soupnancy

Food as foreplay

Some people say food is like sex. Clever advertisers use sex to sell food, and use food to allude to sex or to make some product sexy. They know that our lower brain activity can get muddled, and influence us greatly. In our sensual lives, food and sex are bound to work in parallel, even get intertwined. Without even getting kinky, one can enhance the other, and even in the most conservative lives, one can certainly lead to the other.

I say keep the crumbs out of the bed, but I’ve also been accused of being a prude. Nonetheless, listening to a girlfriend talk about the importance of foreplay one day over drinks, I couldn’t help but be reminded of how I relish the anticipation and preparation leading up to any meal, even if its just a ham and butter sandwich, mmm.

Do I find the build-up to a fine meal, be it in the labor of cooking, or getting ready for a night out, as good as the final result? Maybe not, but it certainly plays a big role in my overall enjoyment of the event, like foreplay is to a sexual tryst. Sex is that much more satisfying, the climax that much more intense, if there is a substantial amount of mental and physical build-up, teasing and imagery. Of course, this analogy only applies to people who take as deep a pleasure in food and cooking as I do.

I am a complete foodie, and so can sit down to a meal, and fully appreciate it on its own. If circumstances allow, I eat intently, deriving the maximum amount of pleasure by picking it apart, thinking about it, savoring every taste, sometimes for hours afterward. However, when I’m on the giving end as opposed to the receiving end, I invariably get more out of the process itself.

In fact, when it comes to the preparatory work, I relish multi-step, complex tasks. I plan my time, make sure I’m very organized, so as to keep the pressure off and keep it fun. I don’t want it to feel like work, because then it would never feel like foreplay. A part of the plan is leaving a little leeway, some room for spontaneity.

It begins with planning the menu, tapping into my inspirations of the moment, flipping through books, rehashing old hits and misses, thinking about the possibilities. Then comes the list making, setting the game plan, which I really get off on. Trips to the market follow, which offer up a feast for the eyes, a lot of touching and smelling, some tasting of the produce, and I select the most beautiful ingredients that stir me. I might change things on a whim if so inspired inorder to take advantage of a seasonal ingredient or a coup de coeur.

When the cooking begins, a new stage of titillation or therapy ensues. I put on the soothing sound of CBC talk radio, some soulful opera, or some Bran Van, depending on my mood and probably, my date. I go through the process of chopping, sweating, grinding, simmering, with the accompanying scents, sounds and caresses. As the components of the meal take shape, the tastes evolve into what I had imagined, and things get checked off my list, I feel better and better. Once the Mise en Place is done, short of a few finishing touches, I clean the kitchen and pour myself a glass of wine. I am utterly content, albeit feeling a tingle of anxiety. I’m excited for the night to unfold, for my guest(s) to sit down; I’m almost on the verge.

Soon after, the tension and pleasure peaks as my guest(s) are served, and everyone digs in with big smiles. As their enjoyment mounts, mine plateaus, and I bask in the warm glow of friends nourished and tickled pink, enveloped in the warm embrace of laughter and good vibes for the rest of the night.

When on the receiving end, as in the case of a night out on the town for a restaurant meal, the very different preliminary process also lends much stimulation, enhancing the whole evening. I love to be the one choosing the restaurant because this just adds to my foreplay, as I go over my ever present mental list of restaurants I love or want to try, peruse the guides and menus, discuss it with friends.

Once the reservation has been secured, I start thinking about where we’re going, and how it will be. I will have it in the back of my mind all week, looking forward to it, up until the moment I’m getting dressed in my resto attire (tasteful, with plenty of room around the girth). I’m out the door with a spring in my step.

A pleasant way to extend the build-up and further whet the appetite is a lovely apéritif, or two. I particularly enjoy a glass of Champagne, with its seductive, lively flavors, its tickling bubbles. At this point, the anticipation really starts to build, as the night officially gets under way. I feel like I’m in the lobby before a show, anxious, excited, hungry for a good time and ready to let go, escape.

The curtain rises. The reading of the menu is the ultimate teaser, every item tantalizing me as I let myself be enamored, repelled or just curious...Yes, no, maybe, yes... And I always have to comment. This can be torture for my companion if he isn’t as food obsessed and wanting to play the same game.

As I wrap my head around the offerings, and preconceptions whirl about my head, a good idea of the delights to follow take shape. I let myself be torn here and there by the suggestion of this and that, and I painstakingly make my selections. These are the previews, which I’ve always liked at the theatre too.

Now, I’m primed, and ready for the giddy, sensual ride ahead. A winning appetizer or two, a wine pairing on the mark, and I’m won over.... a session of multiple orgasims is in motion.

Good food and wine in good company can be as good as sex when someone else is cooking. If I’m cooking, I happily settle for the foreplay, and hope my guest(s) get the orgasms.

Sex or not, sharing good food with a hot date or even good friends feels like one long, warm, loving embrace on either end.

Footnote:

I wrote this five years or so ago, and for whatever reason, I now find this funny, not even me. I don’t know if its that I’m getting older or what, but although I still find that wining and dining can be very sexy, I now find too much tra-lala and endless tasting menus tiring, unless I’m really in the mood. Give me fresh tomatoes, sea salt and olive oil, some crusty bread and cheese. No prep, no fan-fare, just pure and simple, equally satisfying and sensuous. Like a good quickie.

Life is what happens at the table

Nancy Hinton (Food writing 2002)

Its been said that “Life is what happens when you’re making other plans”, or “Life is what happens when you’re having kids” .... I say that life happens when you’re at the dinner table. It seems that the most important things in my life have transpired at the table. Certainly, all the fun times have been. And at the very least, any significant event was linked to a meal somehow, in that it was before, during or after dinner, and was definately discussed over dinner at some point. If not, then maybe that’s why I don’t remember it...

Even those people less food obsessed than I, conduct much of their business and social activity at the table. Most people mark an occasion with some kind of festive get-together involving food, be it brunch, a barbeque, dinner in or out. Like it or not, we all must nourish ourselves at regular intervals on a daily basis. So if we make the most of it, we’re bound to spend a large chunk of our waking hours at the dining table. Statistics say we spend a third of our time, or twenty-five odd years sleeping, ten years in our cars and another ten in front of the TV. We spend a much larger percentage of our quality time at the table, and even more preparing for or winding down from it.

Meals punctuate our days. For me, spit-roasted duck or a seasonal treat like corn on the cob would be definate exclamation marks. Cookies and milk together make a period, pea foam a question mark, and salad makes me think comma. Ok, so the pages of my life story are heavy on punctuation and littered with exclamation marks. But we need punctuation, run on sentences drive everyone nuts. Meals are valuable as punctuation, breaking up our days. I find the start and finish are especially important, with breakfast waking me up and slowly getting me into gear, and a late dinner or midnight snack washes away the day’s stress and eases me into bed. My day would be incomplete without my capitol “C” for coffee and my capitol “B” for banana, and “G” for grains in the form of an oatmeal muffin, buttery croissant, or bowl of cereal. Lunch and dinner are important checkpoints too, providing necessary sustenence, refocusing, relaxation, and social interplay.

However, meals are much more than markers, more crucial than brackets or hyphens in a day’s prose. Alone, they contribute much of the substance and script. The meal itself can be the main event, when the food is exceptionally tasty and satisfying, the company and ambiance exquisite. In such instances of blissful sensory overload, it can be difficult to think about much else, a moving chapter you don’t want to end.

At the same time, the actual meal can simply be the context or backdrop, filling in the gaps and embellishing real life moments. Either way, the meal is central to good living, either important as the main show or as the set to life’s theatre.

I could easily break down my life into a calender of meals with their associated moments and memories. At an early age, I discovered that I could take care of myself and immeasurably improve my life by cooking, first making triple-decker sandwiches, and once allowed at the stove, creating my first dish of sautéed mushrooms with soy sauce and vinegar. I quickly realized that life was going to be about making hard choices, when I would spend my entire weekly allowance on a small poutine at the local casse-croûte and be left with an empty piggy bank. I decided then that budgeting stunk.

I learnt the importance of making curfew as a teenager over dill pickles and cheddar cheese at Rachel’s. I learnt about sharing around a table of ten kids and a turkey with only one wishbone, and practiced sharing over and over again on Friday pizza nights. Over boiled beef and overcooked vegetables at the same dinner table, I learnt how to keep quiet when I had nothing nice to say, and to be thankful for food, shelter and family.

I observed countless other families around the dinner table, got a taste of other backgrounds and ways of thinking. I tasted Vietnamese stews, ratatouille, stragonoff, roast beef, crétons, souvlaki and fattouche salad, all so exotic at the time. I compared these families and their food to my own, and finally understood that all in all, no scenario was better, just different, all with their good points and bad.

I went out for my first fancy date at la Mère Michel, where I had dry Chicken Cordon Bleu and was treated poorly by the snobby waitron. When I moved out, I embraced life away from home and the multicultural energy of Montreal over shish taouk, smoked meat and 10¢ chicken wings. I pulled all-nighters studying, eating Felix and Norton cookies and sipping Van Houtte coffee. I learnt that there were better bargains out there if you looked, celebrating my frugality with curry (just the sauce) and nan bread at the Faubourg, or falafel and foccacia at Euro-deli. I found a favorite restaurant to splurge at in reward for spells of hard studying in a little BYOB where I alternated between Pasta Carbonara, Romanoff and Alfredo, always with an antipasto to start, and a salad to finish. I thought I was so sophisticated, being a dépanneur wine expert and all. In any case, I did learn that there is something to be said for keeping secrets because popularity soon took my little spot down.

Around the age of twenty, I got my first taste of real life pressures, and learnt how to cope with failure, finding temporary solace in steaming bowls of Tonkinese soup. Since then, I’ve drowned my sorrows and soothed my soul with Tonkinese soup many times over at Vietnamese restaurants around town.

Spending a summer working at a restaurant and wine-bar in London, England, I discovered scones and clotted cream, spotted the first signs of “fusion cuisine” and was alerted to the finer things in life like good wine, and the notion that the world could be my oyster. I remember feeling grown up and at peace for the first time, dining alone eating raw milk cheese with a glass of Jura wine in a Covent Garden wine bar.

I rediscovered Montreal and life here, learning not to take things for granted, to hold on to what I had over cheese fondue, Miki’s favorite. I had bavette/frites at La Cabane with several guys, and finally walked out on the latest guy and La Cabane for good, despite the fries, marking the dawning of my realization that I had commitment issues. I fell in love with Bob over Italian food at Enios. I fell in love with Italian food at Il Cortile where I tasted Reggiano for the first time (an epiphany!), and fell in love with Bob again and again over Italian food at DaVinci’s and Il Sole on St-Laurent. I fell out of love with Bob over fish tacos in Hawaii. I flirted with the idea of leaving him over mussels and fries with Joe Blow, I don’t remember his name now. I remember breaking down and discussing it with a friend over scrambled eggs and smoked salmon at Benedicts. Over sushi at Koji Kaisen with an eager suitor, I decided to work on saving my relationship. I contemplated moving to Vancouver over the best pot of steaming mussels (lemon and black pepper) on a dreary, rainy day at some bistro on False Creek. But I decided that Montreal was absolutely my home over bagels and lox for breakfast while people watching on the Plateau a few days later.

It was confirmed that I had expensive taste when I fell in love with caviar at first bite at Troika with Benôit. Also at Troika, I tasted the best steak tartare made tableside, and was exposed for the first time to catty women who were mean to me. I learnt the importance of table manners, and how it pays to be one’s self in the end, however intimidated and out of place I may feel. I’ve had many heartfelt conversations indulging in pure comfort food at the Rôtisserie Italienne eating fettucine gigi, suppli and the simplest, most satisfying salad, my Saturday night ritual for years in the 90’s. I finally left Bob after a painful night of sobbing into a bowl of noodles. I think it was Pad Thai, he was watching Jeopardy; I don’t really remember the noodles.

I first really met Barb over Susi Q shrimp at the Tavern. I first really met Ange over firecracker shrimp at La Louisiane. I’ve had numerous giddy nights with friends over fire-cracker shrimp at La Louisiane, while they ate their favorites: Shrimp Magnolia, blackened ribsteak, or the Fedellini Santa Fe..... I remember celebrating summer, having found the wonderful circle of friends I still have, one night at Mediterraneo when seared tuna Asian-style was the rage. That summer, I explored my raw side, eating sushi all over town, at all times of day. I did a lot of living, celebrating all there was to celebrate in my single 20-something youth, finishing many a night with the best late night snack of all – poutine – from Ashton’s, Angela’s, Moe’s or Picasso’s. I grew as a cook, and settled into life as an adult with a career, testing out the classics and my creations on my boyfriend and friends, over many less than perfect, but great meals that were rarely served before 10pm. Thank God for the wine.

I turned 30 to multiple courses cooked by friends, featuring oysters, duck soup, spinach and bacon salad, and roast pork, what a treat.....that was a party to remember on so many levels. My girlfriend Barb turned 30 the night I discovered the Ouzerie, and enjoyed great mussels, sausage and saganaki. More Greek food made another girlfriend Heidi Ho’s 30th memorable at Mythos, where the Taverna spirit reigned, and the tsaziki was solid. My youngest girlfriend, Ange, turned 30 this year, and we celebrated at Globe by sharing a baby leg of lamb for two (Kyle and I) smothered in morels and asparagus, after some pickled herring, octopus salad, fresh scampi and delicious proscuitto-melon bites.

I had my first dinner with Jon at L’ Eau à la Bouche, I had salad and trout and caviar, and he had foie gras and lamb. Dave was there, we had loads of laughs, the food was great, the service too, I loved the Québec goat cheese and sherry, I fell in love. Our friendship grew over tasting menus at the Union Square and Picholine in NYC, and at Toqué, La Biche au Bois, and Globe. I taught him how to make red wine sauce, he showed me how to make chicken soup with matzo balls. We made ratatouille and braised veal together, tested out sorbet recipes. I sampled other restaurants, and other dates, learning about life and myself while nibbling on soba noodles at Ginger, anchovy laced tartare at Paris Buerre, pappadam topped anything at Java U. I had foie gras and lentil soup at les Caprices de Nicolas and went back to Jon. I knew I had to break away again after dinner at L’Initiale, where I had guinea hen with too many garnishes and he had duck three ways, his suit smelled, we were the only ones in the restaurant. I had my “last dinner” with Jon at Cube, I had duck, he had veal, all so elegant, nothing was hot, it was fun anyway. I realized I really loved Jon over Med Spagetti at the Tavern. We got back together again over Comte cheese, smoked duck breast, the ripest honeydew, roasted almonds and arugula salad.

Heidi got married. We had croque-monsieurs and Champagne at Opus beforehand when too nervous to eat anything else, and then five courses of wedding food that night, featuring surprisingly decent banquet chicken. On our honeymoon (the bridesmaids’), we had a beautiful ten-course meal at Lumière, where we were seduced by the Périgord truffle, and Barb refused to let me call our squab pigeon.

I’ve often let my stress dissipate after crazy nights in the kitchen with comforting, stimulating, classic French fare at L’Express: rémoulade, Steak tartare, duck confit, ravioli.... yum. I bonded with new work friends and nature up north many nights over the best take-out pizza, a late night campfire and fabulous wine, sometimes until sunrise. I caught a glipse of Dominique’s soft side (my chef de cuisine) because of buckwheat crêpes, jambonneau and apple cider. I spied into the souls of Luc, Maddalena and Manu with their favorite staff meals. Over many staff meals, I’ve swapped stories and learnt a little more about cooking and people in general, from worlds different than my own, be they off in the Québec countryside, in France or in Italy.

I hashed out my thirty something female stress, bonded with girlfriends, as we shared our biggest fears, deepest secrets and darkest moments over buckets of tears and BBQ chicken, corn and grilled mushroom salad, sausage and piperade.

I’ve learnt the value of the gift of giving while cooking many meals for family and friends, sharing weddings and birthdays, or just another Friday night. I’ve learnt the importance of community in my life through food. Learning and accepting my place in society settled me. Knowing that by being a cook, I could give back and participate in being a part of people’s everyday meals, I was making their lives slightly better. Like my dry cleaner or cordonnier, or my mother does for me. I saw the importance of a meal to people, no matter how mundane, that I played a part, and I valued that.

I could go on and on and on. So many meals, so many moments. My photo albums may as well consist of menus. Looking back, I’m thankful for the rich life I’ve had. It just happens to be so intrinsically linked to food and wine, and time at the table. Maybe the meals give me a framework within which to store life’s memories, earmarking them for easy retrieval. Perhaps my hyperactive, well-conditioned taste memory helps me to hold on to other details. The beauties of the meals add layers of depth to my experiences, anchoring the memories.

Whether food is as major a player in other people’s lives or not, it certainly has some relevance, conscious or not. In any case, time at the table is inarguably good for the spirit. Realizing that brings us full circle, reminding us of our roots, what’s really important. Regardless of how far up the food chain we are or how technologically advanced we are, no matter how big our brain gets, we aren’t so different from the four-legged animals in that life is really all about meal time. We just have the luxury to choose it, and are better for it. So pull up a chair, raise your glass with me.... and cherish time at the table, this is life at its best... Cheers!

Size matters

By Nancy Hinton (Food writing 2002)

I admit there is some truth in the saying “good things come in small packages”. But by the looks of plates coming out of today’s top kitchens, it appears that really good things ONLY come in the smallest of packages, and the smaller the better.

It isn’t only on the runway that youth and petiteness is revered. As far as vegetables go, small and hence young, usually means sweet. With meat, young most often means tender, and again sweet. There is no denying that youth yields some of the most pleasing characteristics. But there’s something to be said for a slightly older and gamier tasting hen, or a big carrot that can stand up to some long cooking and develop a deep, earthy sweet flavor. I have decided that it is time to root for the underdog and take a stand against the size discrimination rampant in the gastronomic world.

It suddenly struck me one day at work when I heard myself reiterating to a waiter that the green at hand was indeed arugula, not the mini or the regular, but the micro variety. With a dozen different baby greens in an array of sizes garnishing the dishes, the waiters are in a constant state of confusion trying to keep it all straight, periodically reaching for their spectacles. Trust me, you need glasses to detect the specific arugula shape when it comes to the micro green. You could just as easily miss it if you didn’t chew your food carefully. However, a leaf of the micro mizuna does acoompany the teeny stuffed beet perfectly, and the micro tatsoi is a most appropriate topping for that tiny cube of seared tuna.

Anyway, so here I was, both annoyed and amused by this waiter who was incapable of differentiating one micro green from another, and as I launched into a full explanation featuring the words micro, mini and baby enough times in one breath to sound the ridiculous bells, I could only chuckle. Perhaps I had reached the peak of serious nonsense in the cooking world.

In a high-end restaurant kitchen, the cooking comprises many details that clients could seldom detect, but the sum of which make the difference between mediocre and “wow” in taste. In the process of working towards this ideal, I had unconsiously found myself in a sort of surreal place, far removed from what most people consider cooking. Here, every dish entails twelve steps, most ingredients have a pedigree, and miniscule garnishes abound. In my days of only associating with itty-bitty vegetables, I could picture myself as one of the “Littles”, I found myself dreaming of diving into the jar of plums in porto or taking a nap on a soft bun on the proofing rack.

I knew I was muddled when I literally jumped at the sight of a regular carrot in my home fridge. Yikes! What was that hideous thing doing in my vegetable bin, I wondered. Oooh, and there’s a fully-grown, big, ugly pepper. Being the only non-condiment, non-liquid food items in my fridge, I cooked them up nontheless. After a most satisfying meal, I felt guilty for having looked at these poor “mutants” so snobbishly. Especially the carrot! Oversized or not, how could I ever disrespect one of the sacred trio of mirepoix ingredients in French cookery (onion, celery, carrot)? Shame on me! Come to think of it, the pepper too is noble in any size, being fundamental to Spanish and Cajun cuisine as a part of soffrito and the holy trinity. Double shame.

It was time to make amends, and stand up for the big, the old, and the shunned.

I have defended less popular ingredients and forgotten vegetables before. I recall getting indignant when raving about a sunchoke gratin I had made, and a French chef I worked with scowled and told me they fed sunchokes to their pigs in France. Jerusalem artichokes, like celery and potatoes, are humble ingrediends that have at times been dismissed, only to be rediscovered. They have always been noble in my eyes. They’re tasty, wholesome, versatile, and perfectly good food, so I retorted that their pigs only benefited from their masters’ ignorance, ha.

I also get mad when I see someone picking through the eggplants or cucumbers at the market, favoring the perfectly shaped ones. What does it matter unless you’re doing a buffet centerpiece, and even then? I suspect that the more unique looking ones taste better anyway. I get suspicious if my fruit, vegetable or fish filet is too nicely uniform in appearance. It probably means that somone is fiddling with the breeding or chemical environment somewhere down the line. And I don’t want a square watermelon, certainly not for $100, thank you. The Japanese, creators of this “luxury” watermelon really do take esthetic to an extreme. Thankfully, the Japanese chefs I’ve come across also back it up with quality, which is what matters most.

I’m all for a nice presentation, it just sould not take precedence. The look should promise the quality the dish will deliver. It provides an additional layer of titillation and pleasure. Sure, we eat with our eyes first, but more so after with our mouth and nose. Although I usually cringe at the sight of over-worked food, crazy architecture and too many colors of the rainbow, I can appreciate a pretty plate design. Contrasting colors and texture add an element of fun and surprise, forcing you to stop to pay attention, to be delighted before even beginning, the opening applause. Like putting on complimentary clothes and a touch of make-up on a night out, presenting food in visually pleasing way is fine if it enhances the natural beauty, just no clown make-up, please. As long as the food tastes like food in the end, not art. Don’t use pea coulis for green color if the taste of pea does nothing for the compositon. Don’t use small just because it’s cute.

Appearances always count, but with food, it’s much more about flavor. There’s no point in cooking up some gorgeous hothouse tomatoes that taste like water. Like I couldn’t go out with a boring guy just because he was good on paper. Life and tummy space are just too precious. A zucchini flower is darling, but unless it’s properly treated, it has as much appeal as a mouthful of burrs. If you’re using a highly seasoned, heavy vinaigrette, then forget aobut micro-greens; they will be dead before they reach the table. Baby corn isn’t nearly as satisfying as a fresh mature ear; it hasn’t had the chance to develop its true character.

Big isn’t completely out though, especially not in America, the land of the giant burger and towering Philly sandwiches, but in fine dining everywhere, everything seems to be shrinking except the plate. Some people still order jumbo shrimp, or impress their friends by tackling an oyster the size of a Frisbee, but generally the wee things win out. I can’t help but find little quails cute too, and oh, such adorable little eggs. Then again, a large duck egg, now there’s an omelet for two.

In my daily entourage of the young and the teeny in this glamorous world, I guess I needed to be reminded not to forget about the big guys, and keep my snobbery in check. There is life after youth. I still can’t help but gaze lovingly at the baby eggplants, they are beautiful, and less bitter, but then, there’s also a larger skin to flesh ratio. You see, all sizes have something to offer, and have their place in the kitchen. And then there is always the stockpot, or in a restaurant kitchen, there’s staff meal. And if we won’t eat it, then there are always the pigs to feed...

The Chef – artist, technician, businessperson or kook?

Unearthing the essence of a professional cook

Nancy Hinton (Food writing 2002)

For years, cooks have been overlooked, under paid, and often disregarded as menial labor, mere servants, rejects from academia and the mainstream. But now that dining out and cooking have become the most popular social activities of the upper class, everyone wants a peek into the kitchen. They want to know what is going on, who these mysterious people are.

As we gaze at these celebrity chef stars, we naturally gather that a chef today is primarily a fun, charismatic carefree and wealthy guy like Emeril. Or a serious artist and meticulous workaholic with magical powers allowing him to be in multiple locations at once, globe trotting and making cameo appearances in the occasional movie like Charlie Trotter. Maybe, he/she is a rough and tough, dope-smoking, pan flinging crazy man like Anthony Bourdain. Or by the looks of Wolfgang Puck and Alain Ducasse, he/she is a corporate businessperson above all. How accurate are thes depictions of the modern chef? Are they living proof of the evolution of the lowly cook of yesteryear?

Indeed, these chefs are true masters at the height of the profession and worthy of their status. Nonethess, they show us only part of the picture, some of what is possible. Their public images are mere sketches that give a skewed image, the glamour overshadowing the real essence of the professional chef. Take these new coverboys and dig beneath the shiny gloss of the designer chefwear, the logos, their extravagant signature dishes, and what do you get?

You see the real stuff that is strutted in kitchens across the globe behind closed doors. This is my world, and from the front lines, I can tell you that in reality, the professional cook is much more than meets the eye. He/she is still the skilled laborer, technician and robot of the Escoffier era. He/she is an artist too, however not to the extent that many seem to think. Frankly, I get annoyed at how often people allude to my vocation as art. As if I go to work, get inspired; whip a few things together and voilà, job complete. Yes, there is a creative element reserved for the few at the top of the ladder, but even then, it amounts to a small percentage of the workload. Moreover, it’s creative expression on a strict time frame among many other constraints like feasibility due to staff, materials, equipment, profibability, etc. The truth is that professional cooking is much more about systematic, tedious, backbreaking tasks, as well as discipline and organization. Of course, behind the scenes, traditon and science plays an important role in terms of setting the rules and guiding principles that must be respected. So, the masterful chef is at once a scholar, composer, conductor and army seargent leading a brigade of cooks.

A good cook, whether doling out the commands or following them, has to also have a good palate, he/she has to be in tune with his/her senses so that he/she can be able to qualify the desired result and reproduce it. Besides taste, there are other less objective natural qualities that a cook must possess inorder to succeed. The knack, “tour de main”, the instinct and feel, that “je ne sais quoi” that other cooks can spot a mile off, and is usually mixed in with an unbridled passion and zest for life. When its the real thing, its in the blood, always there both in and out of the kitchen.

Besides all the right brain demands, the chef must have strong left brain capacities. While being a dreamer and artist of sorts, he/she must be logical, methodical, practical, business wise, as well as a good manager of time, resources and money.

A good chef is also an honest, conscientious person who cares, who values and respects the ingredients and the people, involved. Diplomacy is indisputably a crucial asset. Although tempermental chefs and playground politics persist in kitchens more than in the rest of the civilized world, it is becoming less acceptable. Most chefs spend their time seeking the elusive balance that is found in a disciplined but positive environment. He/she needs good people skills to survive, as the cook is a team player under pressure.

The chef is an arbitrator, a keeper of the peace and a public relations officer in the constant dealings with staff, suppliers and customers.

Because the cook’s environment is so variable, with umpteen things that can go awry, he/she must be a cool headed problem solver, able to adapt when found short staffed, with malfunctioning equipment, or short of key ingredients. Regardless of circumstances, the cook’s demands and deadlines remain the same day in, day out.

This leads to the obvious necessary attribute of a chef, good health. He/she must be robust and tough. I will always remember a cooking teacher’s first words of advice, “If you are one to get sick or tired easily, then please don’t waste your time, this profession is not for you!” So often, I have noted how true that is with the grueling schedules, the long hours on your feet in inhumanely hot conditions, often without regular breaks to eat or have a sip of water or use the facilities. Not to mention all the cuts and burns and bad backs.

To make it, a cook must not only be thick skinned physically, but strong mentally, and emotionally as well. The kitchen has always been a macho place full of egos, with no room for the weak and whimpery. Working a double shift with a severed digit held together with a quick bandage of paper towel and duct tape without a word is just one of those things you do. Dealing with stress, criticism and unfair scenarios are par for the course. Weakness in any form is scorned, or quickly the fodder for teasing, the cooks’ main source of amusement when the pace slows at all.

Whether it’s in a restaurant kitchen or a hotel or catering, even teaching or in the media, the chef’s job is multi-faceted at its core. In subject matter, it starts with a huge body of knowledge based on history, traditon and science that cooks draw on for guidance and inspiration. This is the structured, absolute, academic basis of cooking. Then there’s the practical side in the form of skills, training and repetition. This element provides the gratification of working with your hands, getting your hands dirty, feeling physcially exhausted and concretely rewarded at the end of the day.

Another major factor is the constant challenge inherent. There’s always more to learn. Plus, the variable, unpredictable nature of the business makes it a constant battle to stay afloat, let alone progress. So the cook is by implication at thrill seeker and a fighter.

The kind of person that is drawn to, and blossoms in this kind of environment is a quirky type no doubt. That’s another story. Suffice to say that cooking as a career values many different sets of skills and qualities, attracting people from all kind of backgrounds, providing all those involved with a broad scope of challenges and stimuli.

The one thing we all have in common more than anything is the bottom line. Cooking is primarily about nourishing people. It’s about giving and simple pleasures. It’s about sharing and celebrating life. For any real cook, that is the beginning and the end. And so, the chef is first and formost a giver, a people’s person, and a lover of life. This is what grounds us and generates the most personal satisfaction.

Along with that comes a feeling that you’re doing something real and good, a part of something greater. That general notion of being connected stems from inputs from the earth, people, and time. We are reminded of our link to the planet on a daily basis through our dependence and our reverence for the fruits of the land in our excitng dance with the weather and seasons. Not all cooks realize this, but it’s an undercurrent.

We come into contact with people of all walks of life through our customers, suppliers, farmers and co-workers. And let me tell you, the restaurant world attracts all kinds of “special” people. Making it work together is another dance. And as we dance our dance every day, feed and restore people, we participate in a ritual common to everyone that lives around the world, and that has lived before us. We do it in a way that is shaped by our predecessors and the current food trends, the tastes of people today. This expression of popular culture marks our place in time, while the dishes and techniques of generations past connects us to them. We keep these stories alive, and make new ones. The cook who is conscious of all this and puts it back into his/her cooking is then also a romantic, one even might say religious, or at least spiritual.

As you can see, the professional chef is a lot of things, and his/her world, although generally removed from the limelight and hazardous to the health, is a supremely interesting, and comforting place.

The Palette

Understanding it and using it for a more colorful life

By Nancy Hinton (Food writing 2002)

I use my palette to play games, to express myself, to challenge myself. It gives me food for thought, a window into my past, my true self. It’s an infinitely fascinating part of the human anatomy, and a revealing way to observe others.

Some famous sayings suggest a strong link between our food choices and disposition. “Tell me what you eat, and I shall tell you who you are.” (Brillat Savarin), and the common, “You are what you eat.”.

The palette is obviously an important part of a person’s character. It’s a trait like any other, being athletic or lazy, liking the blues or being a neat freak. This is one personal quality that is brought up on a daily basis, on display, readily shared, that others have to accomodate since so much of our business is done at the table.

Everyone’s palate is unique, and that’s a wonderful thing. Especially today, people seem to be proudly claiming their specific gustatory profile and taking it out. However, it can also cause trouble, all these clashing palates. The phenomenon of special eating habits has no doubt spread in the past years. You cannot have a dinner party anymore without being faced with considering all the possible allergies, the vegetarians in all their various forms...There are the pseudo veg heads who eat no red meat, but poultry and/or fish is Ok, others accept broth, but no flesh, dairy can be in or out, honey, it depends, and so on. Then, there are the lactose intolerant in which case even goat’s cheese is not ok, or those allergic to bovine protein, in which case goat’s milk is Ok. There are the raw foodists, the people who have restrictions for political or environmental reasons, the diabetics and people on special diets for medical reasons, or those on the low-carb fad diet of the moment.

People are suddenly fanatically picky about their food. It’s become almost fashionable to have your own special rules. I suppose it’s an effective, easy vehicle for self-expression. Perhaps it makes a person feel unique and interesting to be the only person to think they’re allergic to celery. Maybe he/she feels like making a little drama out of the mundane. Or maybe, he/she just wants a little extra attention and pampering after a hard day. Not to mention that it can be a useful tool to appear virtuous and admirable if the ban of a certain foodstuff shows restraint, being health conscious, or makes a social statement.

The thing is, when these special needs are toted to the restaurant or to a dinner event, they often inconvenience others, and create unneccessary stress. While other forms of selfish behavior wouldn’t be commonly tolerated, it seems quite acceptable for people to be demanding, irrational and uptight if it’s done through their food specifications. At its worst, this behavior is antisocial, closed-minded and spoiled brattish.

I do respect that sometimes people have to monitor their diet for specific reasons, and I have always personally taken allergies and all precautions very seriously. But because of all the crying wolf, restaurant cooks have become a little weary. Now that the exception has become the rule, the hypochondriacs have spoiled it for the truly allergic, making it more dangerous for everyone. The moral impact of sane choices has been lost in a sea of fads and fickle nonsense. It wouldn’t hurt all of us to slow down and loosen up abit.

Besides the benefits of a stress free time at the table and a balanced diet, most of the fussy people don’t realize what they’re missing, and just how flexible their palates really are. That’s the other thing. Our palate, like most of our traits, is a work in progress. We have a genetic set point or range that is influenced by our environment and what we do with it.

Once you open your mind and palette to new taste sensations, the results are surprising. I’ve seen it countless times, with my own palette, and with those of people around me. One friend, who would not eat any fish or meat except well-done steak, has gone from eating it medium to medium rare, to partaking in the occasional veal or pork chop, even now sausages and salmon!

I have witnessed many with an aversion to spice gradually work their way through spicier and spicier dishes to ultimately develop a true addiction to chilies. In the same way, I have seen people who were frightened or disgusted by a ripe smelly cheese become fond of the most pungent blue, once working their way through the mozzarella to Stilton spectrum.

Many strong tastes are acquired. Most people are taken aback at best, revolted at worst, or at least puzzled by their first encounter with something foreign, be it the aromatic coriander leaf, the exotic soapy aroma of wild ginger, or the fishy, unattractive looking anchovy. The slimy oyster, a gamy cut of boar, or a spongy piece of calf’s brain often require a.few tries as well. Once past the initial jolt, a second or third taste leaves a clearer impression, and will lead the skeptic down a new path, if not away from offal, than on a trip to the Orient. More often than not, it takes you on an exciting course of discovery, introducing you to new pleasures.

No matter what, you learn a little more about yourself and the world around you. I get immense pleasure watching the uninitiated travel this path... from a fish-free life to fresh sea bass to trout, to anchovies and sushi, to shellfish, from a mussel to oysters Rockefeller, to a raw oyster, to Champagne and new oyster shucker friends. The growth and exuberence that follows such excursions reminds me of seeing a kid discover how fun it is to toboggan, skate or dive after getting over the initial fear of trying.

The reality is that virtually all tastes are aquired. We are born with a clean palette, except for a built-in distaste for some of the most harmful toxins common to all humans, the rest is learned. As with most of our traits, we surely have a predisposition, a genetic set point, and from there, it is what we do with it, along with our close environment, that determines our palette. Depending on our upbringing, our experiences associated with certain foods, we develop likes and dislikes. A child’s palette is in constant flux, a child can trick his/her brain into making a certain taste favorable or not, as any parent will attest.

Not only can we influence our tastebuds, we can to some extent control a reaction to a sensory experience through mind-set, coaching, knowledge or moral beliefs. We can develop it with time, attention and repetition. That’s what we cooks do. Because we are using our palette critically day in, day out, regularly thinking about what we’re tasting, breaking it down into the elements, our sensitivity automatically becomes heightened. That explains why cooks have sharp tastebuds despite all their smoking, coffee drinking, and their different backgrounds. Like any other sense, the more you use it, the more acute it becomes. Of course, you can beat it up by too much smoking, piercing your tongue, or eating on the run.

To start with, we all have varying hardware, all in different stages of development at a given time. Its been said that some people are born with thousands more taste buds than others (the supertasters), and that females typically have more taste buds than men. Then they are all the physical factors that further alter our sensory experience, for example: age, disease, pregnancy, hormonal cycles, diet.  We can build up a tolerance to a certain ingredient, requiring more of it for the same effect, as in the case of salt or chilies. So our palette is subject to change depending on lifestyle.

All this makes for a world of different. How do we have any idea what another person is tasting, especially since few are good at describing taste beyond yummy or yucky, or even in the simplest terms: salty, sour, bitter, sweet? This is foremost on a cooks mind, and makes for a constant battle in concocting something pleasing for the average palette. Due to the variability of palettes, it is imperative that we cooks constantly analyze our palettes by listening to customers and fellow staff, to know where we stand in the wide spectrum inorder to be able to season accordingly. It also helps to have the target audience in mind, to have a consistent scheme, and to be responsive.

The funny thing is that despite all this theory, most of us can generally agree on what’s good, bad or in between if we want to. Somehow, it all seems to even out in the end because the palette is so adaptable. It makes sense too from an evolutionary point of view. Our palette should allow us to find most available things palatable if necessary for survival, aside from alerting us to something potentially harmful.

Because the palette is so adaptable by nature, no one should let themselves be governed by strict rules. Every taste experience should be treated as a unique, stimulating source of pleasure, intrigue or comfort.

Moreover, the more playful approach we take to our food and the more we try, the more our palette evolves, and the more fun we get from eating. More pleasure at the table can only add to our quality of life. New experiences, new appetities, triumphs, shared laughs, and all that comes from being more adventurous can be the best tonic in this crazy world, providing a spring in the step, a renewed zest for life. Unless experimenting with chicken sushi, there is relatively little danger. Someone who is open minded and fun at the table is more pleasant to be around too. Increased popularity means more invites, new aquaintances, and more good times, all from trying a bit of gizzard. Ok, so maybe a sample of your dining partner’s eel might not change your life, but it certainly makes the day a touch more interesting. Every new stimulus for the senses, mind or heart makes us feel more alive. And why not make the most out of life?

I agree with M. Savarin and his food metaphors for life; its a fun way to look at the world, and as meaningful as any. I know I can’t help but judge someone by what and how they eat, and it has generally served me well. Someone with an appetite at the table usually has an appetite for life and takes pleasure in the simple things, like someone who is open minded at the table will be in life. Someone who races through his or her meal without tasting, most likely races through life without thinking, or really enjoying life. Someone who is greedy at the table is probably greedy in life, and someone who pokes at their food is likely untrusting, overly analytical, or insecure. Someone who doesn’t react to their food probably doesn’t have much of a personality, or is unhealthily depressed or stressed.

That’s why I think dinner, as a first date is most appropriate. By the main, I can tell whether this is someone I would want to get to know better or not, if our palettes can ever meet. And in the case of a bad date, at least I have the food as a distraction.

Not only does paying attention to people at the table give me insight into strangers, it helps with dear ones too. By knowing a friend’s particular eating habits makes me feel closer to them and allows me to interact with them better. Knowing their weaknesses gives me a way to please (or bribe) them, and knowing their dislikes enables me to respect them, or avoid aggravating them when that counts most.

In all its complexity and mystery, our palette is most useful in getting the most out of life. Treat your palette like a life long friend, listen to it, talk back to it, tease it, tickle it, play with it, soothe it, take care of it, take it on trips, don’t stifle it or let it stifle you, let it grow, and grow with it...

Footnote:

When I wrote this, I was young, bright-eyed and bushy tailed, the sky was the limit. I thought I should try everything, ask no questions. Now I’m an advocate for quite the opposite. Wait, think...where does this come from, how was it produced, was no one exploited etc.?... I now encourage people to be difficult in a way, quite contradictory to the theme of this article. I guess that sometimes you do have to control your palette, or at least inform it. Afterall, it is connected to the brain, we do have a brain and should use it. Like we have to reign in other of our instinctual urges depending on circumstance. If you know how much that calf suffered to provide the white succulent flesh of its gland that is your dinner (sweetbreads), then maybe it won’t taste so good, and so you can follow your palette and still be on the right path. As long as its for the right reasons, not just plain uptightness. Then again, everyone has his or her reasons. I just can’t be so judgemental anymore. To each his own palette.

The Walking, Talking, Pan-flipping Contradiction

By Nancy Hinton (Food writing 2002)

Although the professional cook’s image is changing somewhat in the age of celebrity chefdom, the cook is largely a blue-collar worker, a survivor among the dreggs of society, the best of the poor misfits. At the same time, a cook at any level, is privy to a degree of admiration and glory, and is surrounded by all the elements of the good life. He is exposed to the finest ingredients of luxury from around the world. In his line of work, he has the privilege to sample the most rare delicacies, taste vintage wines, eat off silverware, brush shoulders with the rich and famous.

By association, the lowly restaurant worker finds himself in a world of well to do people, the movers, the shakers, the aristocrats, and the epicures. He can easily come to feel a part of that world, however deluded the notion is. He has involuntarily developed a discriminating palate to match, a taste for the finer things in life. But then, he goes home to his dive, peanut butter in the fridge (if he is one of the grounded few) and is reminded of the big picture and his place in it.

He might be content, or he might feel a little frustrated and resentful. Others carry on the charade, stocking caviar, truffle oil, fleur de sel, every variety of specialty vinegar, oil and condiment, and inevitably a negative bank account, because cooks don’t earn much.

Restaurant workers are a segment of the population notorious for living beyond their means. They work so hard; they figure they deserve it. They go out, live the high life, dropping insensible amounts of money on food and wine because they value these indulgences, whether they can afford them or not. Few other mortals would conceive of spending half a weeks’s pay on a tasting menu.

A cook in a high-end restaurant is egged along this inevitable tortuous path not only by his acquired tastes, but also by the compounding delusionary effect of his ego. Prone to ego stroking by nature, on top of the natural feeling of accomplishment that accompanies surviving a day in the kitchen, the cook easily fells elevated, on a power trip as the provider of your pleasure.

Boosted by testosterone and the bonding camaraderie of the kitchen, he feels like a king. Master of sharp utensils, a hazardously hot, stressful environment, master problem solver, he can do it all. He can even spit into your dish if he feels like it. Waiters, suppliers, customers, everyone wants to be his friend. This breeds an exalted feeling, the gateway to delusion. It is so easy for him to forget that he is at the bottom of the socio-economic ladder, no money in the bank, with no benefits or security.

In a heartbeat, the bubble can be burst, and the regal thoughts become a distant pipe dream. All it takes is a mis-step and a good verbal lashing by the chef, he wakes up to find himself humiliated, covered in grease, sweat drenched and thirsty. He is sore from exhaustion, all of a sudden, feeling his latest battle scars, the cuts and burns. He realizes he hasn’t had a sip of water in hours, hasn’t had a meal or been to the washroom since he left home that morning, and he hasn’t had a vacation in years. He momentarily wants out of this hell, but he curses his sorrows away and perserveres out of pride. He knows deep down that these brutal lows are matched by the sweet highs of working the line, of feeling that magic.

Akin to being a part of an orchestra or a sports team struggling for the title, a cook gives everything he’s got for the team, rides the ups and downs for a taste of that intangible beauty of a seamless shift where it all works. A smooth execution with no hitches that aren’t swiftly and cleverly corrected, where in the night long dance, no one steps on each others’ toes, when it all comes together in a cohesive, magical way to a standing ovation and lots of beer.

On another night, despite all the hard work and good intentions of a crew, it can all fall apart due to an electrical problem, a breakdown in communication, human error or countless other variables. Or dreadedly, for some reason, a customer is dissatisfied and returns a plate. Whether it is a customer’s unreasonable demands or a plain fuck-up, the slogan of the customer always being right comes to haunt. The cooks shit their pants, but it is the chef, ultimately responsible, who has to stand up. He might be left baffled, angry, whipped, defeated. But being someone who is primarily out to please and at the mercy of accounts payable, he will acquiesce, do whatever he can to solve the problem. The cooks are mad or scared, he has to be a leader. He swallows his pride and steps down to the level of mere service provider, stripped of his knowledge, hard work and talent in one fell swoop, he just has to please. On a bad day, it might make him question everything, is it really worth it?

The moment passes, the night ends, and either a compliment or a glass of good wine helps wash away the day’s grievances. Soon enough, he is happily back in the precarious position of balancing the harsh reality and sweet fantasy of kitchen life, living the contradiction of being a star and a humble slave to the stove, his brigade behind him, an army of other star/ slaves bred to be walking, talking, pan-flipping contradictions.