dollars. Ex-dishwashers with no formal training, minimal education; people who have often never eaten in restaurants as good as the ones they cook in. Manuel, the brilliant saucier at your two-star restaurant, puts on his best suit, combs his hair, dresses up his family in their Sunday best, and tries to get a table at the one-star place across the street. The aspiring actor/model/part-time maitre d' will break out in a flop sweat, trying to figure out where to hide him—if "La Migra" hasn't already grabbed him on the way to dinner.
There is no deception more hypocritical, more nauseating, more willfully self-deluding than the industry-approved image of "the chef." We all know who is doing the heavy lifting, who's
making that nice risotto with white truffles and porcini mushrooms, the pan-seared hamachi with sauce vierge, the ravioli of beef cheeks with sage and sauce madere . . . We know, to our eternal shame, who is more likely to show up every day, dig in, do the right thing, cook conscientiously, endure without complaint: our perennially unrecognized coworkers from Mexico, Ecuador, and points south. The ones you don't see hurling around catchphrases on the TV Food Network, or grinning witlessly at the camera after the latest freebie for the Beard House.
What is the heart of the matter? The answer to this simple question: When was the last time you saw an American dishwasher? And if you saw one—would you hire him?
If you're like me, probably not.
The best cooks are ex-dishwashers. Hell, the best people are ex-dishwashers. Because who do you want in your kitchen, when push comes to shove, and you're in danger of falling in the weeds and the orders are pouring in and the number-one oven just went down and the host just sat a twelve-top and there's a bad case of the flu that's been tearing through the staff like the Vandals through Rome? Do you want an educated, CIA-trained American know-it-all like I was early in my career? A guy who's going to sulk if you speak harshly to him? A guy who's certain there's a job waiting for him somewhere else ("Maybe . . . like Aspen, man ... or the Keys ... I can cook and maybe hit the slopes on my days off, or the beach")? Or some resume-building aspiring chef ("Yeah, dude . . . I'm thinking of like leaving here next month . . . maybe going to do a stage with Thomas Keller or Dean Fearing . . . He rocks . . . My uncle has a friend who says he can hook me up . . .")?
Or do you want somebody who's come up the hard way? A guy who has started at the bottom, worked his way up, educated himself, step by step, station by station in the intricacies of your particular operation—who knows where everything is, in every corner of your restaurant, who has been shown, again and again until it's implanted in his cell structure, the way you want it cooked? He may not know what a soubise is, but he can sure make one! He may not know the term monter au beurre, or know who Vatel was—but who cares? Vatel punked out over a late fish delivery and offed himself like a bad poet. Somebody had to cover his station the next day. Manuel would have shrugged and soldiered on. No shrieking and wailing and rending of garments for Manuel. He's a professional, not some flighty "artist" who can't handle a little pressure.
No disrespect to my alma mater. The CIA is, without question, the finest professional culinary school in the country, maybe the world. It has, in my lifetime, raised the level of performance, the expectation of excellence, to previously unseen heights. To graduate from the CIA—or any other major culinary school—ensures basic, standardized knowledge of history, terminology, and procedures of our trade. A CIA diploma should, and does, mean a lot to potential employers; it represents an accumulation of valuable classroom experience and impeccable standards. But it is no guarantee of character. It speaks nothing of one's heart and soul and willingness to work, to learn, to grow—or one's
There is no deception more hypocritical, more nauseating, more willfully self-deluding than the industry-approved image of "the chef." We all know who is doing the heavy lifting, who's
making that nice risotto with white truffles and porcini mushrooms, the pan-seared hamachi with sauce vierge, the ravioli of beef cheeks with sage and sauce madere . . . We know, to our eternal shame, who is more likely to show up every day, dig in, do the right thing, cook conscientiously, endure without complaint: our perennially unrecognized coworkers from Mexico, Ecuador, and points south. The ones you don't see hurling around catchphrases on the TV Food Network, or grinning witlessly at the camera after the latest freebie for the Beard House.
What is the heart of the matter? The answer to this simple question: When was the last time you saw an American dishwasher? And if you saw one—would you hire him?
If you're like me, probably not.
The best cooks are ex-dishwashers. Hell, the best people are ex-dishwashers. Because who do you want in your kitchen, when push comes to shove, and you're in danger of falling in the weeds and the orders are pouring in and the number-one oven just went down and the host just sat a twelve-top and there's a bad case of the flu that's been tearing through the staff like the Vandals through Rome? Do you want an educated, CIA-trained American know-it-all like I was early in my career? A guy who's going to sulk if you speak harshly to him? A guy who's certain there's a job waiting for him somewhere else ("Maybe . . . like Aspen, man ... or the Keys ... I can cook and maybe hit the slopes on my days off, or the beach")? Or some resume-building aspiring chef ("Yeah, dude . . . I'm thinking of like leaving here next month . . . maybe going to do a stage with Thomas Keller or Dean Fearing . . . He rocks . . . My uncle has a friend who says he can hook me up . . .")?
Or do you want somebody who's come up the hard way? A guy who has started at the bottom, worked his way up, educated himself, step by step, station by station in the intricacies of your particular operation—who knows where everything is, in every corner of your restaurant, who has been shown, again and again until it's implanted in his cell structure, the way you want it cooked? He may not know what a soubise is, but he can sure make one! He may not know the term monter au beurre, or know who Vatel was—but who cares? Vatel punked out over a late fish delivery and offed himself like a bad poet. Somebody had to cover his station the next day. Manuel would have shrugged and soldiered on. No shrieking and wailing and rending of garments for Manuel. He's a professional, not some flighty "artist" who can't handle a little pressure.
No disrespect to my alma mater. The CIA is, without question, the finest professional culinary school in the country, maybe the world. It has, in my lifetime, raised the level of performance, the expectation of excellence, to previously unseen heights. To graduate from the CIA—or any other major culinary school—ensures basic, standardized knowledge of history, terminology, and procedures of our trade. A CIA diploma should, and does, mean a lot to potential employers; it represents an accumulation of valuable classroom experience and impeccable standards. But it is no guarantee of character. It speaks nothing of one's heart and soul and willingness to work, to learn, to grow—or one's
Similar Books
![Blake, Abby - Vampires' Witness [PUP Squad Alpha 1] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)](https://fs.dianahicksbooks.com/526564/thumbs/152x264/blake-abby-vampires-witness-pup-squad-alpha-1-siren-publishing-menage-everlasting.jpg)
