Don't have room for that kind of shit in my brain. Nestor is remembered by many. I hope to be able to be the one to immortalize him. I know virtually nothing about "Earth People's Park." But, I know a great deal about the original People's Park in Berkeley. I was living there at the time and had friends involved in it. I have stuff in the book about it. I have not measured out my life in coffee spoons; I have spent a lot of time, though, with the women, watching them come and go, and sometimes talk of Michelangelo and I've eaten a *lot* of peaches. (Just replaced a period with a comma in my edit.)

Your avidity is much appreciated. It is *my* pleasure and delight to share.

Blushable? Does that mean you were putting it on your cheeks? Yes, next to my mother and father Nestor is at the top of my list of those who are gone and I wish weren't. I hope to include some of Nestor's work in the book. We are working on it right now. Thanks for the kind words about my scribbles.

I thank you kindly, Milady.

A cover is a butt in a chair in a restaurant. Period.

I was just thinking about these guys today. The only one still kicking is Tom Poston. Louis Nye died in 2005 and, of course, Don Knotts last year. Odd that Nye was never able to hook up with a long-running series like the other two.

Thank you, DG! In a future installment we feature an episode with a crab and a drunk.

I know exactly what you mean. Often, over the years, my students, when I was trying to teach them a new technique, would say things to me like : But, my Mama used to... or: I saw on The Food Network where... I would then say to them, fine, if your plans are to go to work in your Mama's kitchen or jump from your few weeks here to being a star on The Food Network, then pay attention to them and not to me. If you want to go to work in a professional kitchen then you'd better keep your eyes and ears open while you're here. Also, I told them this is not a glamorous life and that it is harder work than they can imagine. Be prepared to work weekends and evenings while all your buddies are out enjoying themselves. Be prepared to take tons of abuse from chefs and be paid slave wages during your early years in the kitchen. Develop thick skin. As a teacher it has always been extremely gratifying to me when somebody comes out the other end of their time with me still full of enthusiasm and desire. I know they will do well - and they usually do. While my pieces here deal just with my early years, the book actually covers decades, opening restaurants, working the line, pain and pleasure, and teaching *all* kinds of students. Thanks for the tip on the Chelminski. I won't taint your writing with anymore comments about KC, although I would say that another book that really looks at the inner world of cooking, is The Perfectionist by Rudolph Chelminski. A very important book and a great read...insightful, inspiring, funny, sad, tragic.... ←

My days as a Line Cook have been over for some time...I'm in the corporate world of restaurants now...which is a bit easier on the head, back, knees.....etc, you get the point. I do miss the "rush" of being on the line as the printer spits out the chits and the line fills with orders. Chefs and cooks are quite a sub-culture aren't we! As much as I dismissed AB's KC as so much over the top BS, it did touch on the unique character needed to work in the fast paced environment of a busy restaurant kitchen. I really look forward to more of your story. Thanks Again. ← The pace of my life has slowed quite a bit, too. And, yes, I, too, miss the rush one got from "the rush." It was exhilarating when one pulled it off. When the brigade, however big or small, executed perfectly in sync. Orgasmic. I am working on a piece for The Daily Gullet right now on what it was like in the kitchen. (I mention that we, chefs and line cooks, are all basically adrenaline junkies.) About that KC thing. I am probably the only person in this forum who hasn't read it. A lot of my writing covers the same turf, I am told. (For one thing I certainly don't need anyone to tell me about life in the kitchen.) I have intentionally avoided it to this point because I don't want my vision and memories of "the life" to be tainted by someone else's. When the book on which I am currently working is finished I am sure I will give it a read, though. Again, thanks for the kind words. More of the story is on the way.

Understand. I, too, was (am) an executive chef for much longer than I was a line cook. The incident with the two cooks burned the problem indelibly in my brain, though. Also, the cavalier manner with which my students have treated towels over the years has been a constant reminder. I warned them all. Many's the time that we feasted And many's the time that we fasted Oh, well, it was swell while it lasted We did have fun and no harm done (Apologies to Bob Hope and Leo Robin) You're welcome for the memories.

Yeah, when I was night chef at Scott's in San Francosco, they provided all the coats, hats and pants. Notice that "night" part. The linen had been totally cherry-picked by the time I got to it. I don't think I had a pair of pants that fit the entire time I was there. I wear a 46 coat and don't think I ever got one of those, either. We had a towel stash in the chef's office - shared by 4 of us. Thanks for the kind words. I was beginning to wonder where all those who are/were line cooks went! You're the only one who has admitted to it so far. Hey, aren't you supposed to be in hiding somewhere?

Thanks, Scott. Hope I taught you a little about cooking, too. ← Yes chef you did and greatful I am, if I had the money to do again I would simply because you are a wonderful instructor, as is madam chef elaine .... I am looking forward to someday coming by for a visit, but who really knows when that may be.. Hope you have a good christmas..... ALLONS MANGER ← Thanks again, Scott. Happy holidays to you, too. (Disclaimer: I promise I didn't pay nim a nickel for these comments. )

Thanks, Scott. Hope I taught you a little about cooking, too.

Man, you can add any time! I'm not out of anybody's league - well, just the League of Women Voters (god knows, I tried.) Oh, yeah, The Redheaded League, too. When I was a teenager I was even in a bowling league - one last, vain effort in a search for culture in Evansville, Indiana. Yep, the "towel crisis" is one of those seemingly little things ( to an outsider,) that can lead to mayhem and murder. There are many others - the wars between kitchen and dining room staff and - even more internecine - the strife between day and evening shifts in the kitchen. Some of these tales will follow. Thanks for the kind words about my book. Say hi to Athos and Aramis for me. (You guys make a nifty candy bar.)

I was aware there was considerable antiwar activity in the Madison area, including the bombing that resulted in that guy's death, but I never made it up there myself. Hell, it was cold enough in Bloomington, Indiana! Nor did I ever advocate any violence. Thanks for the kind words about my scribbles.

Thanks, Kerry. There is more on the way. I'm not really sure just how many installments yet, but I have been asked for more. I know for sure there will be at least one more after the holidays. If Maggie is around maybe she can clue us in.

I'm sure Sol's billions of relatives the world over appreciate your condolences. And I post these thanks on their behalf. The only posting Sol is doing is composting.

Shades of Woody Allen's lobster chase in "Annie Hall"... Thankya, thankya. I spent two decades in Davis and wondered the same thing about the river critters. And I'm no line cook, but I do have a pretty huge collection of kitchen towels... since I'm my own laundry service, I can't be too cranky when they're late. More, more, more! I don't know why you're not getting more responses... maybe not many eGulleters read this forum? They don't know what they're missing! ← Yeah, maybe they just jump to their area of immediate interest and bypass The Daily Gullet. Shame - it's what got me really interested in the site. I think it's great. Davis, ah yeah, when I first moved to CA I was thinking about becoming an oenologist. I wrote to them about correspondence courses (I was living in Berkeley) and they said no can do. I think Amerine and Winkler were still there then. Maybe the line cooks tune out before they get deep into the dialogue. Mine always had a short attention span.

Okay, here's a tasty Ordinary tidbit for you Mama, one I didn't include in the next piece that will be running here: The Tragic End of Sol and Rock & Roll. I had developed a crawfish connection. These guys from the Sacramento Delta would bring them to me as long as I bought a 50-pound box. These guys - the crawfish - were big compared to the crawfish I knew in Louisiana. I knew there was a nuclear plant in the Delta and I hoped they were not spawn of that facility. They didn’t glow, anyway. I was at the stove one afternoon when the guy arrived. He opened the kitchen door and yelled “Crawfish!” Just as I turned I saw the bottom of his cardboard box give way. 50 pounds of crawfish rained onto the tile floor. Talk about the ultimate willy-nilly. Little claws clicking on the floor. Tails flipping and flapping like crazy. They scampered away in every direction. Everyone in the building was recruited for the Great Crustacean Roundup. Tricky little bastards. They crawled under everything. It was like submariners on the docks after six months at sea - fleeing their tin can prison. Arthropodian emancipation is not a pretty thing. Floundering off in every direction to Neptune-knows-where. It was as if some vestigial memory – or premonition - told them they were scheduled to play a part, an essential element, in someone’s riparian repast and despite the unfriendly vinyl terrain they encountered this was their last chance for liberty. And they certainly took it. We managed to corral most of them - it took some serious mudbug wrangling - but were still finding them behind and under things days later. I could hear the scurrying of tiny feet late at night as I lay in my upstairs loft. Unsettling. The furor had pretty much died down when, a week later, early in the morning, I heard a noise behind the ice cream freezer. A couple of us managed to move the freezer out a few feet from the wall. There he was, the sole survivor of the Epic Ecrevissian Escape. A miracle crawfish. He was defiantly waving his eyestalks and snapping his claws at me. He had some gonads on him - I think. Couldn’t help but admire the little guy. I didn’t have a pet at the time. Hey, nervous Nerval had his lobster! Proust had his scallops! (Hmm, maybe I'm misremembering here, now that I think about it, they might have been cookies shaped like scallops.) So, I adopted him. Got a goldfish bowl, put in some water and rocks in the bottom of the bowl. Put his bowl on the back bar by the big brass cash register. Fed him bits of shrimp and fish. Called him Sol, short for Solomon, because I never heard him say anything stupid. I don’t know how old he was when I got him – know they can live 3-5 years – but I think his demise was premature. Sadly, his tenure at The Ordinary was not long - just a couple of months. He died one Saturday night in the midst of a loud rock and roll frenzy. Buried him in the begonia bed in back of the restaurant under the acacia tree. Yet another casualty of the Bay Area rock and roll curse that swallowed up Hendrix, Pearl and so many others.

Thanks, Chef! It's great to hear from a chef who salivates over my sapid scribbling here. Allons manger!