Posts Tagged ‘restaurant’

11 Cooking: I AM the soup Nazi

Friday, November 20th, 2009

Just in time for cold weather

Oh, how I love this. I am responsible for five soups that will be served in the restaurant, one each day. And I get to pick! I’ve chosen my mom’s borscht (a big hit–thanks, mom), Italian wedding soup (another hit), but chef chose a butternut squash puree (a disaster, as I cooled the squash in ice water and it absorbed too much liquid; Chef bitched about the seasoning, too. Another experience on the learning ladder.), shrimp bisque (a hit) and a simple leek/potato puree (another hit.) I love it when it works, and I love being totally responsible for a dish from start to finish. Here’s the borscht recipe, for restaurant service (24 servings). Cut in half for home service–it freezes well and gets better every day:

Raw material--try it, you'll love it!

Raw material--try it, you'll love it!

Olga’s Autumn Borscht

Portions: 24, portion size 8 fl. oz.

*Best if made one day in advance

2lb boneless lean pork in 1 inch chunks

16 oz onion, large dice

16 oz green cabbage, shredded

1. Brown the pork, onions, and cabbage together in a heavy bottom pot with just enough oil to keep food from sticking.

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3.5 qts. beef stock or vegetable stock (for cold soup)

30 oz red beets, peeled, cut into 3/8 inch half-moons

2. Add stock slowly to the pot and add beets. Bring to boil and simmer for 10 minutes.

30 oz peeled white potatoes, large dice

3. Add potatoes to simmering soup. Simmer for another 15 minutes.Green tops from 5 beets, chiffonade, 1inch length

4. Add to soup, and simmer for an additional 5 minutes or until beets and potatoes are tender.

Rice or cider vinegar or sour cream

Season to taste with salt and pepper.

If serving as a cold soup, stir in one spoonful of rice vinegar or cider vinegar when serving. If served as a hot soup, add a spoonful of sour cream.

Garnish with fresh dill, chopped (dried dill works, too)

10 Cooking: Exhaustion Takes a Seat

Wednesday, November 4th, 2009

The tears are beginning to fall

The tears are beginning to fall

Now that we’re about to move into our new stations, the constant pressure is beginning to show. Several people have mentioned that they’re not sure what they’re doing in this class. “I don’t intend to work in a restaurant” is a common refrain. Many of us joined up to learn to cook well, and what we’ve been exposed to is the grundgiest side of the restaurant business: the conflicts among different personalities, the constant greasy clean-up, petty jealousies and continual time pressure—put that together with being relegated to one station at a time, making one thing over and over rather than learning a lot of different techniques—some of my fellow students are headed for the door. I’m not among them. The adrenalin rush of having to put up or shut up within a short period of time (you burned it? Make it again, and quick!), combined with the hurried atmosphere of people rushing about, all bent on making it all come together by 11:30 (when the restaurant opens) is strangely addictive. Plus, I’m actually learning a lot. The textbook is excellent, and just by being in the kitchen, I learn something new every day (no, my knife isn’t dull—it’s easier to cut a bell pepper through the soft inside rather than the tough skin. Duh.) Next: I become one with soup.

03 Cooking: Our Founder is a Rat

Tuesday, September 15th, 2009

Click here to see the video for Ratatouille, the movie

Our Founder

Our Founder

I blame Walt Disney. People like me who have been in white-collar jobs for years are studying restaurant procedure. That’s a switch—all these BAs and MBAs moving into low-paying, sweat-inducing work. We were swayed by the clever Remy in “Ratatouille”. That rat knew his oregano from his anise.

We share the kitchen with the “Pastry People”, a class easily as large as ours. Our chef-teachers are always out-shouting each other.

Everyone in my class is—shall we say—unique? One new friend is very talented, very young, and has a tendency to think she knows more than the teacher (I knew everything when I was that age, too. I’m so much more ignorant now). Most of us are still wandering around in a daze, calling plaintively “Chef? Chef?”. The guys in class are a hoot—the biggest ones are the most gentle, like Great Danes. Most of my classmates are making an effort to meet each other and get along—a shy quick introduction while stacking stainless steel hotel pans or shuffling into the dish room—a mild name for the steamy windowless home of two gigantic rumbling kitchenware- and tool-washing apparatuses. When I’m in there, I like to think of it as a tropical vacation. On the equator. In the middle of Monsoon.