Every day I work, I begin and end my day with the same little ritual. It's more a custom; a tradition really. I spend the first and last few moments of every shift looking over the specials board. I take the time, habitually, in no small part to satisfy my narcissism. Sure, I read it over at night to make sure I've ordered the foods I need and written all the jobs to be done down on my prep list. I scan it again to make sure I haven't missed anything and to note any changes that need to be made. Mostly, I peruse the board twice daily solely to admire my handiwork, to fluff my pride. I love looking over all the dishes, visualizing how they look when plated, thinking, as I often do when I serve food, how pleased I would be if I were served any one of those meals. It is pure vainglory. I'm OK with that. As I've said more than once, a disproportionate sense of self-worth is a prerequisite for being a chef. Nothing new there. What might be news is that, if I read my specials board to satisfy my ego, I write my specials board to satiate my appetite.
Fraiiiiiiid Chickin
Tools of the Trade
I have no lack of self-confidence in the kitchen. Anyone who knows me will attest. When I don my “whites,” there is no culinary feat I'll balk at, regardless of actual skill. My chef's jacket is like a coat of pure, cotton hubris. Amongst the many boasts that “You'll never see anyone cook quite as fast as this.” or “At least you'll never see anyone look quite as good doing it.” I have been known to assert that I could cook a restaurant quality meal in any kitchen. I mean any kitchen, with any tools. Give me a tiny, single-burner camp stove, a tin can, and enough time, and I will give you coq au vin. Such is the faith I have in my own abilities.
Purple Pavement
It is easy to forget, living in some cities, about the life of plants. L.A., for example, is nearly unbroken concrete from the sea to the spot where the vast, inland suburbs finally break up and dissolve back into the great desert the whole thing is built on. There is, to be fair, an occasional palm tree, and the odd patch of lawn, but in general, green space is hard to come by. Apart from the odd rosemary hedge, a few bulbs of wild fennel in a vacant lot, and one avocado tree, I can't remember seeing much in the way of edible plants growing in Los Angeles. Even here in Sydney, a city not without it's own urban sprawl, it is easy to forget about the things which grow. To be completely honest, Sydney is a beautiful city, full of parks, roads lined with giant trees, carefully landscaped and gardened median strips. There is plenty of green. It's just easy to overlook when you are navigating traffic, looking for your turn, or trying to flag down a bus. It's easy, in other words, to become distracted.
That is, until someone points out purple pavement.
On Bad Chefs
“You can learn a lot from a bad chef.” A head chef of mine once told me that. He was not, I assumed, referring to himself, as he was quite a good chef. Beyond that, I wasn't quite sure what he was talking about, but I was still new enough about the game to be afraid of admitting I didn't understand, and therefore look like an idiot. For the record, I'm no longer afraid of looking like an idiot from time to time (some might suggest I excel at it). At any rate, it took me a few years to figure out what he meant, or what I think he meant. Honestly, there are at least two ways of interpreting his statement, and I'd find it difficult to choose which was his true intent. I'll explain.
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