The Making of a Chef (17 page)
Read The Making of a Chef Online
Authors: Michael Ruhlman
“This is a serious speed drill,” Pardus told us. “It's ten percent of the final.” If you finish, he said, “you're really wailing, you're working at production speed.”
When he was asked what happened if you cut yourselfâdoes your time stop, can you get a Band-Aid, what happens?âhe responded, “Please,
don't
cut yourself. It is a
knife skills
practical. If you
cut
yourself, it means you didn't
do
it right!”
don't
cut yourself. It is a
knife skills
practical. If you
cut
yourself, it means you didn't
do
it right!”
Paul would cut himself, and lose too much time to finish, and Eun-Jung continued to chop when Pardus called “Time!” but then looked at Adam,
who had put his knife down. She chopped a little more, then saw that Len and I had put our knives down, and as she turned to scan the room, only then, reluctantly and with evident disappointment in herself, did she relinquish her own. Erica finished. And big Lou, who had arrived not knowing even how to
hold
a knife, had finished, too.
who had put his knife down. She chopped a little more, then saw that Len and I had put our knives down, and as she turned to scan the room, only then, reluctantly and with evident disappointment in herself, did she relinquish her own. Erica finished. And big Lou, who had arrived not knowing even how to
hold
a knife, had finished, too.
Pardus was particularly proud of Lou. “He's an ex-
shipping
clerk,” Pardus had said to me. “You should see the quality of work he's bringing me now. His cards, he sweats over those cards.” Lou, a husband, father of three, worked hard and it was paying off. Pardus wanted me to know this, in part, because he knew he was a main reason for Lou's success; he was openly proud. Proud, I think, not only of Lou, but of the whole class. He had not held much hope for this class six weeks earlier. But as Skills Two wound down, he said, “I train you and then you go to another kitchen. Just like in the restaurant business. I train someone and that person leaves to be sous chef at another restaurant.” He paused again. “You guys are going to do great in Intro. I think you guys are really going to do well.”
shipping
clerk,” Pardus had said to me. “You should see the quality of work he's bringing me now. His cards, he sweats over those cards.” Lou, a husband, father of three, worked hard and it was paying off. Pardus wanted me to know this, in part, because he knew he was a main reason for Lou's success; he was openly proud. Proud, I think, not only of Lou, but of the whole class. He had not held much hope for this class six weeks earlier. But as Skills Two wound down, he said, “I train you and then you go to another kitchen. Just like in the restaurant business. I train someone and that person leaves to be sous chef at another restaurant.” He paused again. “You guys are going to do great in Intro. I think you guys are really going to do well.”
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A
nd we liked Chef Pardus, all except for Erica. I could never figure out why. After dinner that night, before the written test, Chef Pardus passed around evaluation sheets that were filled out and sealed until after he'd turned in his grades; he left the kitchen while we filled them out. He would eventually read the anonymous evaluations, as would CIA administrators. Erica could hardly wait to get at hers.
nd we liked Chef Pardus, all except for Erica. I could never figure out why. After dinner that night, before the written test, Chef Pardus passed around evaluation sheets that were filled out and sealed until after he'd turned in his grades; he left the kitchen while we filled them out. He would eventually read the anonymous evaluations, as would CIA administrators. Erica could hardly wait to get at hers.
She was making noise as Ben collected the forms and I asked her what she'd written.
“I coulda been a lot worse,” she said.
“Why?”
“He treated me like shit in here.”
Erica seemed to think Pardus was harder on her than anyone else, that he made fun of her (scrambled eggs, burning roux), and that he was a lousy teacher. I had witnessed none of this but Erica could not be convinced otherwise.
“When it says âWhat could the instructor do to improve?' I was gonna put âQuit.'” She paused. “But that woulda been too mean.”
When Len heard what she was saying, he shook his head and said to no one, “They'll never believe her, not when they look at her grades and the other comments.” Len said he thought Pardus had been a great instructor.
Susanne would remember Pardus's class as the best she had. Travis, who was still working mornings at Burger King, had wondered openly on his evaluation if Pardus deserved a raise.
Adam was mad. While most people couldn't wait to get out of Skills, to leave the monotony of the standard daily mise en place and brown sauce and start cooking for real, Adam wanted the class to be longer. “We only panfry once,” he said. “Sautéeing or shallow poaching once is not enough.” And the daily grading annoyed him. It was far too woolly, he said. While he admired Pardus for his teaching, Pardus was, Adam felt, too subjective; from one plate to another, from the first plate graded to the last, the grading of food had been inconsistent.
Pardus returned after Ben had sealed the evaluations and distributed an easy test. We departed as we finished and the next day were back again for the final day of Skill Developmentâthe cooking practical (brown sauce, béchamel, rice pilaf, and duchess potatoes). The mood was festive. Erica brought a camera. So did Dave. Dave asked me to take a picture of him with the chef, “for my CIA scrapbook,” he said happily.
Big Lou smiled from ear to ear. “I really feel like I'm getting somewhere,” he said. This was exciting; I could see it in his eyes.
Erica was hugging people, camera in hand. She said to me, grinning unself-consciously, “I know it's high schoolish, but it's the last time were gonna be together as a group.”
This was true. The group was to be split in half, each half rejoining with half of its sister group, which had been in a separate Skills kitchen, boiling the heck out of their consommés. That something significant happened, not just to me, but to everybody in a good Skills class, is supported by the reluctance of the students to split up afterward. Almost everyone dreads it. Some groups appeal directly to President Metz and Senior Vice President Tim Ryan, claiming that they are different, they are special, they have formed a unique bond, and it would be criminal to break it. “They all feel that way,” Ryan said, and the Culinary never altered this rule.
No one looked forward to joining a new group partly because friendships had solidified here, but also because you wouldn't know how good the other people were, how fast they were, whether or not you could depend on them. And this was precisely why the Culinary re-formed groups after Skills. It's in the nature of the work to move around, to work with people one doesn't know. Learning to work with strangers was part of the education. The group
that they became beginning next block would be the group they remained until they left for their externships in July.
that they became beginning next block would be the group they remained until they left for their externships in July.
I would not be joining either group. The entire program lasted about twenty-one months, including a four-and-a-half-month externshipâfour years for those who move straight into the bachelor's program. I had deadlines of a different nature than my Skills comrades. I hoped to rejoin them later, just before they left for their externships; I would move through the courses at the Culinary at an accelerated rate, working with many other groups, but I would feel an affinity with none more than the people I'd gone through Skills with. Something significant happened to most everyone in Skills, not unlike that which happens to strangers who endure a catastrophe togetherâa plane crash, say, or a shipwreck. There is a common and permanent bond that will remain no matter where they go.
T
he last product I made in Skills was brown sauce. I happened to be the last person to finish the practical that ended Culinary Skill Development, bringing my bowl to Chef Pardus after Bianca handed in her duchess potatoes (doomed from the start by her failure to make them big enough to hold enough steam to keep them fluffy inside). Bianca shrugged and left the kitchen. I presented the final bowl. Pardus lifted a spoon and tasted; mine was a good brown sauce, made from a good brown roux; he could not find fault with it. There was, however, just a touch of bitterness, he said.
he last product I made in Skills was brown sauce. I happened to be the last person to finish the practical that ended Culinary Skill Development, bringing my bowl to Chef Pardus after Bianca handed in her duchess potatoes (doomed from the start by her failure to make them big enough to hold enough steam to keep them fluffy inside). Bianca shrugged and left the kitchen. I presented the final bowl. Pardus lifted a spoon and tasted; mine was a good brown sauce, made from a good brown roux; he could not find fault with it. There was, however, just a touch of bitterness, he said.
“Sometimes you
want
a hint of bitterness,” he continued. I agreed. Bitter was a flavor component that could be used well.
want
a hint of bitterness,” he continued. I agreed. Bitter was a flavor component that could be used well.
Rudy Smith entered the kitchen, surprised to find it empty. Pardus apologized for letting everyone leave. Chef Smith normally used this day to talk to his new class to prepare them for Day One of Introduction to Hot Foods, the first production kitchen, the students' first chance to cook for people other than themselves. Most people were nervous moving into Chef Smith's class. Travis, who was scheduled to be sous chef on Day One, was, he said, “scared shitless.” Chef Smith's demeanor did not help matters. Smith never smiled. He lacked that mischievous streak you saw in Pardus. We all saw him every day, presiding like a drill sergeant over K-9 as we passed through, picking up our broil, our roast, our sauté; he stood militarily at ease, head cocked slightly back; his eyes were lidded, almost sleepy, but
ready to attack in a flash, and his nose in profile seemed to me incongruously aristocratic. He was young, tall, fit, a no-nonsense corn-fed boy from the flatlands of Ohio.
ready to attack in a flash, and his nose in profile seemed to me incongruously aristocratic. He was young, tall, fit, a no-nonsense corn-fed boy from the flatlands of Ohio.
Pardus introduced us and told him what we were talking about. I asked him if he used a blond or a brown roux for his brown sauce.
Pardus had told him I was a writer, and he stared at me suspiciously. “I teach what I'm asked to teach,” he said.
“Personally,” I said. This was usually the word to use when trying to draw a chef away from the party line to their own beliefs, which most were happy to offer.
“I'm old-fashioned. That's all I'll say.”
He would not admit what we all knew. He was a brown roux guy.
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squall had struck the Culinary Institute of America. I first got wind of it from Pardus, who told me about a dinner conversation he had had with a few other chefs. The chefs eat separately from the students, typically in the first alcove of Alumni Hall. On Day Twenty-Three of Skills, as our class gnawed away at our own braised lamb shank, Chefs Pardus, Smith, and Reilly, all of them CIA graduates, all of them relatively young, and Chef Almquist, a senior chef-instructor, sat discussing brown sauce. Chefs at the Culinary Institute of America did not talk foie gras and truffles at dinner, I was happy to know; instead, they talked brown sauce, specifically, what kind of roux one used. Chef Almquist, the ranking chef at the table whose girth suggested he had known many a brown sauce in his time, said, according to Pardus, “No one has made brown sauce with brown roux since Escoffier died!” This sort of definitive comment was common at the Culinary. Passions ran high on such matters.
squall had struck the Culinary Institute of America. I first got wind of it from Pardus, who told me about a dinner conversation he had had with a few other chefs. The chefs eat separately from the students, typically in the first alcove of Alumni Hall. On Day Twenty-Three of Skills, as our class gnawed away at our own braised lamb shank, Chefs Pardus, Smith, and Reilly, all of them CIA graduates, all of them relatively young, and Chef Almquist, a senior chef-instructor, sat discussing brown sauce. Chefs at the Culinary Institute of America did not talk foie gras and truffles at dinner, I was happy to know; instead, they talked brown sauce, specifically, what kind of roux one used. Chef Almquist, the ranking chef at the table whose girth suggested he had known many a brown sauce in his time, said, according to Pardus, “No one has made brown sauce with brown roux since Escoffier died!” This sort of definitive comment was common at the Culinary. Passions ran high on such matters.
Chef Reilly, twenty-eight years old and a 1988 graduate, who had been a sous chef at the Hotel Metropole in Moscow, taught his Skills students to make brown sauce with a blond roux. Reilly's contention, according to Pardus, was that one could make an excellent, richly colored brown sauce through deep caramelization of mirepoix and tomato and by using a richly colored stock. (Reilly stopped by Pardus's kitchen after Chef Smith and I'd asked him for his own words on the subject; he shook his head.) A brown roux is difficult to make properly, takes much more time, and more care; a brown roux can turn from nutty to bitter in an instant, and thus required
patience and finesse. Why use precious time to make a brown roux and, further, risk bitterness, when you could make a perfectly good brown sauce with blond roux? So said blond roux advocates.
patience and finesse. Why use precious time to make a brown roux and, further, risk bitterness, when you could make a perfectly good brown sauce with blond roux? So said blond roux advocates.
This was a reasonable response. Pardus himself liked the idea and intended to taste Reilly's brown sauce to compare. Pardus was openminded. There's more than one way to make stock, more than one way to make brown sauce. This was what a culinary education was all about.
Two days after the brown roux discussion at dinner, matters became serious. A computer terminal stood beside Pardus's desk; every kitchen had one, and Pardus spent time at this terminal daily, sending his food orders to the storeroom. He also picked up E-mail and announcements here. On Day Twenty-Five of Skills Two, he found this message in his mailbox:
Chefs,
According to our skills guide, professional cooking knowledge and the New Pro Chef, 6th edit., a brown sauce (sc. espagnole) is NOT made with a brown roux.
Please refrain from teaching our students THIS incorrect method.
The message was signed “Uwe” and added that if anyone had any questions, please see him.
Pardus got really mad. He asked me to check my
Pro Chef
. I had the fifth edition. Sure enough the debate was evident even here. The recipe for “Sauce Espagnole (Brown Sauce)” in my edition of the
Pro Chef
called for six ounces of pale roux to thicken five pints of brown stock. But step two under “Method” reads, “Add brown roux to the mirepoix and gradually incorporate the veal stock or estouffade,” a crucial and revealing error.
Pro Chef
. I had the fifth edition. Sure enough the debate was evident even here. The recipe for “Sauce Espagnole (Brown Sauce)” in my edition of the
Pro Chef
called for six ounces of pale roux to thicken five pints of brown stock. But step two under “Method” reads, “Add brown roux to the mirepoix and gradually incorporate the veal stock or estouffade,” a crucial and revealing error.
When I asked Chef Hestnar about this, he more or less evaded me in his Raymond Carveresque way; I asked why they didn't teach a brown roux for a brown sauce and he rejoined with spare oblique stories: “Escoffier predicted that eventually roux would no longer be necessary ⦠.” When I continued to press the issue he pushed his hand through the air and said, “Oh, forget the brown roux!”
I couldn't help it. Something fundamental was to be found in the question of brown or blond roux, something revealing in people's preference for one or the other, how the school reacted to it, and the chefs' response to Hestnar's Roux Decree.
“You can tell me that we have to teach a blond roux instead of a brown roux,” Pardus exclaimed, “but don't tell me it's an
incorrect method
.” This really burned him up.
incorrect method
.” This really burned him up.
Pardus and Smith continued to discuss it that last night of Skills, my own brown sauce steaming on the table in a steel bowl. Pardus tried to make a case in favor of a slight amount of bitterness.
Smith said it needn't be bitter at all and doubted that you would ever want bitterness.
Pardus handed Chef Smith a spoon and said, “This is Michael's brown sauce. I think it's pretty good.”
Chef Smith tasted it. Chef Smith had eyes set so close together they seemed almost to touch. He squinted hard. He gave the impression of wanting either to spit or to hit me. Then he said, “Could be sweeter.”
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hef Smith was cause for me to step back and take stock of the situation and the people I'd met here. First there had been the unusual Mr. del Grosso, a micropaleontologist who became a cook on the strength of an epiphany upon waking one morning on his living room floor. The sanitation instructor, Richard Vergili, was the sort of man who could have his students rolling on the floor with laughter during his lecture on
e-coli
bacteria; when I told people he did Atlantic City on the weekends, as Mr. Virgili himself had joked, they said “Really?” with admiration. The Product Identification man, Jay Stein, a former caterer, would go to the grocery store, buy seven kinds of lettuce, and rush home to lay them on the dining room table for a taste test; his teeth appeared to be ground on a slant, and I imagined this was an indication of his intensity. One of the Meat Fabrication instructors had been for years a baseball umpire in the minor leagues, had gotten his degree in English, and acted in community theaters; his name was Ligouri and he taught people to butcher meat for a living. Chef Pardus almost paled beside this hale cast.
hef Smith was cause for me to step back and take stock of the situation and the people I'd met here. First there had been the unusual Mr. del Grosso, a micropaleontologist who became a cook on the strength of an epiphany upon waking one morning on his living room floor. The sanitation instructor, Richard Vergili, was the sort of man who could have his students rolling on the floor with laughter during his lecture on
e-coli
bacteria; when I told people he did Atlantic City on the weekends, as Mr. Virgili himself had joked, they said “Really?” with admiration. The Product Identification man, Jay Stein, a former caterer, would go to the grocery store, buy seven kinds of lettuce, and rush home to lay them on the dining room table for a taste test; his teeth appeared to be ground on a slant, and I imagined this was an indication of his intensity. One of the Meat Fabrication instructors had been for years a baseball umpire in the minor leagues, had gotten his degree in English, and acted in community theaters; his name was Ligouri and he taught people to butcher meat for a living. Chef Pardus almost paled beside this hale cast.
Shortly after Adam began Rudy Smith's Introduction to Hot Foods, I asked him how he liked the chef.
“The chef is great,” Adam said. “He's a really smart chef.” Then Adam told me that Chef Smith used to live in a teepee.
“Pardon?” I said.
Rudy Smith, a 1986 graduate of the Culinary, was, for a time, executive chef of a restaurant called Krabloonik, in Snowmass Village, Colorado.
Krabloonik was on a mountain. A single road wound up the mountain and dead-ended at the restaurant. One day Chef Smith walked uphill away from the restaurant, beyond any roads, for about thirty minutes, and pitched a teepee. He lived in this teepee for three years. Every workday he'd walk down the mountain to the top of the dead-end road and the restaurant. After work, he would fill water bottles and climb back up.
Krabloonik was on a mountain. A single road wound up the mountain and dead-ended at the restaurant. One day Chef Smith walked uphill away from the restaurant, beyond any roads, for about thirty minutes, and pitched a teepee. He lived in this teepee for three years. Every workday he'd walk down the mountain to the top of the dead-end road and the restaurant. After work, he would fill water bottles and climb back up.
I asked him why he quit living in a teepee.
“Skiing,” he said. “I broke my leg in two places. My fourth time on skis.”
A cast, of course, made it difficult to climb, especially through the snow of an Aspen winter. I asked him how it felt to return to civilization.
He squinted at me and, without a trace of humor, said, “It was really hard to write that rent check.”
He had lived for free on the mountain. His site was remote, and nobody bothered him. He dug a hole in the ground that, in the summer, served as a cooler. He had a battery-operated light and CD player. He joined a health club in town where he could shower. Chef Smith's goal at the Culinary was to become a certified master chef. At the time there were forty-nine cooks in the country who had passed the grueling ten-day, 140-hour exam. Chef Smith believed this was the highest achievement in his profession. I figured someone who could live three years on a mountain in a teepee probably had the self-discipline to pass such a test.
I wondered aloud what winters in the mountains of Colorado were like. This was ski country, snow measured not in inches but in feet. It must have been freezing, I said. Chef Smith narrowed his eyes at me.
“It's important to have a really good sleeping bag,” he said.
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