soupnancy

Cheap meat – not a good idea

Nancy Hinton (Food Writing 2006)

In the natural scheme of things, beef cattle graze on pastures, feeding on grass and ruminating, thereby transforming the cellulose in that grass to protein, an efficient natural process. Cows on corn in feed lots is another story. Why is this the way most of our beef is produced? Because its economical, it makes them grow fast and get fat, and corn is cheap. (Only because we’ve made it cheap by overproducing it and subsidizing it.) Like humans on a candybar diet, this unnatural diet makes them sick (bloat, acid stomach, liver disease), and so they need to be administered antibiotics, all kinds. And we don’t like that when we know about it, most often we don’t.

Not only is corn bad for the cow, its bad for the environment. Nonetheless, we grow alot of it, mostly for feeding livestock. It pollutes with nitrogen run-off, the dead zones created, and the enormous amount of fuel used to produce the pesticides that are used in producing corn. There’s also the issue of monoculture in the production of crops such as corn, which started the whole industry of commercial petroleum pesticides in the first place. All in all, it takes 100 gallons of oil to grow one cow.

And there are more hidden costs when it comes to corn. Corn is heavily subsidized. (It costs 3$ to produce a bushel of corn and feedlots pay 2.25$) So, its relatively inexpensive to raise a cow on a feedlot (1.60$/day for 32lb of meat) but meat also is sold at a low price, making it hard for the farmer not to follow. Same story for hormone use. For 1.50$ more, the farmer gets 40-50lb more weight, or 25-35$, he would lose money otherwise. Especially that often, his equipment was fronted by these big corporations, locking him even further. He is trapped in a viscious circle of a system.

The biggest problem with the feedlot system is what it means for food safety. E-coli infected meat comes from traces of manure left on the carcass at the slaughterhouse because the cows spend their lives sitting and standing in their own manure. E-coli doesn’t exist in grass eating cows; its an acid tolerant bacteria that only developed to survive the acidified guts of cows on a corn diet. So now, we have to irradiate the carcass, spray the meat with high tech solutions to get rid of a bacteria that wouldn’t be there if we weren’t feeding them corn.

Cheap meat is a myth if you consider the associated public health and environmental costs. The antibiotics that don’t work, the food poisoning, the food safety issues, the hormones in our drinking water, the wasteful use of water and energy, the environmental damage.

At the very least, a sustainable system with no antibiotics would increase the cost 10%, tranlating into a more accurate price for beef.

If we ate less cheap beef and spent more for better quality meat, it would make a huge difference to everyone except for the bad guys in big agri-business. Not to mention that grass fed beef has a healthier fat profile than corn fed beef, with less saturated fat.

To know more, read anything by Michael Pollen, and The Way we Eat, by Jim Mason.

Food karma

As a young girl, I wanted to do something with my life that made a difference, that was important and noble in some way. I’m from a family of missionaries and frugal do-gooders, so as a chef, I have always been racked with guilt, a feeling that maybe feeding rare delicacies to the rich might not qualify. I carried around the following quote for years to help me keep perspective ( “There is no sauce in the world like hunger”).

Trust me, I lost perspective at times. Working your way up the professional food chain requires endless hours of superfluous tasks, turning vegetables into pretty shapes, trussing miniature rabbit racks, witnessing food going to waste. That’s the thing, if you’re good and ambitious, then you push the limits, strive to advance, and that’s where you end up in the gastronomic world. Successful, but almost ridiculous, contemplating that extra layer of flavor or texture to bring an already fancy composition over the top, elaborating foie gras or sweetbreads ten ways. Is that sooo wrong? And how about killing dozens of lobsters a day? That couldn’t be so good for my karma either. Even if I was loving it, I couldn’t help but think about these things.

Ok, so, I didn’t go off to work in soup kitchens or do missionary work in Africa. I came to terms with the relevance of what I do and my place in society. There is no doubt that I have found my calling in fancy pants cooking, and if I try to keep it real, I’ll be Ok, I think . I do believe that all cooks play an important role in the community, especially today. However, there is also no doubt that eating well and treating food as art or a hobby as people in my circles do, is a luxury few can afford.

I figure if we foodies are going to spend so much time thinking and talking about food, the least we can morally do is acknowledge the privelage of it by incorporating some food ethics into the discussion and our daily lives. By bringing abit of smarts to the table, the food only tastes better anyway.

I hate party poopers, but I also hate indifference and hippocracy. Its just not right to be in a position to do something and not, even if its just a little here and there.

If we use our dining out dollar and gossip to promote the right products and people, not only are we assuring a selection of higher quality, healthier and safer food, we are investing in our community, the environment, and the future at the same time. Its a win-win situation. Buying locally and supporting sustainable farming and fishing, as well as choosing organic, eco-friendly and fair trade food only makes sense, be it for freshness and taste or for health reasons, or for the social and environmental impact. And there’s a little less guilt involved knowing we are doing good as we indulge in our foodie activities.

I wrote this piece ages ago, but for whatever reason, never published it.  After a recent visit with Anne, and Jonathan back in my life quite regularly (saving my ass many a Saturday recently at the restaurant), I figured it was time to post this ‘tribute’ to them before it was too dated.  Here's to Anne and my little squirt Jo, two remarkable people who will be in my heart always.. 

My Mentor and My Apprentice

Two extraordinary people

As much as I yearned for one early on, I don’t feel like I ever really had a mentor in the true sense of the word. But I did cross paths with some terrific people, and I cherry picked, gleaning tidbits here and there. Starting with chefs I crossed as a waitress, to my school teachers, namely M.Oliver, and chefs and co-workers, I hung off their every word and studied them. Early on, I kept my mouth shut (most of the time), I listened and I observed. I also took charge and tried to figure things out on my own. I read a ton of books and cooked at home like crazy, constantly taking on new projects and recipes, teaching myself. I really think I learnt more this way than from any other source. Of course, there is no catalyst like the pressure of a hot, busy kitchen full of egos and deadlines; so on the job training undoubtedly counted most. I never made it to France as a cook, but along my modest journey, there were key people at every twist and turn that taught me something important, marking me: Gilles, Philip and Eve, Christophe, Steve, Clinton and Issa, Dominique, Luc and Maddelena, Benjamin, Phil, Manu, and Anne of course.

Anne Desjardins was the closest thing I had to a mentor in my cooking career. When I started at L’Eau, I was already somewhat of an experienced cook with a style of my own, and opinions of my own. I had already created menus and managed etc., but I was definitely rough around the edges, and still am for that matter. But through my experience with Anne and l’Eau, I really grew and matured. It was the result of having a great platform, freedom and trust, and someone to impress, not to mention a good team to feed off. Anne was someone who was accomplished, whom I admired and respected, who could stimulate me and also bring me back to planet earth with a simple look or comment. She had been going for 20 odd years, she was smart, had impeccable taste and we shared a common sense of what good food was. There was a connection; I found it easy to relate to her, to understand what she wanted, we liked many of the same things. I didn’t have to compromise my own ways to carry out her agenda; au contraire, she elevated me. I could finish her thoughts, and she mine; brainstorming with her was invigorating. It was challenging and satisfying, surely because she was generous enough to let me participate, to allow me to be her muse. I never forget how lucky I was to benefit from all her hard work, in working under her name, to have the resources she had gathered, to operate in a bountiful system of regional cuisine she helped develop.

Along with others like Normand Laprise and Daniel Vezina, she was one of the pioneers of Quebec fine cuisine as we know it. In that sense, she was a mentor to many a Quebec cook indirectly, not just me. The New York Times once coined her Quebec ’s Julia Child, she has been awarded the honour of the Order of Quebec for her contribution to Quebec culture. The abundance of quality local products we have access to now is a direct result of their efforts to forge direct relationships with farmers and encourage local artisans. They were also the first wave of home-grown chefs to cook in a creative, proud and modern way, breaking from the tradition of French chefs cooking French classics using imported ingredients. Initially autodidactic, she opened her country bistro with modest aspirations, but was quickly propelled into the world of haute cuisine with her talent and drive. She went on to add the adjoining hotel, travelled to Europe on stages off season, and the accolades and awards came streaming in. L’Eau à la Bouche became one of the first Relais et Chateaux in Canada , and has been a Quebec dining destination since.

Anne is the true model of a passionate chef, a hard worker and an original thinker. She is strong and level headed, generous and fair, and involved in the community. She is curious and courageous, whimsical and creative, but utterly down to earth, and a lover of nature. She has a fine palette, but appreciates the simplest of things. It is the quality of the product, an artisanal perfectly aged cheese, a fresh piece of fish or a perfectly ripe tomato that makes her tick.

It is this appreciation of the product in general, the reverence of quality and freshness, that was her main gift to me. It made me change focus, realizing that the actual cooking and our skills were secondary. Since then, I have tended towards less manipulation, or at least not manipulation for the sake of being fancy or technical. Her pride and devotion towards Quebec regional ingredients is another thing that marked me. Inspired by Alice Waters and co., I was drawn to L’Eau and Anne for that very reason. But once I was actually there, seeing where my food came from, dealing with the farmers, listening to their stories and tasting all this stuff, marvelling at the local harvest of baby vegetables and heirloom varieties, the wild greens and mushrooms, the revelation of it all swept me to a new place as a cook. It went beyond idealism, it slowly became my religion. At first, it was all about freshness - local meant fresh, a small production meant quality control. Soon after though, it came to make so much more sense to me on so many levels. For the sense of community and civic pride, for traceability, for the environment, for a smaller footprint; I was off on this vein in a sprint, it was the only way I wanted to cook ever again.

As you can see, I highly admire and respect Anne for who she is, for what she has done, and am grateful for my time with her at l’Eau. Anne has become even more than a mentor to me, I consider her a friend, a sister and a cohort. I am quite sure that she will hate all this tribute-like saccharine discourse, but what the hell, I wanted you to know. I hope you liked meeting Anne if you don’t already know her, and I raise my glass to her.

You can see Anne on her weekly Tv clip on Par dessus le Marché on TVA, also this summer on Pour le Plaisir on Radio Canada TV, or visit the restaurant hotel spa, her legacy which she now shares with her son Manu who leads the brigade at the stoves.. http://www.leaualabouche.com/

Anne and me at L'Eau

My apprentice, Jonathan Pelletier, is another story. He wasn’t necessarily looking for a mentor when we met, but he got one. I call him Little Squirt or P’tit cul, well because he is both. He is a 22 year old with blue hair. He was 17 when he started at l’Eau, a punk fresh out of school from small town Québec. He had never tasted anything exotic, no fresh herbs besides parsley, no spice or wild mushrooms or foie gras, nor most fish and seafood, not even pork tenderloin (and his father was a pig farmer). I had a true virgin here. Judging from his textbook knowledge, I don’t think he attended too many of his classes either. Obviously though, his teacher had seen something in him to have sent him to l’Eau.

He was indeed very bright and quick, and despite his lack of experience, he impressed me from the get go. Six months in, he had already moved to hot. But by then, he was already getting comfortable, and starting to get cocky. From that moment on, it was a bittersweet struggle.

He was sharp, talented and could do just about anything, but you had to give him the occasional kick in the butt. I constantly gave him a hard time, as well pats on the back and pep talks. I would tell him to push himself to be the best he could for himself, not for the guys, not for money, not for me. I wanted him to go home to read books and cook some more. I could only imagine what kind of a career he could have starting at such a tender age.

I continued to invest loads of energy into whipping him into shape. He continued to please and surprise me, but also to infuriate me because I never felt like he was realizing his full potential. Instead of going home to read Escoffier, he was smoking joints and sliding down ski hills in the dark on real estate signs with other 20 year olds. He was young, I would tell myself. Eventually, I had to let go somewhat. As long as he didn’t smoke too much weed, and came in on his game, I accepted that I should let him be a kid. I still nagged him and explained things to him in great length both in and out of the kitchen, I totally mothered him. He went on to work all the stations, he got his red seal, and he did mature somewhat, I am very proud of him. But I doubt he will go on to be a ground-breaking chef..  Although he does love it and is great at it, he doesn’t have that consuming inner drive and passion for cooking that is required; in fact, he has since taken up graphic design. Sigh. (His company Epynord - they do websites and design for restaurants, is now booming.. http://www.epynord.com).

Nevertheless, he is a great cook who needs his fix on the line, and the best assistant a girl could have. He helps me once and while today, and it’s the best. He gets so much done, and executes so nicely. If I want a perfect brunoise or a clear consommé, better him than me. We don’t have to say much during service, everything goes smoothly, and I feel like I’m on vacation. I can trust him with just about anything, because I’ve drilled my ways into him, so that he does everything just how I like it. He even tastes like I do. He knows whether I will want a touch of salt or acid or spice. He spots anything that doesn’t make sense, a missing garnish, or something that is superfluous. But on the other hand, you can count on him to call me on anything if I haven’t practiced what I’ve preached, like not deglazing or straining, or if I don’t chop the chives finely enough. The brat. Sometimes, I feel like I’ve created a nit-picky monster. That’s Ok, it is good to be kept on your toes. I believe in reason and dialogue, fairness and coherence. Nothing is black and white, and so I still spend my time explaining the grey to him.

Nowadays, I don’t like my chives chopped too fine, I’m no longer in a Relais et Chateaux, and I find that mincing them denatures them. So there kiddo, I tell him, you don’t know it all yet, and neither do I. Although there are some basic truths and the primary principles are primordial, the rest is fluid, and context can change everything. It’s good to be precise, and have reference points, but you have to stay open minded, while being critical. This is the kind of thing I always tried to instil in him while teaching him how to cook a lobster or finish a sauce. I can’t help but think I sounded like my philosophy teacher in college, in whose class everyone snoozed away but me. However, I do like to think some of it was soaked up through osmosis.

Another bonus about my little squirt is that he fixes things (very handy), and he cracks me up. He is francophone and not fluent in English. However, be it from the Simpsons, the odd commercial or from being around fellow anglo cooks over the years, he has picked up all kinds of hilarious expressions, and he knows just when to use them. Although he can’t carry on a proper conversation in English, he has the perfect line, joke or jingle for every situation, and has impeccable timing, for better or for worse. He could even get me giggling when I was fuming at a critical moment during service at l’Eau. Trust me, not many people can unwind a wound-up soupnancy. Did I mention that he also gives a good massage?

All in all, he’s a fine cook, and a good kid. Like a mother who must accept that her straight A son wants to join the circus instead of going to med school, I have to let him do his thing and hope he’ll be happy. As long as he can come and chop my chives every now and again.

My Specimen Pete

by Nancy Hinton

(Food writing 2006)

I first met Pete ten years ago. He didn’t seem so odd, actually quite the opposite, he was a very stereotypical, well-bred Westmount boy, very “normal” for a tête carée. He liked his beef well done, and little else, certainly nothing green or strange looking. And so, the adventure started.

It began innocently, I just felt that he should try a certain menu item so that as a waiter he could describe it. I wanted him to appreciate what we were doing so that he could sell it. When I saw who I was dealing with, I knew I’d have to take it up a notch. He wasn’t the waiter who was ever going to kiss the kitchen’s ass, taste everything, ooh and ahh, no matter what I did. No, he would just turn up his nose. Infuriating.

I tried everything, from open assault, to secret trickery, anything to trip him up, to inadvertantly woo him, to open his mind. He was a tough case. It took years of camraderie and cajoling for him to even try his meat a little more pink. But we got him there, and then the tables turned. Slightly.

If he hadn’t married one of my best friends, I probably would have let the story die there. I certainly wouldn’t have bothered with him any longer. I wouldn’t have had the patience to follow his progress, let alone document it. I would have let my guinea pig continue to pace back and forth in the first leg of the maze, frustrated to not see him want to make it further, but resigned to his unadventurous nature. What did it really matter, I wasn't married to him.  Nonetheless, I never gave up hope. I stuck it out, and with the help of many others, one day, we made it to the point where he was eating pork and salad that wasn’t iceberg.

I was always the type who felt the need to convert any picky eater. Tell me you didn’t like something, and I would make it how many ever ways it took to convince you otherwise. I did it with Bob with eggplant, with my family with lamb, with Ange with olives, with Jonathan with mushrooms, with dozens of people with coriander, or with tartare.... I felt like I had that power, even if it might have been more determination than actual cooking skills, but still, I could always do it. However, my specimen Pete made me feel powerless. As soon as he saw me coming over with all my wierdo foodie stuff, he would set off to make himself peanut butter sandwiches. I came close to throwing in the towel.

But there were a few victories here and there, and they kept me going for a while longer. He would love an amuse or a certain side dish – yay! He would gobble up my duck rillettes, and just when I thought I had him nailed, he would put up a new wall, and outright refuse to taste the foie gras sandwich everyone else was raving about. (And this was well before there was any media driven morality about foie gras). Not that Pete is all about morals anyway.

Eventually, I gave up trying to seduce him. Conspiring with his wife, we just decided to lie, which I’m sure she was already good at. It was all about the wording. Don’t mention salmon, even if the trout resembles salmon. Don’t mention that there is rabbit, just say chicken, don’t mention the cheese in the stuffing or the mushrooms in the sauce. Even though my menu was intricate, if Pete was in the room, it was simple, no worries, nothing exotic going on here.

The years went by. We left him alone more or less. And the funny thing is, when we weren’t looking, he slowly grew up. He now samples most things with a more open mind, he eats his steak medium rare, enjoys pork, veal, venison, even caribou! (Ok, that he didn’t know... or pretended not to anyway.) He has developed a taste for certain species of fish like tilapia, he loves sushi. He can appreciate a lobster boil Harrington Harbor style, he’s not far away from cheese fondue. Baby steps.... there’s hope for him yet. I can’t wait to see what kind of pancakes he will be making on Pancake Saturdays with the girls in twenty years.

Raw food

Nancy Hinton (Food writing 2005)

Food not heated beyond 38C.. just about body temperature. For most, that means no meat or fish, but also, no pasta, no bread, no cake; we’re talking raw fruit and vegetables and nuts. In the hands of creative chefs, it can get slightly more interesting, with zesty vinaigrettes, even pseudo cooked things like pie crust using dehydration, curing, and a lot of effort.

When I first got wind of this, I was intrigued, read all I could, let it influence my cooking somewhat, and shortly after, moved on. It didn’t grab me. I wondered if it would others. This wasn’t a trend I wanted to take over, but I would wait and see. Years later, I can fairly say that it never took the gastronomic world by storm; nonetheless, it is still there. I still bump into the odd raw foodist, either a diehard, or someone new to the idea, enchanted with yet another “new” diet. The striking thing is how overzealous raw foodists are. They’ve seen the light, and want to convert you.

From what the advocates say, it is the ultimate lifestyle. If you listen to them, these born again eaters who feel great all the time, eating raw seems so natural and righteous. Then why does it feel so wrong to me? After a little scrutiny, no wonder. All the claims, the basic premise even, don’t stand up scientifically. All the nonsense about enzymes, the killing of nutrients, the toxins created in cooking, amounts to a few kernels of truth taken out of context and supplemented with a bunch of hogwash.... In fact, we derive more nutrition and energy from cooked food, which is likely why we evolved that way, because it was to our advantage back when surviving was a little tougher.

As an eater, what turns me off raw food the most, first of all, is all the rules. I feel like I have enough rules to abide by in my life. So, when it comes to one of my most basic pleasures, I just don’t want to limit myself that much for no good reason. It would take more substantial moral or rational backing than that. And I have no practice at that anyway, I’m not Muslim or Jewish or fat, I’ve never had to pass up a piece of bacon. If I could really believe that it was more virtuous, than maybe, but how? By saving energy? Because it’s no fun?

As a cook, raw food disturbs me, because well, there wouldn’t be much to my job without the cooking. I suppose I would sweat a lot less not spending my days in a 40C kitchen. Come to think of it, just pulling the food out of the fridge on a hot day in the kitchen might be breaking the temperature rule.

No, the main thing for me, is that not cooking your food takes all the sensuous fun out of the process. You’re depriving yourself of all the seductive aromas and satisfying textures that only come from heat. Instead, you need to come up with all these contrived methods to coax out a minimal amout of flavor and texture, all for something that tastes less good, and that makes you fart. I like a challenge, but I’m not a masochist, not when it comes to food anyway.

For me, the raw food movement, like all new trends and techniques, is appealing in that it provides an interesting mental exercise. In exploring new ideas, you open your mind to new approaches to what you do, which is only beneficial. Like with molecular gastronomy, I’m inclined to dabble, learn a few tricks. But, I’m seeking illumination, which this has very little of, not a new religion.

There are a few restaurants around, even high-end ones with matching wine programs, that specialize in raw food. Cru in Montreal has a very imaginative, appealing menu; cudos to them for their menu, and for being so courageous. I guess there is room for one raw food emporium in our city. Hey, I might even try it one day. What the hell, I love salad, vegetables, carpaccio and oysters. I might be even be able to get on that kind of diet for a couple of weeks.. in summer.

The truth is, I wouldn’t last long in a raw food world. You would have to shoot me. Don’t take away the heady aroma of freshly baked bread, the pull and crunch of a good crust, the primal pleasure of a seared chop, a caramelized onion.... or the soft, satisying luxury of mashed potatoes or roasted eggplant.

I love the bright, green taste of a fresh tomato, the crunch of raw fennel in a salad, and I love tartare. But I equally love the warm comfort and complexity of stewed tomatoes, slowly braised fennel, and osso bucco especially on a cold day. Why dehydrate a potato when you can simmer it in broth? Why hang garlic over the stove for 12 hours to try to soften it, when you can just throw it in the oven for 1?. Why soak almonds when you can toast them? Why eat raw carrots or mushrooms or zucchini when you can roast them? How about artichokes, no artichokes?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m a strong believer in pure food. Overly processed food is in no one’s interest. But we cook our food carefully, we make it more palatable, more interesting, and we derive more nourishment and pleasure from it. And we’re better for it. The idea that things in their natural state are inherently better is false anyway. Many things are toxic in their pure form and only reveal their benefits (to us) once transformed. Plants have a built-in mechanism to harm their predator, and they will harm us we don’t use our intelligence to take advantage of that by cooking them when need be. It just allows us to have a more varied diet, which is commonly what stands out in studies as being most healthy.

All in all, raw food as a rule is just not for me. I say eat whatever you want, start a movement if you want, just don’t take the moral high road.

The Nightmare

Nancy Hinton, Food writing 2006

You know what I mean… the worst case scenario of what ever it is that you do in life. When everything goes awry, and all your worst fears come true. In the restaurant business, when any given minute, so much can go wrong, whether you’re a manager, waiter or cook, hell is always on the horizon. Maybe it’s because we brush with disaster so frequentlly, that the fear is so real, and the nightmare so common. We’re talking stress dreams here, I’m sure many people have them, not only in the restaurant business. Neurosurgeons and air traffic controllers, even politicians, face more daunting stress levels than we do, but they are likely a less emotional, volatile bunch. Who knows, they probably have them too. If you’re someone who takes your job seriously, and brings your work home, you’re bound to either suffer bouts of insomnia and dreams relating to work when you finally do nod off.

In any case, that’s me, whether I’m stressed or not. In university, I had the never-ending, impossible math problem that I tried to solve all night. When I was a waitress, it was food hitting the floor, drinks spilling on people, customers walking out, others going into anaphylactic shock. The restaurant was always full with a line-up, no food coming out of the kitchen, everyone calling my name. As a chef, it’s still about the food hitting the floor and everyone calling my name, but also supplies not arriving, fingers getting cut off, mutiny among the brigade, and detrimental reviews. And always with the sound of the chit machine spewing out an endless number of orders, and we can never keep up. At the ever busy Tavern, that sound plagued me, it was always there in the background.

The nightmare takes on many forms, but generally, it goes like something like this. You’re putting out a table of eight, and the last dish comes out late while the other dishes have been waiting, the waiters are tapping their heels, but then catastrophically, it hits the floor and splatters, and it was your last piece of fish. Now you have to tell the customer you don’t have the fish he’s been waiting for for 30min, and all the other dishes have to be redone. The backlog of orders behind will suffer, everyone’s timing is off, everyone is steamed. And this is only the beginning. When you collided with the dishwasher and lost your fish, a glass was knocked over, falling into your MEP. Normal activity has to come to a halt, glass is serious business, all of it is garbage. You have to suddenly rechop your shallots, whip up an aioli, slice some procuitto, starting with the things you need now for this order... you will have to think about the rest later which is a scary thought, because if that isn’t in two minutes, you’re screwed, other tables are waiting. The team goes into crises mode, and those who can help, do. Your mate is nice enough to leave his station and run off to slice you some proscuitto, he slices his finger off, he can’t work for a few minutes (if he’s a tough one) while someone else sets him up with a make-shift bandage, the board is full, and the kitchen is flooding. You step through the puddle, trying to catch up a bit and pump out another order once that one is fired, but you forget about the garlic allergy, it goes out. A salad comes back because someone found a bolt in it (what the f..k!, must be from the fridge...who knows), give the gardemanger crap, make another one, comp wine. A customer has to leave because he’s not feeling well.. shit, the garlic! A plate of oysters comes back, and I can smell it coming..how did that make it to the table? Hit the gardemanger over the head again. Meanwhile the first dessert orders are coming in, and we suddenly realize that the freezer isn’t working, the ice creams are soft, the sorbets have separated. Nothing is coming out of the kitchen, the maitre d’ is freaking out. An oblivious VIP wants a tour of the kitchen, you smile and pretend everything is cool, but can’t do it, you flip out and get fired. On and on.

Or it’s 5pm on a fully booked night, and your fish order hasn’t arrived, it’s a new menu night and everyone is scrambling, the dishwasher has called in sick, everything you taste is not right... You want to yell at everyone. Or could it be your tastebuds? Take a deep breath, have another coffee. The coffee doesn’t taste right, alert the manager, not your problem, tell him there is no time for staff meal tonight, order pizza. He’s upset, fuck it. Showtime is approaching and nothing is ready, you have to pull it together, but you can’t. Then, all the customers show up at the same time, early, and order the not yet tweaked tasting menu, along with umpteen special orders. This night will be hell. On and on.

Some nights, the dreams aren’t so bad. On a good night, I just slice smoked salmon all night very methodically and perfectly, to a nice beat. Or I just roll dough or make ravioli all night. Or I like to chop fragrant herbs with a knife that never dulls. Those are the best dreams, so relaxing, so Zen. Otherwise, the only break I get is with a drunken stupor.

It’s not so bad now with my life here in the sticks. I occasionally wake up to someone dying of mushroom intoxication or François and I strangling eachother or the weak, non-commercial hood blowing up in flames. But now that I’m writing, it’s more likely that I am rewriting or editing a piece all night, and I write whole new pieces that I remember segments of the next day. I guess I was just meant to work by night.

As far as the cooking dreams go, I think they probably make me a better cook, by making me more prepared, motivating me to take more precautions so that the nightmare doesn’t become reality. So far, it has served me well I think, because although all of the above mentioned mishaps really did happen, they weren’t all at once, they were quite few and far between, and ressolved promptly, with no one walking out or getting fired or dying on the spot. I do believe too that a really good cook works with this underlying fear, or at least a constant humbling respect for the wild nature of the business, of the unknown. And as one of my first chefs told me, with all the details to attend to, a good cook needs a little fire under the ass, a certain anxiousness inorder to rise above it all. Of course, getting a good night’s sleep is important for anyone’s performance, so again, it’s all about balance. As long as I have the odd gravelax dream, I reckon I’ll be ok.