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