Just Cured - Experience Fine Foods

The dear friend I have mentioned several times on this site is a chef and restaurateur. Tonight he opened yet another restaurant in our city; this one is a wine bar and cafe in a neighborhood undergoing a renaissance.

Last night, my wife and I attended a friends and family tasting of the first food to come from the restaurant’s kitchen. Everything was wonderful, by the way. As we left, I spoke with the chef de cuisine. She was visibly concerned with what she and her team had to accomplish to be ready for an opening this evening. I told her I’d give her a hand if she wanted one; her eyes lit up; I said I would call her this morning.

I didn’t call — I simply showed up in her kitchen. I ended up doing nine hours of mis en place today, finishing just before dinner service began at 5:30.

There is an energy about a new restaurant that is addictive and an urgency about the business in general that is compelling.

The energy. Today that kitchen hummed. The other parts of the restaurant were seas of chaos. There were designers hanging art in the dining room. The point of sale vendor was installing terminals and printers. The beer guy was hooking up taps. The contractor was completing its punch list (or at least starting to complete it). The first wine, beer and liquor was being delivered. The dining room and bar were a sea of activity all day long — I am not sure what most of it involved; it did not affect me.

The kitchen was a relative bed of tranquility. It is a tiny kitchen, impossible to move from one’s station without bumping or brushing against a colleague. Yet, nary a harsh word was spoken today. Those will come later, after the newness and excitement become the routine of operating a (everyone hopes) popular restaurant seven days a week. Today, challenges were expected and met with a shrug. Produce order late in delivery? — move on to something else until the products arrive. “Fresh” buffalo delivered frozen like a brick in the middle of the afternoon? — deal with it; but have the osso buco ready for service. Someone left the only leeks in the house in the steamer before he went to a meeting? — order more and steam the replacements with a watchful eye. Dairy order mis-picked and not recognized on receiving? — make due with the products that are available.

Teamwork was the order of the day. Nothing could phase this young (present company excluded) group. They simply got the job done.

This brigade could be something special, but I am biased. When I arrived this morning, the chef de cuisine and I set up stations side-by-side and reminisced about the day we first met nine years ago. She was the new girl in Garde Manger at the five star French restaurant; I was a volunteer for the special anniversary event that day; we both assumed the other really knew what was going on. I jokingly asked this morning whether there was cantaloupe on the menu. On that day nine years ago, she exploded a Robot Coupe of cantaloupe puree all over us. When our chef for the day, Patrick O’ Connell, arrived, the two of us looked a fright. I have watched this talented young woman grow and develop into a fine young chef. She will make my friend proud.

The urgency. A young cook (who is now a chef with a national reputation) once told me that everyone in this country should be required to work in a restaurant kitchen for six months. He thought it would teach people a sense of urgency. Service begins at 6:00 pm each night — whether or not you are ready. So, you need to be ready. There are no extensions of time, no flexible deadlines. The doors open, guests are seated, orders taken, tickets start printing at your station. Every day, without fail.

The urgency of purpose is compounded on opening night. Everything is new. Nothing in the kitchen has found its permanent resting place. I heard “where’s the <insert implement name here>?” a hundred times today. Or is that how many times I said it myself? No one other than the chef really knows the menu. “What are we doing with these lentils again?” No one has yet found his or her rhythm. It all still needs to be finished when the doors open. And, on opening night, all really does mean everything. There has been no opportunity for advance prep. Eventually, each cook will learn what mis en place he or she can do a day or two or three in advance. Not today — we did the work for every dish on the menu.

That kitchen performed well during service tonight. After I finished the last of my work, I changed clothes, picked up my wife from her work, and went back to that restaurant to see opening night from the other side of the pass. I knew perhaps a third of the guests tonight. It was a loud, happy crowd. The food looked good and was tasty. The staff was excited.

My work there is complete. I am thinking about having some new business cards printed:

Have Knives Will Travel

Email Michael

I had a post similar to this one rolling around in my brain yesterday, but the words would not come together. I think I simply had to get past that day for my thoughts to clarify.

Yesterday would have been the sixth birthday of a little girl who was very special to me. She was the daughter of my dearest friends. I was out of town on the day of her birth. As a result, she and I didn’t meet until she was one week old, on an extremely cold late winter Sunday evening.

She and I spent many days together after that. I promised that I would remember each of them with great clarity. Time, however, has softened the edges of many of those recollections. Although my memories of her have become less distinct, I treasure them all the more.

I vividly recall an early summer dinner party. By the time dinner was served, she was in a bad mood and her mother needed a break. I sat at the table with her in my arms and tried to both comfort her and eat as best I could. Eventually she quieted and fell asleep with her head tucked between my shoulder and neck. She spent most of the meal sleeping there. I can still hear her breathing slow as she drifted into slumber, feel her soft cheek on my shoulder, smell her wonderful baby smell.

Twelve days later, Tatiana failed to awaken from her afternoon nap. She had been with us only fifteen and a half weeks.

I miss you Tatiana. But my emotions cannot compare to those of your parents and the younger sister you never knew.

To my readers: Please visit, and support if you can, Seven Days for SIDS. Tatiana’s parents established Seven Days in her memory. The 2008 site and schedule should be up soon. Because when we put an end to SIDS, we all sleep better at night.

What a difference a week makes.† A week ago I was winging my way back from the sun, surf and sand of one of America’s 21st century playgrounds.† This week I am comfortably ensconsed in the playground of the rich and famous of a century ago.

Each winter for the past ten years, my wife and I have retreated to the Adirondack Mountains for a week of relaxation.† We were afraid that we would not be able to get away this month, but a few days opened up for both us and a hotel we love.† Our one room cabin sits a few feet from the shore of a pristine frozen lake with a view of the mountains beyond.† Once past the parking lot and the covered walkway, we could as easily be in the 1930s as 2008 — and but for the indoor plumbing, a phone and electric lights, we could be in a much earlier time.† Between that walkway and the lake shore is a land where time could have stood still.

The contrasts between this place and where I was a week ago are startling.

titanic divx download Last week, I was in the land of high rise condos and hotels.† I saw more cranes at construction sites than I could count.† This week, the view from my picture window is of one story log cabins, forest and snow capped mountains.

Last week, I walked barefoot at sunrise on a trendy beach.† This week, I have hiked and snowshoed through forests covered in deep snow.† It snowed two feet here in the days prior to our arrival and perhaps eight inches since our arrival.† It is snowing now and the lake, forest and mountains are beautiful beyond compare.

Last week, I drove from hotel to office with the top down.† This week, I walked to breakfast in -21F cold.

Last week, I was ordering dinner at trendy restaurants†after midnight†(just after leaving work) and walked back to my hotel as the local nightlife was just getting underway.† This week, I have fallen asleep by 9:00 p.m. and awakened at 4:00 a.m. to start a fresh fire and read for a few hours before breakfast.

Last week, I sent and received literally hundreds of emails and burned through a month’s worth of mobile minutes.† This week, if I place my phone in just the right spot in my cabin, I receive a marginal signal about half the day.† I have appropriated a computer in the hotel office to type this post.

Last week, I was under incredible stress to complete my project.† This week, my most difficult decision has been which of the books I brought to read next.† I have read three books by authors who are new to me.† I have enjoyed them all quite well.† I started with My Sister’s Keeper by Jodi Picoult on the recommendation of a friend who listened to it on a cross country drive this summer.† Next was The Monsters of Templeton by Lauren Groff as recommended by two staff members of my favorite independent bookseller.† And most recently was The Spare Wife by Alex Witchel as I have always enjoyed her work for The New York Times.

Last week, I was immersed in the gateway to our future.† This week, I am firmly planted in our past.

Let it snow!

My lapses in updating this site have nothing to do with inactivity. In fact, I have been engaged beyond any expectations I may have had. Unfortunately, none of my recent activities have had any connection whatsoever to the business of Just Cured. My short term project that morphed into a marathon became a series of marathons — one per day for the past two weeks.

I have spent my time in a series of conference rooms and offices inside a major U.S. law firm. Punctuate those two weeks in conference rooms with a few hours each day in a rather nice hotel room, a thirty minute daily walk on a beach, a handful of airplane flights, two nice meals and one peaceful evening, and you have the totality of my existence for those two weeks. We completed the project yesterday evening. There will be some details to be handled, but the all consuming part of my engagement is complete.

What we were working on was complex; but it should not have been complicated. We had some personalities involved who made the simple complicated and the complex impenetrable. Our work was intellectually stimulating but not much different from hundreds of similar projects I have completed — if only we could move beyond the personality acting as a roadblock. Every day was the same; our own personal version of “Groundhog Day” (thanks to the guy who made that connection for me). We started out by hearing a new (or old or resurrected) issue from our problem child; we spent the rest of the day solving the problem du jour for him; we ended the day convinced that the next would mark the conclusion of our project. Repeat. Innumerable times, ending with 14 in a row.

My family will attest to at least one interpersonal skill that I have no hope of mastering — I cannot suffer a fool. As a result, the last month or so has been most frustrating for me. What little patience I possess has been tested to the point of breaking. Two things kept me from completely losing control over this fortnight. One I was counting one; the other so unexpected that I was moved to write this.

The first was a trusted colleague, my counterpart for much of this project. We first met on this project but quickly developed a comfortable relationship. I cannot determine which of us was more upset by the impediment to our progress. I knew, however, that we would watch out for each other, and the success of the project, by stepping in or by being comfortable stepping back when one of us was at wits’ end or about to cause bloodshed.

The second was the simplest, most natural, oldest act of human communication. It was a smile. Not just any smile, mind you; it was a dazzling, joyful, light-up-the-room kind of smile. The smile belongs to the assistant (what in the days before enlightenment we referred to as a legal secretary) to our host at this law firm. As assistant to our host, she was also burdened with taking care of or arranging for my needs, from document production to coffee in the conference rooms. When we were introduced, she flashed that big smile and I took notice.

As the hours became days and the days became two weeks, I came to depend on that smile. I depended on her contribution and dedication to the project; her smile, however, became a lifeline of sorts for me. Hundreds of times over the two weeks, I visited her desk with some request and the conversation began silently:

Her: Raised eyebrows. (”How is it going?”)

Me: Rolled eyes; or shaking head; or finger-pistol pointed to temple. (”About the same.”)

Her: That brilliant smile.

That smile sent me a message of hope. One aspect of these projects is they become all consuming. We participants believe there is nothing else more important in the world. And for us, at that moment, there is no other world; the project is our world. That smile reminded me that there was a whole world outside my conference rooms. A world full of family and friends, of adventures and aspirations and dreams, of business to be conducted and goals to be achieved, of beaches and mountains, of butterflies and puppy dogs. A world I could, and would, re-enter just as soon as I pushed the last rock out of the way.

Each time she smiled just for me, I thought of all these things. And I calmed down. I got my heart rate and anger under control. I acquired a new measure of patience — just enough to face the source of my frustrations again. Until the next smile.

I told her last week just how much joy her smile brought to me. And I am telling her again.