While I should be cranking away on hours of homework (its 23:30 by the way, and I estimate I have at least four hours, maybe five), I will take time to update you Sports Fans. I have been remiss until finding anything worthwhile to say besides
“I ACED MY FIRST TERM!!!”
It was fun, that first term. Quite painless and a little light. I felt like I wished for a little more pushing, even though the final four days of production in the kitchen did not go well the first two days. By the last day, my group and I marched out fifteen minutes ahead of everyone else, had freakin awesome dishes, got lots of praise and we quietly felt victorious.
This is where I tell you that I need to be careful what I wish for.
I now know why I never saw any Term 2 students goofing around in the hallway. I saw them arriving early, hard at work, hunched over paperwork, scribbling furiously, not noticing anyone else around them as they hauled ass through assignments during any free second they had. I’m on day three and I think I am in a whole world of hurt if I don’t pull a few all-nighters at the dining room table. Compound the paperwork with huge yield output projects during classs time. And about one Hollandaise sauce a day, most likely. No pressure.
Hell’s Kitchen Is My New Term 2 Life
My new chef is amazing. Chef H is one of the rare men in the universe that makes other straight guys develop a Man Crush on him, quite without his knowledge. He’s got a brain, he can teach the shit out of anything and he has the hands to back it all up in the kitchen. What we learned in a spiritual way with Chef B in the last class is now being met with Boot Camp pace, precision and high expectation in this new chef’s kitchen. In a lot of ways, this is what I feel I am paying tuition for. This is “Money”, as they say. He’s the shit and I am relishing the challenges he throws my way. When I ask, I get the attention I need when I ask for his guidance. The quality of his intellect is astounding. I just hope like hell I can keep up.
Here is how tomorrow is going to hopefully shake out:
Three of us have one hour to belt out ten omelets, ten filled crepes, ten eggs benedict (which is two halves of an English muffin, so double it to 20) and ten traditional egg, meat and spud plates with eggs to order. Count em up. That’s about 70 eggs. That’s less than one a minute. Plus a quiche. Oh, and I have to turn in recipe cards for all of the dishes, calculated out for proper weights, volumes and number of servings. Then I have to cost it out, put a price on each dish, present a dummy menu with these items for a fictional restaurant with a marketing description and my favorite part for both the food and paperwork- Make It Pretty.
Add to that this week: One veterinary visit for Ellie, one double shift in day class and the dining room again (thats a 15 hour day, Sports Fans), charity hours before class, a run to the laundromat to get guest room linens washed for weekend company coming Friday afternoon, a one hour hard walk with the dog every morning, cleaning the house for company, putting away three baskets of clean laundry, ungodly school assignments of math and more recipe transcription all due daily for the rest of the week PLUS another fucking Hollandaise sauce in the middle of the insanity, just for sadistic fun.
I have to tell you. I am enjoying every single second of this. I truly am. All but the “I wanna choke the living shit out of one of my group mates” thing. THAT, I believe, would best left to a pro to handle- My Man Crush Instructor.
“Paging Chef Ramsay. Paging Chef Ramsay. Please report to Term 2 Kitchen, STAT!”
You Go Girl!
Hang tuff baby girl and stay positive.
Epilogue to last night’s Live Fire adventure at school:
We had no idea how to run a line setup, but we got one going anyhow. Not perfect, but we tweaked mid-stream. Unfortunately, right as we got our first ticket, our poach liquid for eggs benedict failed. Six eggs died in the process of diagnosis, and we had to make up a new batch of hot poach in the middle of service.
Tickets were backed up. Blame was fired here and there. Hysteria escalated in one team mate, it was targeted at me directly and I had to go Ramsay on him. I believe I said, very clearly and audibly, “Get that FUCKING hot pan OUT of my face, and don’t EVER yell at me again!”. Yes. There was a hot pan of eggs at my eye level, spitting and sputtering, waiting for the smoking hot plate I was juggling, trying to prevent second degree burns from forming. I was not amused.
It was a hard night. Still trying to recover from the embarrassment.
Given that none of us were shown how to run a cooking line, I have to change my tactics for learning what I need to in order to get the job done. I also need more group input from my team. Why in the hell do people thing that preparation and discussion is less important than, say, a Disco Nap? Its gonna take all three of us to get through the next live fire. If we don’t shank each other first.