Mother's Daze

Saturday - Night before the Main Event

11:34pm



The Bistro has two main dining events per year. Those outside of catering gigs, at least. The first of which is Valentine's day and the second is Mother's Day. These two days are obligatory treat-yer-loved-ones-well type dining experiences regardless of how much, or little, money you might have in that bank account.



The week prior to Mother's Day was spent planning and prepping, prepping ....more prepping. As of Saturday afternoon the restaurant is booked to capacity at 220 people spread over five hours, 9am til 2pm. Daniel is now taking names and putting them on a waiting list. If you stroll in with Mom at 11:45 that Sunday morning sans rezzo yer screwed, pal. Go take a number at Denney's and wait alongside the rest of the desperate, sweaty masses languishing on squeaky, pleather benches.



I have never worked a Sunday brunch at Taste of Brittany much less the sound and fury of a Mother's Day. I prep Saturday night making mash potatoes, peeling carrots and chopping zee veggee'table. We prepped twice the amount of food necessary to accomplish 220 plus. They typically do about 100 on any given Sunday. Battle stations are set, mis en place is done and we schlep toward the back door and out into the cool Stockton night. Francois, who lives in Tracy, about 30 minutes away, stays in a guest bedroom at my house that night. I only live four blocks away. We stay up a little while longer eating aged gouda with brioche he made earlier that day sipping a lovely petite chablis. We will be getting up at 5:45am to be at the bistro by 6:30am.



The alarm goes off at 5:45am and I am jolted out of what had been a very satisfying r.e.m. state of sleep. It is a hideous time to have to get up under any circumstance. I shower quickly then go down stairs to get the French press pressing with freshly ground, Italian roast beans. One must maintain a level of civility in these circumstances. I make two small cheese omelets and we coffee up and move toward the Bistro.



The dishwasher, Maria, is there waiting at the back gate as we arrive. We quietly shuffle through and back toward the rear of the kitchen. Cooking in a restaurant is not unlike a sporting event. It is physically demanding as well as psychologically demanding. You've got to show up, hit your mark, and damn well make sure you entertain the hoi polloi who are paying good money to eat what you are producing. You HAVE TO CARE or it will show in the meals you make. Something as simple as a sloppy, wilted piece of parsley adorning an otherwise well made plate of food sends a message. Devil be in yer details, boy. Check your bullshit at the door and cook well.



I light the fire-breathing ovens, the burners and flat-top as well as the steam table but not the grill or fry-o-lator. I haul out cases of eggs and literally get cracking. Each case of eggs has 96 eggs in it and I crack EVERY one. At certain intervals I am running the eggs over to the Kitchen-Aid to churn for a while then transfer to a separate holding vessel. These will be used to make scrammies. Chef has two cases of his own off to the side of the line to make his egg's benedict. He has made a fresh hollandaise sauce and after I crack 384 eggs I begin cutting English muffins. These go on four large trays to toast for 5 minutes in the belly of the beast. You must set a timer for EVERYTHING because you will be doing many other things in the interim and you WILL forget..... 'Roussel, why don't you set zee timeer?!?' uhhhh.......



9am

I am fully awake and feel good. Everything that needed to get done has come together - bring on Mama! We get the first wave of people coming in beginning at 9am, around 46 ppl, and we have trays of bacon and sausages ready to go. Eggs for the benedict are percolating in a perforated pan filled with boiling water. The flat top has cubes of potatoes with finely julienned onion and red and green bell peppers on one side and scrammies spread out on the other. Chef and I perform a series of pirouettes around the line to avoid checking each other into anything hot or sharp. I have a large metal spatula that I use to flip and rotate the potatoes and another I use to corral the scrammies on the flat-top.



Everything seems to be going well when Francois notices that his hollandaise is starting to show little dark flecks, it's beginning to burn. He demands a chinois NOW! (A chinois is a conical sieve) Get a fresh pan and STRAIN that sauce a la minute!! It goes through and comes out just as speckled as it had been before. MERD!!! Chef unceremoniously tosses the chinois with ruinous sauce trailing behind into a large, metal sink adjacent our dear little dishwasher, Maria, startling her slightly. He quickly makes a whole new batch and is back on the line. A good chef is not one who cooks well in the best of circumstances, necessarily. A good chef takes a disaster and turns it around in the middle of the busiest day of the year.



Is it 2pm yet?? I am racing to keep up with the enormous amount of utensils, pans and kitchen accoutrement that pile up with astonishing speed. Keeping certain areas clear of clutter and wiped-down is essential to orderly cooking. In any circumstance, even if you think you need to proceed to that next dish. STOP, CLEAR AND WIPE. The disorder will eventually catch up with you and you will cross the event horizon of chaos getting irretrievably sucked into a vortex of shame and horror.



At about 2:25 it all stops. The last tables were seated at 2pm and we are sending out the last of our monumental culinary efforts to appreciative mothers and their offspring. The day had gone pretty well. Toward the end of service we ran out of eggs despite the enormous number already cracked and whipped. Daniel went down to the local Save Mart and got several dozen to cover us. Several regulars came in without calling ahead. Some were accommodated in the bar... and at the bar. One regular customer raised his voice at Daniel when he informed him he really did need a reservation. He was most likely projecting his anger on to Daniel for his own failure at providing a smooth and trouble free day for his dear Mom.



I began the cleaning process which lasted about two and half hours. Every cell in my body had given its due diligence. I stopped thinking and was merely doing toward the end hurdling headlong toward the mythical finish-line. In reality my experience the previous four weeks at the Bistro had been preparing me for this one day.



Dedicated to my dear Mother, Judy Balch.



Love,

Russ

Get the Led Out

Two weeks later I'm shod in new black, open-heeled and very comfy Croc's gliding across a kitchen I am beginning to now own. At a certain point, not sure when, I stopped pausing, thinking and asking "stupeed question" and am now doing instinctively. By 5pm setup is prepped and my mis en place is chopped, whipped and assembled adjacent the line. Mis en place (meez ahn plahs) is a French term that literally means 'everything in its place'. More specifically it is your prep. It is the accumulation of ingredients, chopped parsley, shallots, demi-glace, etc., that carry you through a service.



I get 4 fluffy towels -4 towels ONLY - keep linen and laundry service costs down. I wet 2 towels to wipe down surfaces and reserve 2 and keep them DRY throughout service. Dry towels are necessary to grab various SEARINGLY hot metal objects on and around the line. Wet towels conduct heat much more than dry ones and NEVER grab a pan with a bare hand. That pan has likely been in a 500 degree, fire-breathing convection oven (x 2) and on or near a six burner stove that is on HIGH during the entire service. I have grabbed what seemed an innocuous looking pan-handle only to rear back with a bolt of pain that shoots up my arm and straight to the roots of my teeth. It is a highly unpleasant surprise. Francois does it every once in awhile. He invariably shoots me a dirty look with a terse, "move zeez!".... oui, Chef!! Chef is NEVER wrong. Pots, pans and metal trays build up quickly in the battle-like conditions of a busy service. It is my job to move them to the dishwasher... as soon as fucking possible.



I get a slightly euphoric feeling right before service. My meez is top-notch and the kitchen is humming with a latent heat that is about to come to a roiling boil. Surfaces are wiped down and the kitchen, for a time, is looking sharp. Francois is usually feeling giddy and mock critiquing some aspect of my setup. We now enjoy engaging in banter that is faux-macho-bullshit. The time honored tradition of busting chops. He likes to tell me I am a useless American. I let him know if it wasn't for us he'd be speaking German. Francois is fifty eight years old and puts in hard days. I respect him for his dedication to cooking well, working hard and NEVER letting something leave his kitchen that he feels is sub-standard. He busts his ass and doesn't complain.. too much. I like Francois a lot.



From five to seven it's appie time. Get the fried calamari to the 'happy hour' folks in the bar and pate, made in-house, oysters and escargot out to the early-bird diners in the main room. By 7pm the tickets are stacking up. We have a small 'jam-box' that sits near the line and is crusted over with flour, oil and other kitchen detritus. Chef has a penchant for classic Rock-n-Roll and we are tuned in to 104.1 , The Hawk, classic rock station. We are both big fans of classic rock so this arrangement works out well. At exactly 7pm they put on a program dedicated to playing a solid set of Led Zeppelin songs called 'Get the Led Out'. The pulse of Kashmir or Black Dog adds an intensity to the chaos of a kitchen that is, in many respects, already a mosh pit.

On The Line

Saturday Evening - 7:45PM

Temperature on the line reads 120 degrees Fahrenheit

'Boilin'... bakin'.... you could could fry an egg on my stomach..... '
-Sexy Beast





I really like the fact that I have yet to open a can of anything at the bistro. Chef buys everything in bulk and we break it down to its component parts, denature it and put it into the context of something that resembles a meal.



This last week we had a catering gig that Daniel was putting on for a Catholic church here. It was a birthday for someone important with around 160 people. This was $24 a head and included salad, bread, butter and CHICKEN CORDON BLEU.

Cordon Bleu Prep
Chef tells me to go into the cooler and get chicken breasts. Take the jambon de fume (smoked ham) and gruyere cheese, both in bulk.

Instructions: Go to the slicer and slice thin, but not too thin, ham and cheese x 160.

Trim the chicken breasts and WEIGH them, no more than 6 oz per filet.

Make a slice on the side such that you can STUFF the cheese and ham, rolled up into the cavity - TIGHT... (non, non, non. not tight enough,!!! Like zeees! ...tuck, fold, PRESS!!!)

Lay out filets on large sheet pans. Get an elongated metal pan with flour, salt and pepper. Make an egg-wash and third pan fill with cornmeal.

Three steps: Dredge chicken breast with four, then egg-wash and into the cornmeal keeping one hand DRY and one hand WET - not easy to maintain - fingers start to look like little cornmeal stalactites. Constantly sifting the cornmeal to get out all of the bits of eggwash that have accumulated.

Prepped chickens back on to the sheet pans. DO THIS 160 TIMES - Chef fries 'em up.

If you ever had illusions of swanning around in yer sparkly white chef's coat... you tend to lose these delusions around the 200th potato you've peeled that day. I will say however cooking on the line during a dinner rush is, well, a rush. An adrenaline fueled, heaving, seething rush to get the food, to customers, as good and consistently as possible. Make it so and do it EVERY TIME.

Chef, being a French Chef, is prone to cook foods near and dear to his little Frenchy soul. Nothing warms the cockles of his heart like daily specials of braised pig's feet, cassoulet and most recently sweetbreads. Sweetbreads are neither sweet, necessarily, nor is it bread... as in bread'n butter. They are innards. Most often the thymus gland, usually of a cow, or the pancreas, heart, etc., but never the brain. The term 'sweet' is relative here. These little meaty jewels have a more delicate taste and are 'sweeter', if you will, than the more direct, savory flavors that come from muscle flesh. The word bread or old English 'braed' meant flesh, at least, according to Google. I ask Francois these questions but he simply shrugs his shoulders and waves his tongs or big spoon and tells me to go "chop some veggee'table".

Franglish

Recently the luxury goods company, Remy Cointreau USA, with whom I have been employed as a wine manager for the last six years decided to shed a number of their wine brands. They also decided to put those people associated with their wine portfolio in the rear view mirror. Just last week, and coincidentally, I was presented with an opportunity I couldn't pass up. Cook alongside a real French chef for one month. So I'll learn a few other moves in the kitchen and keep myself occupied. Have a little fun along the way.

I have been a patron and good friend of a French bistro called, Taste of Brittany, for the last year. The irony of this name makes for many bawdy, yet lame, jokes referencing that other Britney. The owner, Daniel, is a guy around forty six years old and is originally from Bretagne (Brittany). He is a mild mannered guy seemingly shy and retiring until you find out he used to be the slaughterhouse manager at a duck and goose farm here called Grimaud. He describes with an odd and somewhat cold detachment his days overseeing the demise of many, many water fowl, frequently dispatching them himself. I understand this is what happens before I enjoy my Christmas goose or lovely, crispy slice of duck. It still creeps me out.

The Chef, Francois, in his late 50's hails from somewhere North of Paris. He is as gregarious and fun loving as Daniel is quiet and reserved. Francois used to have his own restaurant in San Francisco called La Cave. He tends to treat Taste of Brittany as if it were his own restaurant which means he works as hard if not harder than Daniel. He also tends to outshine his master which creates some tension and a bit of jealousy. Francois loves food, anything with alcohol in it and pretty, female patrons. Especially the ones who congregate at the bar. The bar is adjacent the kitchen and you can frequently find Francois sneaking out the side door of the kitchen to peruse that nights action. The University of the Pacific is just down the street so provides Chef with an abundance of giggly coeds to charm with his spot-on, cartoonishly charming French accent. He has pasty-white skin, bad teeth and sketchy hygiene but the ladies love Francois.

My first day at ToB was last week, Tuesday. I had actually been in to see how things worked the Thursday before and prepared a checklist of line setup and general duties ascribed the sous (chef). I arrived at 3:30 and began setup checking and double-checking my list. Francois is pretty laissez-faire and lets you string out your own rope before he starts yanking on it. On the line there are two range ovens one with a six burner stove and the other a large, flat-top cooking surface on top. In front of the bank of burners stands the steam table which holds mashed potatoes, rice, twice baked potatoes and baked, stuffed tomatoes. It also holds the French onion soup which is a staple and whatever soup du jour we make. On a rack above the steam trays are dinner plates with a warming element above that.

First fill steam table with water and light gas burners underneath the table. Turn on gas and LIGHT IMMEDIATELY or the ensuing gas buildup will blowout and singe your eyebrows when you finally get a flame to it. The table is like one large chafing dish with molds to fit six large stainless steel pans. These pans hold all of the aforementioned quick serve items. As I am doing this Francois is telling me other things he needs for me to do with a certain sense of urgency. I drop what I am doing and go do THAT thing that he just asked me to do. While I am doing THAT thing he begins harping on me about not finishing the line setup. Lesson 1: Acknowledge Chef and finish what you are doing then go do whatever it was he was asking. He is merely thinking out loud about what eventually needs to be done.

At 4:30 it is time to light the gas grill, fire up the two convection ovens and turn on the fry-o-lator. Before that I took out of the smaller cooler, adjacent the line, all prepared sauces, demi-glace, peppercorn sauce, aioli, chopped tomatoes, chopped basil, olives whole and sliced, mushrooms and shredded gruyere. In a separate bowl chopped parsley which I never seem to chop as fine as he would like. I have come to the conclusion he likes giving me grief about this because he always has a smirk when he's fingering the bowl of parsley powder, "c'mon you have to chop it smaller". He also has a tendency to wave his tongs around when I ask him where something is. "I don't know... it eez over zere", while gesturing in some general direction with tongs or sometimes large spoon. "You can find it, I don't know". I have had to adapt my listening skills to add consonants and adjust vowel sounds from the rat-a-tat-tat stream of French-English (Franglish) coming at me.

First two days, Tuesday and Wednesday, slow, allows me to get the pattern down. Feel the cadence of the kitchen and learn the environment. Thursday and Friday were to put me on the line and Saturday was out of the frying pan and into the fire.