The Changing of the Guard: Tradition - Evolution - Innovation

Apprentice. Journeyman. Master. Not only are they a measure of a craftsman’s skill, they are also an institutionalized methods of learning.  The apprentice learns first through observation, then by mimicking and practice, and finally having mastered one thing, moves on to the next. This method of teaching our craft has existed for hundreds of years and continues to this day. Even the greats of my generation learnt how to cook this way. These traditions are a way of life. A means of passing on the accumulated knowledge of the ages to the next generation so that they can take up their banner and replace them. Much as a proud father and mother pass the torch to their sons and daughters. The problem with this type of learning is that due to the very rigid and structured nature, questioning and innovation are not encouraged. Why do we do something in a particular way? Because it has always been done this way, and always will be. Through repetition and rote. Do not question, do not deviate. One omelette, two omelettes, three hundred omelettes.

Lost In Translation - Part I - Saute, Sauteuse, Sautoir

When I was asked to explain the whole saute pan versus frying pan issue it seemed at first to be a rather simple thing. However, the topic itself raised a whole other series of questions for me. Why are there so many french terms used in english speaking kitchens? Why do we even use them instead of our own unique words? What led to french labels and techniques dominating the globe and spreading as far and as wide as it does today? Subsequent Lost In Translation articles will explore the culinary history and evolution of french cooking as well as it’s impact on cuisines around the world. However, let’s first look at the subject that kicked off this series of articles. The saute, sauteuse and sautoir.

The imperial pudding and cups affair

All this talk about imperial and metric measurements reminds me of a story. So sit back, grab something to drink and let me tell you about the imperial pudding and cups affair.

It's my second night at the restaurant and I'm still greener than the parsley they're chopping up for garnish. Hell, I'm still trying to duck the embarrassment of my first night where I popped out of the changing room all eager and ready to go, chefs jacket crisply pressed and gleaming white, clogs are polished to a marine sergeant's shine and I'm the only idiot with his apron looped around his neck like I'm Regis about to taste Emeril's shrimp gumbo in the studio kitchen. I walked up to my chef and the entire line across from the pass dropped dead silent as all the cooks looked at me like my head was sprouting a talking daffodil. If you want to know how to properly tie and apron what you do is fold the apron with the lower half in the front and the top in the back at the tie strings. You then make 2 folds the width of your 4 closed fingers fingers forward towards the bottom of the apron. Put against your waist, loop the strings around behind you and then tie in front then tuck it under the fold you made, TA-DA!!

The Craft of Cooking

"Craft. It doesn't arrive on your doorstep, wrapped neatly, or bubblewrap protected. It doesn't arrive. Ever."

Chef Shuna Lydon wrote those words a few days ago. She is someone I very much admire and respect. More than a chef, she is in it for the cause, and believes to her core in what we do. Cook. Create. Nourish. Guide. Teach.

Cooking is not mysticism. It is not art. It is, at it's core, a craft. A calling. A vocation. Electrician, plumber, mechanic, chef. Anyone can learn to cook elegantly, simply, professionally. You only need the right values and attitude to see you along the journey. Dedication, loyalty, integrity. Skills can be taught, they can be learnt but your values cannot. Who you are never changes. You cannot learn integrity. You cannot understand dedication if you do not possess it. Loyalty is pure blind faithful devotion. These are part and parcel of you. Engraved, instilled and set out to breathe in the decanter of you. Are you trustworthy? Are you dependable? Are you reliable? Can you be counted upon? Will you be there when the kitchen gets slammed and everyone is sinking further and further into the weeds? Will you look out only for yourself or will you throw a lifeline to the person next to you. It has been said that half of life is merely showing up.

Beginnings

The night is cool. The sort of fresh crisp and sharp air you'd expect of an autumn night. I'm desperately trying to  navigate through the dark streets in unfamiliar territory. I'm already late and beginning to worry when I find it. La Taverne. I quickly find parking and hurry along down to the restaurant.

La Taverne is located on a corner of a four way intersection in a trendy part of town. The muted lighting reflecting off the burnished mahoghany tables give it a warm inviting glow as I approach. Passing the two-story high pane glass windows towards the entrance I can see that it's crowded. Standing room only. The black clad servers carrying trays of hors d'oeuvres and champagne glide through the throngs of people in their little knots of conversation. A guitarist and someone playing an upright bass are sending out waves of smooth jazz that mix with the constant murmur of conversation. It's a gala. I've never been to a gala before, or rather, not anything that I could accurately describe as a gala. They're pretty claustrophobic affairs, and already I'm not liking it. I walk up the short flight of stairs, weaving between people and make my way to the main floor and try to track down anyone that looks like they are there in some sort of official capacity. It's hopeless. There are just too many people. I eventually manage to catch the attention of the bartender.

Throwing out the horns

Taking the leap. There's at once a certain dreaminess thinking about what you're passionate about. Sort of like planning what you'd do with all the money if you won the lottery. Then there is the cold reality of actually making a decision to change part of your life. I put off calling Chef C for a whole weekend, then finally screwed up my courage and just dialed the numbers off the hastily scrawled and smudged numbers on the notepad I always keep tucked in my back pocket.

"uhm...hello?" I asked.

All I can hear is the very loud buzz of people in a bar full swing at happy hour. The murmur of people all talking at once, the clink of glasses and liquids being poured. There's nothing but that for a while then someone says something on the other end. I can't hear them properly over the din of the crowd, and I don't understand a thing.

"Hello?" I asked again, then suddenly there is quiet.