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.