At work, and my total egg use count is already up to 30, and it's not even 11 am. Six cheesecakes (again!) and a dozen individual red pepper-Parmesan soufflés which I'm delighted with. I'm developing application recipes for new products for the website. This means that my diet today has consisted of raw cheesecake batter and soufflé. Oh, and the 3 espressos we tasted -- Illy, Lavazza and our own brand. It's such an education to taste coffee with our resident expert. Now I can taste caramel, chocolate, bitterness, acidity and body in what I previously would have referred to simply as "a great espresso".
Tasting is such a huge part of the work we do here. When we critique and develop, it's never enough to say "I don't like it", you must describe exactly the taste or texture you don't enjoy. It's a whole new lingo: cheese can taste "hoofy", shrimp "pondy", beef "livery", chocolate "thin" and pork is --ok, not the cleverest expression of flavour -- "porky". Those are all faults, by the way. When we like something it's "moreish" (I want more!).
When we interview new people, we put them through a sensory exam. It's brutal. These poor suckers -- nervous as it is no doubt -- have to tell the difference between tomato sauce with added thyme, oregano, rosemary and basil; between iced tea sweetened with honey and with sugar; between homemade mayo and purchased mayo; and more. And if you don't ace the test, you're not likely to get a job here.
But maybe you don't want to work here. Our afternoon yesterday was kyboshed by a three-hour information session for our 200-person division. Read: brainwashing and empty promises with a patronizing team building exercise thrown in. Argh. Our company has been undergoing an alleged "transition" for almost 2 years and while Mum always said a change is as good as a rest, it's now just ridiculous. People are still getting terminated, many others have left from frustration, and the rest of us are on tenterhooks waiting and wondering what's going to happen to us. My fear is not that they will fire me (frankly, give me 3 months severance and I'll dance my way out of here) but that they will change my job on me, and expect me to just soldier on. For now I'm keeping my head down. And hoping for something decent for lunch.
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
What passes for a meal this week
- a terrible cafeteria salad
- veggie miso burger on greens
- bran flakes and a few medjool dates
- pork chops and sweet potatoes with green beans
- pesto pizza
- spag bol
- half a lamb chop, a sausage and salad
What's the deal?
I’m a chef - I make my living cooking. Years in the restaurant industry were good to me, but I concurrently took my Master of arts and when I was through it dawned on me that I didn’t actually want to be a prof in some charming small town; I wanted to keep cooking. Trouble is, restaurant work isn’t the most intellectually stimulating, and I wanted more. After years of cobbling together food-and-writing-related work, I landed in the wild world of magazines as a food editor.
The wrinkle is that I don’t cook for myself. People I meet at parties go all gooey-eyed when they ask me what I made for supper, imagining no doubt seared scallops on a puree of freshly shelled peas with crisped guanciale and basil oil. The unexpected truth is it was likely a bowl of pasta with olive oil and whatever was in the fridge, be that Parmesan, sundried tomatoes, or a shot of gin. I live alone so there is no one else to impress except myself. And now you.
But this is hardly the the sad tale of a lonely young woman. Many nights, it’s quite the opposite: if there is bread in the house I will drench two slices of it with mayo and add a fried egg and thinly sliced kosher pickles, then stand over the sink and inhale that mofo. It’s so good and makes me so happy that I often make another one right away. What, am I going to create a stunning three-course meal for myself, set the table, light a candle and cluck about how great it is to be single and independent? Bah. Better to dirty as few dishes as possible and get on with it.
The wrinkle is that I don’t cook for myself. People I meet at parties go all gooey-eyed when they ask me what I made for supper, imagining no doubt seared scallops on a puree of freshly shelled peas with crisped guanciale and basil oil. The unexpected truth is it was likely a bowl of pasta with olive oil and whatever was in the fridge, be that Parmesan, sundried tomatoes, or a shot of gin. I live alone so there is no one else to impress except myself. And now you.
But this is hardly the the sad tale of a lonely young woman. Many nights, it’s quite the opposite: if there is bread in the house I will drench two slices of it with mayo and add a fried egg and thinly sliced kosher pickles, then stand over the sink and inhale that mofo. It’s so good and makes me so happy that I often make another one right away. What, am I going to create a stunning three-course meal for myself, set the table, light a candle and cluck about how great it is to be single and independent? Bah. Better to dirty as few dishes as possible and get on with it.
The Girl
During my apprenticeship I was the only woman in a kitchen of randy, raucous men. At first they called my first name to get my attention, but once they started calling me The Girl ("pick up table 45 Girl", "get The Girl to make more crackers") I felt like I was one of the crew. Feminism be damned, there's nothing like being accepted into a kitchen brigade.
No comments:
Post a Comment