The Tables Turn

Some of the young men in our class, still swaggering after the machismo that was Butchery, are finding Garde Manger a bit of a challenge. I watched out of the corner of my eye as Jordan stuck a pan of white bread triangles, crusts intact, into the salamander, then pulled them out shortly thereafter, blackened in places. He topped his toasts with a little clump of hummus and a slice of black olive and he begrudgingly admitted at the end of the morning, "Your canapes looked a lot better than ours did." Well, the crusts just aren't happening, for one, and they were two bites, at least, and they were totally lacking in either preciosity or cuteness. Canapés must have one or the other, or better yet, both.

No Travis today. (Too bad — I have to return the neckerchief that he loaned me yesterday — another "mis out of place" morning.) Chef talked about smoking — we'll be doing our duck tomorrow — and showed us another nifty garnish, some swift cuts of the paring knife that result in a flower. Cut from daikon, it's even quite dogwoodesque. Photos to follow. And now I actually have a reason to purchase daikon. [And it won't oxidize like a potato.]

Andrea cut today's production assignment of boiled ham. Silvia made marinade for chicken satay, and the accompanying peanut sauce. I put the duck breasts in brine to prepare for smoking, then seasoned the duck legs and thighs in advance of tomorrow's confit redux. Andrea is a big confit fan so she says it out loud, and the Chef says, "OK, let's!!" Well, it's worked for her two classes in a row, at least. This time, we've just salted, peppered, thymed and bay leafed the duck, basically a (light) dry rub. Chef Allen had us marinate them in olive oil, but Chef Duffy said, "What's the point of olive oil? They'll be cooking in duck fat!" And there's no arguing with that.

I cooked the wheatberries for a salad and they took FOREVER. The recipe said "one hour or until done"; after an hour and a half, Chef tasted them with me and said, "You'll get mouth fatigue eating these." I mean, really. What's the point? I also prepared the rest of the salad: chopped scallions, parsley, mint, and diced tomatoes and kalamata olives, and Silvia made the lemon vinaigrette and we got Chef's okay to add some feta. We'll put it all together tomorrow.

Then we went into assembly line mode to produce today's canapé: a toasted disk of wheat bread topped with a (slightly smaller) disk of prosciutto, crowned with a rosette of blue cheese butter and garnished with a sliver of parsley and a little nugget of walnut. Both precious AND cute. And quite tasty. [Tip: we put a dab of cheese butter on the toast, to help adhere the prosciutto.]

Let me be clear: we have doilies in this class. And we aren't afraid to use them.

Ikura at Ten

Travis showed up in the cafeteria before class this morning, looking sheepish. Yesterday, he said, he'd missed his stop on BART, sleeping through it until he'd reached the end of the line in Daly City, then waking again at the other end of the line in Fremont, two stops past where he'd left his car two hours earlier. "By then, I figured it was a sign." I told him that he was on the team with Silvia and Andrea and me, and he visibly brightened. "Man, I lucked out."

Chef Duffy made sushi today, first orchestrating the assembly of his mis en place like a conductor, with big sweeping hand gestures and making a valiant effort to call everyone by name. Tashana put 8 cups of medium grain rice and 12 cups of water into the rice cooker, and it was done in 20 minutes. While it was cooling in a couple of hotel pans, we discussed the various other ingredients we had at hand. The rice seasoning had been prepared yesterday: 4 parts unseasoned rice vinegar, 2 parts sugar, 1 part salt, cooked together until the salt and sugar is dissolved, then cooled. We had sheets of nori; daikon, both roots (julienned) and little sprouts; enoki mushrooms, unagi (freshwater eel, which comes cooked and seasoned, in plastic pouches), cucumber and carrots (both julienned); sesame seeds (don't make the mistake that some previous students did, and use quinoa instead of sesame); tobiko (flying fish roe); ikura (salmon roe). Chef also requested a bowl of water, to which he added about three tablespoons of rice vinegar: "handwater". When the rice was cooler but still warm, he broke it up with a big spoon (a different action than stirring, more like cracking up slabs of concrete), then turned the spoon so the bowl faced up, and poured the seasoning mixture over the spoon, so that the liquid sprinkled down onto the rice. He mixed it, had us taste and approve, then began.

He used two rolling mats: one had previously been covered in plastic wrap: "Use either: one is easier to roll, one is easier to clean." He demonstrated seven different styles of sushi: futo maki (thick roll); hoso maki (thin roll); temaki (hand roll); gunkan (also known as "battleship", the strip of nori around rice which holds fragile ingredients, like ikura or uni); ura maki (with the rice on the outside); nigiri (the "couch" of rice, topped today with unagi). He also made ohsi, or pressed, sushi: he took the (sort of raggedy) end of a maki roll, diced it coarsely, and pressed it into a mold (in this case, a quarter-cup plastic food container), then unmolded it onto the platter. Which by this time was brimming full of rolls. He used a knife dipped in hot water to cut the rolls into individual pieces, and then it was time to taste. Nothing like ikura at ten in the morning.

Today was mostly spent getting prepared for more substantive work later in the week: we made brine for duck breasts (to arrive tomorrow), and mayonnaise, and started chick peas soaking for a vegetable salad. I showed Travis how to use (and clean) the slicer, and the morning flew by. The Veg team made hummus; Seafood brined some trout and began some gravlax. Looks like things are going to start getting a bit crazier, as we receive our ingredients, learn the kitchen, and get the hang of Chef Duffy's style. He's hilarious. At one point during the sushi demo, he described the wrong way of doing something, shook his head, said, "Wouldn't be prudent" in the exact GHWB accent.

In other (surprising) news, I got an A in Butchery. Maybe the temperature inside the turkey trucks is not that crucial, after all.

The Puzzle Cut

First, before I forget, a shout out to CorneliaB, who was so kind as to advise the overcaffeinated Ms. Steel about culinary school adventures here on the Left Coast. XOXO.

We're back to the South Campus today, and I love it immensely. Now that I've spent time on both campuses, there is much to recommend the SoMa location, not the least being the general state of the neighborhood, but also the relative newness of the facilities, the bright banks of windows with the City glowing in the early morning sunlight, the long walls painted the colors of mustard and ketchup. I found myself practically skipping on the way back to class from the ladies restroom.

Because, GARDE MANGER! is awesome! Chef Duffy (nobody calls him by his given name, apparently) hails from Manchester, England, a thin edgy wiry man with a great expressive face and articulate hands. His delivery is rapid-fire, punctuated often with a quizzical "Does that make sense?" We're making cold food to be served cold. ("Not food that was once meant to be hot, and got cold.") We will be learning to make platters: fruit, cheese, meat; canapés; terrines and forcemeats; aspics; "at least 15" garnishes. "You must be painstakingly consistent."

We started with a review of the rules (in his classroom: no watches, no rolled-up sleeves, but I did learn a cool way to tuck my glasses inside my coat when I don't need them). We will be working in teams again, for the duration. I'm working with Andrea and Silvia and Travis, who didn't show up today. We'll have one week doing meat, then seafood, then vegetarian. Chef Duffy encouraged us to rename our teams, if we didn't like the given designations. "As long as they're PC. You could be" (he picked up a small orange fruit from a tray of assorted produce) "the KUMQUAT team!" Andy leaned over and said, "I don't know, 'Kumquat' is right on the edge of PC."

Chef Duffy pointed out the various features and tools in the kitchen: three long stainless work tables, stoves and a grill along one wall, three robot coupes, two commercial slicers, various terrine molds, and the like. He pulled out a desk bell from a tall metal cabinet and placed it on the worktable. "This is the class bell. When it all needs to come together by eleven o'clock, for example, and it's eleven," he rapped twice on the bell, ding ding, "then it's time. Does that make sense? Veddy good." And he returned the bell to the cabinet.

We talked about making canapés: they must be one bite and delicious. And they must not fall apart. Chef talked about thinking creatively and putting together familiar flavors: "The Super Bowl is coming up: how about a buffalo chicken canapé? A little crisp bread, some blue cheese spread, topped with a small piece of grilled chicken breast that's been sliced and tossed in sauce?"

One of the best things he said: "I like my students to be warm, and well-fed." We ate cheese (dry Jack, Gouda, Fontina, Stilton) today, and discussed the important features of a cheese platter: flow, uniformity, focal point, balance; at least one each triple cream, semi-soft, hard, blue. Then — surprise! — we had production to complete!! Apparently the GM class provides sliced meats and cheeses to the South Campus student cafeteria. The meat team sliced a whole roast beef, two hotel pans full, and it totally brought me back to my deli days. (Before Silvia was born.) But I still know how to take apart the slicer, and how to clean it. No major technological changes on that piece of equipment.

After production (Seafood sliced cheese, and Veg made a gallon of salad dressing), Chef Duffy sliced up some fruit — two melons, a pomelo, some strawberries — and casually arranged them on a flat mirrored tray while he talked about methods (cutting both ends off the melon, standing it on end and cutting off the rind in large strips with a French knife; scooping out the seeds with the heel of his thumb into a bowl, because "using a scoop may damage the fruit, and" (without irony) "they have to be perfect."

As a finale, using a peeled kiwi, he demonstrated the Puzzle Cut. It's a two knife trick. Insert a paring knife into the center of the fruit, in between and in line with the ends. Cut an even slot through the middle of the fruit, staying away from either end. Put the fruit on the cutting board with the knife still in it, and with the flat of the knife parallel to the board. Using a French knife, cut a diagonal line from the slit .... shoot, this is just not going to work. I need pictures. Stay tuned.

Crumbs

Actually, a whole big loaf of bread:

If you're interested in learning more on "how the most basic questions about what to eat ever got so complicated," or the "Ideology of Nutritionism," see Unhappy Meals, Michael Pollan's story in this week's New York Times Magazine.

Signs of Early Spring?

I won't have to wear thermal underwear to class anymore, and there are daffodils blooming on the Highway 24/Broadway off ramp median.

The final day of Butchery was on a par with the rest of the last three weeks. First, Chef Allen took apart a sea urchin, removing the beak and cutting around the outside shell (or "test") to enlarge the opening. He dumped out the inner liquid, which will apparently stain your hands "forever," and carefully scooped out what's commonly referred to as the "roe," a series of delicate orange organs that are actually the animal's reproductive organs ("uni" at a sushi bar). Later, while we slaved away per normal, he made up a big batch of scrambled eggs with sea urchin, cooked in lots of butter, and garnished with chives, and creme fraiche. The uni was barely noticeable and the eggs were delicious. We also had chunks of duck sausage that Andrea mixed up a couple of days ago.

Not that we had a lot of time to eat. We were split into only two teams today, Seafood and Poultry, and it was another one of those "everything must go" situations. They were cutting a hell of a lot of fish at the Seafood tables, a variety pack of species, but we were All Chicken, All the Time. Fortunately, there were six of us cutting it — seven, when Silvia showed up two hours late (she'd been doing some last minute cramming for the final) — because we had to fabricate four cases (about 100) chickens. Lots of talk about music we like. Our team had a wide variety of music interests and experience (including four guys who've played in bands) but we were unanimous on two subjects: Britney Spears is talentless, and Michael Jackson is both The Bomb, and a freak.

All that production required almost an hour at the wonderous MultiVac machine, and we also had to thoroughly scrub the kitchen (including the walk-in and reach-in refrigerators, and the windows) so that it'll be in good shape for Monday's class of Butchery newbies. FINALLY, it was time to take the test, and we adjourned to The Grille, an infrequently used restaurant area in the basement, where the temperature was above 58 degrees. Chef Allen found classic rock on the radio so we took the test to the sounds of Derek and the Dominos and Pink Floyd: appropriately, "we don't need no education," because who really needs to know how cold it is inside the interstate turkey trucks? I don't know how well I did on the test. But I did correctly distinguish the plate from the flank. And of course Chef Allen assured us all yesterday that we'd achieved at least a D+.

So apparently during the freezer cleaning, a full commercial-sized carton of Dreyer's Dulce de Leche ice cream was discovered, so after the final, we returned to the chill of the kitchen to indulge and celebrate another little milestone. Next week, we're back to the South Campus (free parking, free coffee) for Intro to Garde Manger. Just in time, too, because I have to bring appetizers to a dinner party next Friday night.

Do The Research

We had a guest speaker today: Mitch Gronner from Royal Hawaiian Seafood, one of the CCA's vendors. He brought some samples, all farmed: a striped bass from a place near Palm Springs, an arctic char, like the one I butchered earlier this week, from Washington State, and a kampachi, a sushi-grade fish from a deep-ocean farm off the coast of Hawaii. According to Mitch, we are very nearly at the tipping point where more of the world's food fish will be grown as aquaculture, instead of caught from the open water. (David's comment: "Don't tell Tammy!" Her dad's a commercial deep-sea fisherman.) Mitch and his company seem to be very well informed on environment issues: well, their reputation and livelihood depend on the survival of all the species.

He talked about his reasons for coming to visit, to educate and "frankly, to introduce the company, so that when you are working in the real world, you think of us." He said that the CCA is "by far" their biggest customer, but he was proud to drop a couple of other names: Thomas Keller, Gary Danko (I first wrote Rick Danko, but he's a fish of a different stripe). He talked a bit about quality, price, service: the old adage that you can only have two of the three; they consider themselves a top-of-the-line purveyor.

He was generous at answering questions. Andy tried to get him to talk about incentives and "tricks of the trade," and he admitted that they have quotas on different products, but usually only because the quantity is up (which usually means that the price is relatively low). "For example, I tell all my customers now, 'Clams and oysters should be on your menu!' This is a great time of year for shellfish."

Before leaving, he gave the class a great piece of advice: "Do your own research. Don't just believe what you read. Explore both sides of the issue." He used as an example the concerns about high levels of mercury in some types of fish, which has lead to widespread warnings against overconsumption, especially for pregnant women. However, there is a relationship between the chemical selenium (found, he said, in "virtually every type of fish") and mercury which effectively negates the potential harmful effects. "But how come the papers aren't reporting those studies?"

Mitch also described the marketing ploys widely used by the wild fishing and farm fishing communities against one another. In numerous instances, he said, both industries have publicized incomplete truths about the other, in order to increase the sales of their "safer" product. "Don't give in to fear-mongerers." It's all about being an informed consumer.

Before Mitch, it was pork loin fabrication. Afterwards, mahi-mahi, a very satisfying fish to cut: challenging, not too messy, no bothersome oversided scales or tiny bones to remove: just two big three to four pound fillets per fish.

So, as Chef explained it, if you've attended class every single day and completed your eight competencies, you've achieved 66%, or a D+. "That's a Pass!!" he said, to general grumbling. "Maybe to you," Derrick said, under his breath.

It's all hinging on tomorrow's written final, and we never did get to hear the lectures on Veal, Seafood, or Charcuterie. I won't complain that we missed offal, though.

Baa Baa Black Sheep

Lamb all morning. First, there was rack of lamb to trim: a very detailed job that can be either monotonous or relaxing. Today, it was the latter, very precise, not too messy, easy to see what progress you've made. Chef had received four "frenched" racks as a bonus from his meat purveyor, and he used them to demonstrate to the class how you don't always get what you pay for. At $11.25 wholesale, these racks still needed considerable trimming before the bones were long and clean, as I found out. It's easier to buy them whole and do the knife work all the way through, than to try and fix something that's been done half way, and sloppily, besides.

If you happen to have the February issue of "Gourmet" magazine, check out the ad for Wolf Ranges on pages 2 and 3. The ad includes several pictures of a pork loin roast, bone-in, similar to the lamb racks we were trimming today. The messy bones on the uncooked roast translate to burnt crispiness on the finished product. That's OK maybe for pork that you'll slice and serve on a plate with a knife and fork. But one of the cool things about a lamb loin is that the cut slices are easy to pick up and eat out of hand — like a savory meat lollipop — which is how we ate them this morning. Roberto seasoned and seared two racks, finished them in the oven, then passed around the plate mid-way through our morning production. The excuse was that some of the class had never tasted lamb, but in fact we are all just hungry, all the time, and looking for something to gnaw on.

It's actually no surprise that we had some lamb "virgins," as it were: according to Chef Allen, only 2% of the US population eats lamb, whereas it's the most common meat eaten in all the rest of the world. (I love it when I can confirm the "facts" we're learning: according to the Agricultural Marketing Resource Center, annual consumption of lamb in the US is about 3/4 of a pound per person per year, whereas New Zealanders eat over 50 pounds per person per year.)

Most of the lamb we can purchase in the US is imported from New Zealand and Australia, where the grass-grazed animals are smaller than their grain-fed US counterparts, with the meat being correspondingly more tender and mild. The discussion digressed at length over the definition of "gamy" — Dava, a quasi-vegetarian who'd never tasted lamb or duck before butchery, couldn't understand what Chef was trying to describe. Finally, in frustration, he said, "It's the difference between tasting like nothing and tasting like something!!"

P.S. Apparently Epicurious.com has stolen my idea. Where's my camera crew?

I'll Be Doing the Lemon Thing

You know, the lemon thing that Susan Sarandon does in Atlantic City? I'm afraid even my steering wheel will smell like fish. Today, without delay, we jumped into production and though I was glad not to be on the Poultry Team (they had to cut up 100 chickens. Literally, 100 chickens), I had to fabricate the most difficult fish ever. Twice.

We started on rock fish: I filleted and skinned two. Then I scaled and filleted a salmon — we were providing it with skin on. (To scale, put the fish inside a large food-safe plastic bag, preferably clear, and scrape the hell out of it with a curry comb. (This is an off-label use for this horse-grooming tool.)) Then, a relatively easy Atlantic char, a small salmon cousin. Then on to the barramundi. Mine were each about 25 pounds, and about 30 inches long. These round fish have amazing scales — about an inch long and translucent, they look like Howard Hughes' fingernails. First you cut around a stiff jaw bone, then slit up one side, using so much pressure to get through and past the scales that you're sure a knife mishap is immiment. The inside bones are stiff and pokey, and all in all I felt like I was really butchering, in the worst sense of the word ("to botch, to bungle").

We had a mid-morning break, fortunately: duck sausages made yesterday, with homemade biscuits from Dava and some gravy provided by Chef Allen ("Aunt Bootsie's Buttermilk Gravy for Chicken Fried Steak.")

Before we could proceed with pork during the lecture part of our program, we backtracked to beef again, so Chef could elaborate on Kobe beef (only from Japan) and "Kobe style" beef (grown just about anywhere, from the Wagyu breed). I swear, there are people in our class who ask questions just to keep the Chef talking, and to prevent any forward motion. Do you remember them from high school? In the student dining mezzanine, before class, Tashana and Andy and I reviewed the lecture syllabus, all of which will apparently be on Friday's final. We have yet to cover Lamb, Charcuterie, Offal, Veal, and Seafood, and we have only two days of class before the test, with a visitor (a wholesale meat purveyor) coming in on Thursday. While we're getting plenty of "knife time," as the Chef calls it, I'm looking for more academic rigor.

And for the smell of fish to dissipate.

The Pig's Gotten A Bad Rap

In front of the class, Chef Allen demonstrated the turkey breast fabrication that he walked me through last week, which gets you two nice plump tied-up roasts, ready for slicing. Party food. Then he reviewed the carving of a whole turkey: "Now that you're in culinary school, you'll have to do it next Thanksgiving, and maybe forever." His main advice: show off the beautiful whole bird, then take it into the kitchen for carving. It's masochism to carve in front of your assembled relatives.

Before I began work with the Seafood team, we finally finished our duck confit. The legs and thighs, and a bunch of extra duck skin, have been marinating since last Tuesday in olive oil, thyme, peppercorns, and bay leaves. We started by preheating the oven to 350 degrees, and melting seven pounds (two 3-1/2 pound buckets) of duck fat in a large braising pan. We seasoned the duck with salt, then placed the pieces, skin down, into the melted fat. You need to have enough fat to completely submerge the meat. The pan then went into the oven for about three hours.

We took the separate pieces of duck fat and rendered them, with a little water, over a low flame on the top of the stove. After a couple of hours, we had a pot full of duck fat plus cracklings. We poured the fat in with the legs.

While the duck cooked, I worked on fish: sea bass, petrale sole, and salmon. The bass still had scales on it, and the skin is very tough. The sole is flat and there's a nice smooth symmetry to taking it apart ("the fish shows you right where it wants to be cut"), but the yield is pretty low, only enough for one or two servings. I only had time to skin and fillet one salmon, but it's very gratifying: you end up with two big beautiful halves, many individual portions.

Jen gave me a present (for no reason: always a delight): a thermos bottle, which works incredibly better than the travel mug I've been using. My Peet's, brewed at 5:30, was still hot at 11:00, when we ate our duck legs and talked about pigs.

The duck was super rich. We each got a leg/thigh piece with succulent soft skin. Once the duck is finished (falling-off-the-bone tender), you can keep in a cool place (as long as it's completely covered in duck fat) practically forever. To serve, you dig it out of the fat and warm it through, under a broiler if you want to crisp the skin. I imagined my duck on a plate of tender white beans, with some fat white sausage slices, some crispy thyme-flavored bread crumbs sprinkled over it all, a little pot of Dijon mustard nearby. A glass of chardonnay. Instead: coffee, a paper plate, and a plastic spoon. But it was still delicious.

Chef Allen is enamored of fat and so of course, he loves the pig. We talked about trichinella, a roundworm that can infect domestic pigs and wild game. The requirement to cook pork to "well done" was established to guarantee that any parasites would be rendered harmless. However, Chef noted that the last case of trichinellosis in the US tied to the consumption of commercial pork was "in the late 70s." (According to the CDC, there were actually 11 cases, none fatal, tied to US-raised commercial pork between 1997 and 2001. The point is the same, though: the risk is very low.)

"Remember what your mother used say when she told you to clean up your room? 'It's a pig sty!'" Pigs are low to the ground, and they do roll around in the mud, but only because they don't sweat, and cool mud helps them to regulate their body heat. "And what do we call pig feed? 'Slops.'" Pigs will eat anything, and that's what they've been fed, by and large. "Slops" — kitchen scraps — would inevitably attract flies and rodents, adding to the impression that pigs are dirty. But the quality of commercial pig feed has become increasingly regulated, standardized, and improved, so that now pigs are leaner and more nutritious than ever, and a sty is what you make it.

Field Studies: Chicken

After school yesterday, I picked up eight "Young Chickens" (Foster Farm, "All-Natural"): 38-1/4 pounds at $0.69 per pound. Two hours later (with several interruptions to respond to IM, which necessitated hand washing), I had nine pounds of boneless, skinless chicken breast; 12 pounds of legs/thighs; three pounds of chicken wings (the drummie and flat section only, no tips); eight ounces of chicken livers; 12 ounces of chicken fat; and seven pounds of bones and giblets for stock (for a total of 32-1/4 pounds.) I had six pounds of waste (packaging and skin), so my yield was 84%, and my actual per-pound cost was $0.82 per pound.

Boneless skinless breasts are running about $2.49 per pound, so nine pounds would have run me about $22.41. I was out $4.00 more than that, with an additional 15 pounds of edible chicken, plus bones.

I need more freezer bags, though.

We began class today with a demonstration of the fabrication of a whole pork loin. This, to me, seems like the most interesting and worthwhile "big cut" to obtain and fabricate at home. (Any of you Costco shoppers: do they sell whole pork loin there?) You begin by removing the pork tenderloin. Then there are a number of cutting, flipping, spinning, and snapping maneuvers to remove the bones (you'll end up with baby back ribs. No singing.) ("Point the knife towards the bone, and away from the money.") Then you chop off the two ends, both of which have a bone or two to remove, and lots of fat: trim these for stew or grinding. You're left with a long even muscle with a meaty edge (the lip) that you also cut away and put on the trim pile. The remaining piece of meat is about 18 inches long, with substantial intermuscular fat on both ends but with a middle section, about nine inches, of perfectly beauteous lean pork: a center cut pork loin roast, or chops. There's a lot of interesting meat to be had for about an hour's worth of labor.

Poultry was slammed today, with an order for 60 skinless, boneless breasts and 70 skinless, boneless legs/thighs, so my Hooves designation went by the wayside. I can practically cut apart a chicken with my eyes closed, but I won't be trying it. My hands, the left one in particular, have suffered during butchery. Though there are no dishes to wash, I've just nicked myself with the tip of the boning knife a number of times, and I've scraped a few knuckles on fishbones and wishbones. Last night, as I added a pinch of salt to dinner, I realized that I'd get "salt in the wound" using either hand. The thing is, the cutting is real tactile — you really do need to get your hands into your work, to see where things come apart naturally, to feel for hidden joints — and it's really cold.

I got a bonus assignment: boning the half-breasts off of a whole turkey breast "on the bone," and tying them up into roasts. Just like a chicken, only bigger!

Chef Allen lectured on the breakdown of the sub-primal cuts of the hind-quarter. Much of the discussion was about the alternate names for the various parts, some of which are regional, all of which can serve to confuse the consumer and benefit the purveyor. For example, there is no single cut which is the "London Broil": the term designates the place of origin and the style of cooking. But you might find bottom sirloin, top sirloin or flank steak labeled "London Broil," at various times and for a variety of prices.

David taught me the "correct" way to prepare London Broil: Place the steak in a baking pan just big enough to hold it. Pierce both sides with a fork, a bunch of times, then season both sides generously with salt and pepper. Sprinkle both sides with several cloves of finely minced garlic, about a tablespoon total. Add about 1/2 cup each of soy sauce and teriyaki sauce. Let the meat marinate for several hours at room temperature, turning occasionally. Remove the meat from the marinade before broiling or grilling to taste (we like ours rare). You can bring the marinade to a boil for a quick sauce, adding sliced sautéed mushrooms, if you like. Next time I make it, I'll know to swirl in a little whole butter at the end, to round out all the flavors.

Before 7am this morning, most of our class was at work on petrale sole. The student dining chef issued a challenge yesterday to Chef Allen (apparently along the lines of, "eh, your students are so slow") and Chef Allen of course wanted to show him 'what for', as they say. So we had about 50 pounds of petrale fillets to the student dining kitchen by 8:15am. So there.

A petrale is a flat fish and the boning technique is quite different from a roundfish like salmon or bass. (Or so I've heard; I've yet to pick up a knife against a roundfish in class.) Soles live on the ocean floor. Both eyes are one one side of the head and petrales have little tiny nasty teeth. The skin is dark greyish brown on the eye side, and creamy white on the other. You slit the fish down the middle, from the fin to the tail, then carefully cut along the bones to loosen the fillet. "Towards the bone, away from the money." One one side of the fish is are puffy lungs that you pull out -- they're actually almost cute, if you can say that about fish guts. Once you take off both fillets from the top side, you flip the fish over and remove the other two. (They're a little smaller.) Then you skin the fillets by making a little flap to hold on to, and sliding your knife along the skin, pitched slightly towards the table. "Towards the skin, away from the money." We cut off the heads, tails, and fins, and save the rest for fish fumet.

We had two fish-related competencies to complete: 1) fillet a fish and 2) skin fish fillets. I asked Chef Allen if I could use one of the soles I was trimming to attain my competency and he said sure. But he warned that the tolerances he would accept would be more strict on a sole than on a roundfish, since there's so little meat to "waste." I persevered, and fulfilled both competencies. (He runs his fingers up the spine and bones of the fish, to see if any meat flakes away. That would be wasted money.)

After we completed Chef's "back at ya" with the sole, we broke into our regular teams and began our "real" class work. I was on Hooves today. Chef demonstrated rack of lamb and semi-boned leg of lamb, and I was able to work on both. Silvia admitted that she thought that a lamb was a small cow. When the laughing subsided, Jordan said, "We love you anyway." And Chef said, "Hey, that's why you're in school. To learn stuff."

The main work in fabricating a rack of lamb is frenching the bones. First you remove a layer of fat from the bone side of the meat. Then you make a series of cuts where the bones adjoin the meat, in order to loosen the membrane that covers the bones. Then you further loosen the membrane along the length of each bone, and pull off the membrane and interbone meat. Then you clean up the bones. The more you loosen everything up, the easier the bones are to clean, and Chef is EXACTING when it comes to clean bones. As he explains it, any bit of membrane left on the bone will burn when you cook the chops. And that'll ruin everything.

A leg of lamb is at the opposite end of the finesse scale. What a beast. The objective here is to remove most of the fat, which is more than an inch thick in some places. You also have to remove the aitch bone, which is half of rump bone of the animal and which contains the socket where the femur rests. This is a major pain. The bone is vaguely shaped like the letter "H," about 10 inches long, and you can't see where you're going. There's slashing, and swearing, and digging around with the point of your knife. Andy helped me by showing me his technique for hanging part of the meat over the edge of the work table, so that the tension where meat meets bone is increased and more apparent. Once the bone is out, you remove any big chunks of fat and membrane, and french the shank end.

By the end of the morning, I'd completed my last two butchery competency requirements: frenched rack of lamb and semiboned leg of lamb. (I could have also fulfilled my "advanced hooves" competency by trimming a whole beef tenderloin, or a pork loin, but lamb was the word of the day.) The only remaining requirement in butchery, then, is the written test, which is scheduled for next Friday.

And we're still way behind in the lecture portion of our program. Today, we spent another hour on beef, discussing primal and sub-primal cuts and the further breakdown into parts, beginning (at the back) with the round and the loin. We still have the forequarters to discuss, not to mention pork, lamb, seafood, and charcuterie (according to the syllabus), all before the exam.

We ended class with a short video on beef processing. Granted, it was produced by the industry, but the process appeared to be efficient and clean, which impressed me. They even referred to Upton Sinclair's The Jungle in the video, in a "See, we learned our lessons a hundred years ago, and thanks, Mr. Sinclair, for bringing that to our attention" sort of way. And really, they do use every part of the cow except for the moo.

Zen and Meat Fabrication

There's often a lot of testosterone and braggardly boy talk flowing through the butchery kitchen. Perhaps it's the proximity of sharp knives, the ever-present risk of sudden wounding, the plethora of dead animals. But conversation often runs in the "biggest cut/most stitches/gruesomest thing ever" vein, almost to the point of hilarity, like a really scary Haunted House. And one of my classmates handed over his chicken pieces today, for Andrea and I to sort and package them, and he referred to us as "little ladies." He won't be doing that again. I was holding a sharp knife.

Actually, once we all assume our stations and get to work in the morning, the kitchen becomes quietly intense. Chef Allen mentioned it as he gave our table a knife-sharpening demonstration: "When I'm pissed at the world, I go into my kitchen and sharpen my knives." And it's not in preparation for a duel. The process of cutting meat is very calming. You go through a ritual of readiness: checking the list of required cuts, sanitizing the table, selecting and choosing your knives, preparing a pan to hold your product, finding your boxes or packages in the walk-in refrigerator: all part of getting set up. Then you meet your prey, as it were. As in woodworking (where I have some roots, please excuse the expression), every piece of material (log, plank / chicken, cow) is different. You need to get acquainted with it before you begin work. When you pull the chicken out of the box, she's a bit misshapen, so you place her on the cutting board, legs towards you, and push her gently into shape. Only then do you make your first cut.

Chef Allen demonstrated the fabrication of a whole top round, a somewhat rectanglar hunk of meat weighing about 20 pounds. This is the cut you know best as "roast beef," as in "roast beef sandwich." I watched my dad cut — "fabricate"!! — hundreds of top rounds during the eight years he was a delicatessen proprietor. It was my favorite part of the day, before the store was open. That's when we'd work in the kitchen, in the back, making big pots of stock and chili, pans of lasagna and frittata, bins full of potato and macaroni salad. Dad trimmed the beef, removing the top thick layer of fat. Then he'd flip it over, and carefully trim out the silverskin and veins that run along the bottom. He'd cut the cleaned muscle into two even pieces, and tie each neatly, in 2-inch intervals. Then the roasts would be salted and peppered, thoroughly, and roasted. The process was detailed and time-consuming. The radio would be on, loud. I don't think I've ever seen my dad more content.

Am I Starting To Make Clucking Noises?

I was on Poultry team again, no class demonstrations, just straight into production. After about six chickens (seriously, it's like a job, with laughing), I moved on to duck (completed another competency: 2 duck breasts with skin, 2 leg/thigh portions). Duck really is like a big chicken. All dark meat. We marinated 18 duck legs and a bunch of reserved duck fat in olive oil, thyme, bay leaves and peppercorns. After overnight refrigeration, we'll make duck confit, which I'm looking forward to. And look, ma, no hands: I tunnel-boned a chicken! Ended up with a skin bag of meat, with boned-out legs and thighs, and the wings tucked under "for attitude".

All this cutting up is leaving me frustrated at the grocery store: with the exception of whole chickens, everything's already been cut down into individual portions. I'm gonna have to take a trip to the butcher's.

The topic of general discussion today was last Saturday's Iron Chef competition between three staff Chefs, including our butchery teacher, Chef Allen. The prize was highly sought-after: the winner becomes the Chef of the Carême Room, the public dining room which is also the site of our last class before graduation. The format was interesting: first the Chefs received the mystery basket which included the mandatory ingredients (tofu, artichokes, striped bass fillets). They had fifteen minutes to develop a menu and turn it into the judges (school officials). Then the twist: the Chefs were not allowed to prepare or cook anything themselves: they had to supervise a team of three students. Chef Allen said he "went down in flames, but it was beautiful." He'd developed a menu that was highly technical. One dish required his favorite technique, tunnel-boning, and none of his student-slaves had received the appropriate training. And then there was the tri-color risotto. All in all, it sounded like quite the adventure, and it appears that Chef Glen (who substituted for Chef Joseph briefly last month) will be supervising our final days at CCA. Good luck, sports fans.

Musical Interlude with Soup

Yesterday, my parents sponsored their annual "Soup Off," timed this year to coincide with the "holiday" visit — finally! — of my brother and his family from Denver. Soup Day is an opportunity for my mother to invite but not cook: she supplied bread and dessert, and the rest of us arrived with big pots. More than one person remarked that his normal driving skills were muffled by the need to keep the pot upright. More than one of us used a bungee cord to keep the lid on the All-Clad. My, but we're an enterprising bunch.

I made French Onion using roasted vegetable stock — turns out we had more than one vegetarian in attendance. We also had Thai Chicken, Lentil, Borscht, Sausage and Bean, Tomato, and a big pot of Jambalaya. Somebody tried to start a debate as to whether or not Jambalaya could be classified as a soup, but the debate fizzled out. We were more interested in eating than arguing.

The group at my end of the room favored the chicken and orzo in a lemony broth: Kelsey said it was called "Chilly Willy" or something, and man, I love the Internet. Now we have the recipe for Chilly Willy's Avocado Soup. Try it with a dollop of sour cream on top!

My brother Tim made me a mix CD titled, "Songs of Change (and Change is Good)." It's sort of the soundtrack to this blog, and here's the song list:

Nothing Lies Still Long Pell Mell
Once In A Lifetime Talking Heads
7/4 (Shoreline) Broken Social Scene
1000 Pounds Superchunk
The Race Is On Again Yo La Tengo
You're Just A Baby Belle & Sebastian
Some Days Are Better Than Others U2
Strobo Acceleration Stereolab
Painter In Your Pocket Destroyer
Happy The Rolling Stones
Black And White Town Doves
Palmcorder Yajna The Mountain Goats
Shelter From The Storm Bob Dylan
River Girls Tanya Donelly
Black And Blue Tilly & The Wall
Passenger Seat Death Cab For Cutie
Walk Into The Sea Low
I Believe R.E.M.
Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want The Smiths
If I Had A Boat Lyle Lovett

"Trust in your calling, make sure your calling's true
Think of others, the others think of you
Silly rule golden words make, practice, practice makes perfect,
Perfect is a fault, and fault lines change"
R.E.M., "I Believe"

A Real Rock Star?

Demo today: Striped bass (a small round fish, as opposed to a large round fish, like salmon); a whole New York strip ("This is the ugliest piece of meat I've ever seen," was Chef's reaction to it, "but I'll cut it for you anyway"); and tunnel boning on a chicken. Basically, this means removing the skin and meat off the chicken, starting at the tail end, trimming with the boning knife, bit by bit, around and around, until you've pretty much taken off the chicken's clothes, as it were, leaving a naked skeleton. Then you have a neat package of chicken skin and meat that you can stuff with... whatever. "You should learn how to do this so that you can assure your parents that their money is being well spent."

No time for tunnel boning today. Since it's Friday, the cases and cases of product in the walk-in refrigerator needs to be fabricated and repackaged, so production was heavy. I was on Sausage again. First project was pork shoulder, deboned; half is tied into a nice pork roast (another competency completed), and the rest gets trimmed and ground up — between three of us, we ended up with three roasts and 12 pounds of ground meat. Then we put the brined sausages into the smoker — just a matter of laying the sausages on racks, filling the chip bin with soaked wood chips, and pushing a button. I cut six chickens into boneless breasts and legs/thighs, then spent lots of time packaging meat and fish. (It's a really, really great machine!)

Much of what we prepared was headed to "The Crypt," the butchery walk-in freezer. It's a room about eight feet square, with metal racks on three sides, and it's clear that somebody once intended it to be orderly. There are some taped labels on some shelves, but mostly, it's packed full of big packages of what looks like mystery meat, along with boxes (3 cases of rabbit, for example) and sheet pans wrapped in plastic. We weren't able to find a "pork" shelf so defaulted to "veal," and we clearly weren't the first visitors to stray from the rules. Midway through the morning, after several trips into The Crypt, I mentioned it to the Chef: "Someone needs to organize the freezer." He smiled at me, his eyes twinkling, and said, "Someone will." I hope I didn't just make it my job.

We often have visitors to our classrooms, usually placement counselors giving prospective students the school tour. Aaron and I had a good sideways look at today's guest, who chatted for a while with the Chef while we attacked the business at hand. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, with carefully bed-tousled hair, wearing a long blue cotton coat with buttons up the front — like a florist (or a butcher?). A camel-colored scarf was carelessly, carefully draped around his neck. I couldn't see his shoes. "What do you think?" I asked Aaron. "I think he's looking to spend his music fortune on culinary school, then he'll be opening a restaurant." Aaron burst into laughter. "I can totally see it!" Rock on, dude.

When I emptied my locker, Derrick was alongside, changing into his sneakers. He always has fancy ones, always looking new. Today's were especially sweet. "Do you have a lot of shoes?" I asked. "Well, I guess you could say I'm a collector," he said, a bit sheepish. "I know all about that," I said. "My son got two pair of shoes for Christmas, the ones he asked for." Adam has a sole mate.

Sorry. It's Friday.

Flashback: December 2006. A Story.

We had no textbook for Food Science, just a series of power-point slides that Chef Joseph put together himself. He began his first lecture with an admonition: “If you know any science, keep it to yourself.” Apparently we were going to learn only the most basic concepts related to the topic. Chef described a previous student, a “career-changer” (with a sideways look at me) who was a genetic engineer. He’d needlessly interrupted the Chef’s lessons in order to dig deeper into esoteric scientific principles that had nothing to do with the narrowly framed lecture. We’d been warned. Jordan was visibly miffed – he’d taken honors chemistry in high school, and was ready to demonstrate his expertise.

When Chef defined “quiescence” as the ideal quality that manufacturers want in ultra-premium ice cream, I wrote it down in my class notebook, with a little arrow to remind me to look it up. It’s a pretty word to say, but I was unable to find any reference whatsoever to the quiescent properties of ice cream. In fact, the definition of “quiescence” is “a state of being quiet, still, at rest, dormant, inactive”: maybe ice cream hibernates when it’s in the freezer? At any rate, he mis-spoke, but according to his earlier instructions, I kept it to myself.

When we discussed the five tastes (bitter, salty, sweet, sour, umami), Chef Joseph instructed us to remember “umami” as “the flavor of mother’s milk.”

“It’s bland, without high points of flavor. Everything is there, but it’s flat.”

I knew this to be wrong. Even without an internet search, I could tell you that umami, in our Western-centric view of the world, has recently been “discovered,” but it’s a flavor that’s long been recognized and appreciated in Asian cuisine. The word does not mean “mother’s milk,” but translates from the Japanese as “savory”; it’s the meaty quality found in mushrooms and ripe tomatoes. MSG is a salt that directly tags the umami receptors on our tongues.

But I kept it to myself. Chef said umami is bland. He quizzed us in class, in preparation for our tests: “What is umami?” And the “correct” answer: “Bland.” Or, “Like mother’s milk” (the very idea of which was clearly made some of my young classmates a tad squeamish).

Well, it wouldn’t be the first time I’d had to unlearn what I learned from a so-called “authority”. Chef Joseph clearly knew what he was talking about when he showed us how to mend a broken sauce, or re-clarify a muddy consommé. With the science, perhaps he was less reliable. But Chef is Chef. Chief. King. Boss.

While Chef Joseph was on sick leave, Chef Glen took charge for a couple of days. We began the Nutrition module, and our homework included chapters one and two of Nutrition for Foodservice and Culinary Professionals. There it was, on page five: a clear contradiction. “Umami, the fifth basic taste, differs from the traditional sweet, salty, and bitter tastes by providing a savory, sometimes meaty sensation.” Nowhere in the subsequent paragraph were the words “bland” or even “mother’s milk.”

Chef Glen greeted the class in his typically sarcastic manner: “Good morning, future certified master chefs of Amedica,” but before he could begin his lecture, timid Silvia was bravely waving her hand. “Chef, can you clarify the definition of ‘umami’? Chef Joseph told us it means ‘bland’.” A generalized rustling and murmur began to rise in the room, as Silvia was clearly not alone in reading the assignment. Chef Glen was unambiguous in his response: “He said that? Are you sure? That’s totally incorrect. It’s a big flavor, meaty, like cheese and mushrooms. I’m gonna have to talk with him.” By this time, Andy was quoting chapter and verse from the textbook, while the Chef nodded in agreement.

Nadeen walked in about that time, late, per normal. Without Chef Joseph’s eagle eye towards the uniform code, she didn’t bother to remove the crocheted brimmed hat (white, green, orange) that she wore over her uniform cap. She slid into her seat, quick to catch up with the discussion at hand. She spoke up over several simultaneous conversations. “That’s what I thought!” she exclaimed. “I knew “umami” didn’t mean “bland.” It’s like OOOOOOOH, MOMMY, that’s good!!!” Individual snickers combined to create full-blown laughter. Silvia announced to her side of the room, “I’ll never be able to forget what it means now.”

When Chef Joseph returned a couple of days later, he resumed his in-class quizzing, now in preparation for the Nutrition final. When he asked for a definition of “umami,” the class responded in unison, “bland, “ while he nodded approvingly. We knew he was wrong, but we kept it to ourselves.

Sausage and Chicken Wings!

Finally, we got to EAT!

While we finished production and cleaned up, Chef Allen cooked up all the chicken wings (drummies and flats, some frenched) that we've collected in the last couple of days. Half of them were buffalo style (mild and extra-spicy), half crunchy, without sauce. Yum. And I brought my coffee, also. A big improvement.

After a group demo on beef tenderloin, pork shoulder (buttress, to the in-crowd), and duck (same as chicken, only different), we got to work. I was on the sausage team today, and we stuffed about 25 pounds of pork meat into hog casings. It was ground and seasoned as sweet Italian yesterday by another team. It's a fun process that I've done at home using my KitchenAid mixer (I'll tell you the lobster sausage story sometime: one of my truly disasterous "company dinner" experiences). I twisted links while Ronaldo ran the stuffer (which is essentially a big press with a hand crank and a spigot at the bottom where you attach the stuffing tube.)

Elsewhere, people were skinning and fileting more salmon as well as striped bass; trimming beef tenderloins (we receive them "ASIS" which means that about 60% of the total weight is fat, and needs to be cut off); and cutting apart ducks. Some of the sausage team also turned pork shoulder halves into a tied roast + cut up stew meat, but I was sausage girl all morning. Once the links were finished, I made a brine by combining a pound of brown sugar, a pound of salt, spices (I used pepper, pickling spices and bay leaf); then added 1/2 gallon of water and brought the mixture to a boil. That was poured into a container and cooled with 1/2 gallon of ice. Once the brine reached room temperature, we added about 10 pounds of sausage links, weighted them down with plates, and refrigerated them. Tomorrow, they'll be smoked. We hung the rest of the links on long thick metal skewers in the walk in, where they'll dry out a bit and cure.

(When Chef Allen gave me verbal directions for the brine, he said, "Mix two pounds of brown sugar, one pound of salt, and seasonings...." When I asked what kind, he said, "Your decision!" When I asked how much, he said, "As my aunt Bootsie used to say, 'Why bother putting it in if you can't taste it?'" Seriously. Aunt Bootsie.)

Then I was part of the MultiVac team, and we packaged 6 pair of salmon sides, skinned and boned; 20 pounds of cubed pork for stew; 8 beef tenderloins; 40 duck legs & thighs; a pound of duck fat; a bag of tenderloin chain (a long piece of fatty meat that gets removed when you trim the tenderloin); 20 chicken breasts, airline style, and a small package of duck tenders. It's a very efficient machine, and makes me want to explore a consumer version.

At the start of our lecture, Chef Allen asked, "Who reads the label on chicken in the grocery store?" Apparently mine was the only raised hand. "I think we'll have a few more hands raised, after today's lecture," he said. We talked about UDSA grading and inspections ("I don't think much of the government in general, but I have complete confidence in the safety of our meat."), and about chicken sizing and relative pricing. Chef defined terms: "free range" means that the chicken has access to at least 2 feet of outdoor space, "though chickens are stupid and huddle together in a corner." "Natural" means minimal processing, no artificial additives, no antibiotics, and no animal byproducts as feed. "Organic" means natural and free range, and the grower must be able to certify that for at least three years, they've used at least 51% organic feed. Some of my classmates were amazed to learn the kinds of things poultry (and other livestock) are fed. (But the reason they're not reading the labels, really, is that they're not shopping in supermarkets. They don't cook for themselves, most of them.)

We ended class with a short video showing a chicken processing plant. Suffice it to say that the film began with a crateload of chickens being dumped out of their individual cages onto a conveyor. It's all very efficient. Can't get too squeamish about it, though, because man, those wings were good.

Why is it called fabrication when you're cutting it into smaller pieces?

Everywhere you turn, there are mysteries.

Today, Chef Allen demonstrated the skinning and filleting of a salmon as well as a couple of advanced poultry techniques: the "matson" or "sweetheart" breast (two airline breasts, connected), and boneless, skinless legs and thighs. (The thermostat is set at 60°, though the cold air ceiling blowers are on constantly. It feels warmer once the sun comes up.) Our routine: after the Chef's demo, we break into teams: Hooves, Poultry, Seafood, and Sausage. (The groups of 3 or 4 change daily, both the assignment and the members.) Each team will have a fabrication assignment, and then we work like crazy until about 10:30. We do a major clean up, including removing chairs and mats, and mopping and squeegy-ing the floor, then have lecture for about an hour.

Chef started with the salmon, about 12 pounds or so, and advised us to handle it delicately. Fish is more fragile than meat or poultry, because of the way the flesh is formed in flakes, so no throwing it around! (Apparently those fish throwers in Seattle haven't talked this through with Chef Allen...) Don't slam it around, don't carry it by the tail; pick it up by the head and gills, or cradle it in two hands. Also, don't wash the fish (which should naturally smell clean and oceany, not like ammonia) until you're ready to work with it: the stickyish slime on the skin serves as a protective coating to keep it fresh.

Talking about the difference between farm-raised and wild salmon, Chef asked, "Is anybody Green in here? Like 'Save the World'?" It's hard to know sometimes whether he really wants an answer. He prefers wild salmon because the environmental effects of farm-raising are substantial, and farm-raised fish are more apt to harbor disease and/or high levels of antibiotics.

Salmon "fabrication" is all about a sharp long knife and the right angle. The major tip is to keep the salmon (on a towel, to keep it from slipping around) parallel and close to the edge of your cutting board. Then your knife can be close to the surface of the board and your knuckles are out of the way.

Take care to remove ALL the bones. "How many bones does it take to ruin a salmon dinner?" "One."

We save the heads for the stewards who clean up behind us. Just salmon heads, though. It's for soup. On the other hand, we do keep whitefish carcasses, but not salmon — it's too oily to use for stock.

The goal, when boning out the legs and thighs, is to end up with a lumpy section of chicken meat, marred only by a dime-sized hole (where the kneecap was, before you carefully removed it.) The unasked question of the day: do chickens really have knees?

I was initially disappointed to be on the Poultry team today, but I ended up completing two of my competencies (there are eight different cuts that the Chef will have to sign off on before the end of the session): the basic and the advanced chicken. We had no specific assignments, so we just cut apart chickens until time was up, then sorted and vacuum packed the results. It felt good actually, to just put my head down and cut cut cut. But the other teams were having fun. Hooves needed to fulfill a kitchen request for tenderloin steaks, so three people trimmed whole tenderloins while a fourth cut beautiful portions. The Seafood team practiced their skinning and boning, and the Sausage people cut pork butt into roasts, then began processing the "scraps" for Italian sausage. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?

Well, some food, hopefully. There are three bad things about being at the North Campus. First, the walk from the parking garage up Polk Street, where people are still sleeping on the sidewalk and in doorways. It makes me alternately nervous and very sad. Second, the coffee thing. I didn't do anything about that today, which was a mistake. Tomorrow, for sure. And last, WE HAVEN'T EATEN ANYTHING IN CLASS. I was FAMISHED when I got home. This has got to stop!

It's Butchery, For Sure.

We all looked around suspiciously at the 15 or so "aliens" who joined us in the butchery class this morning. Turned out that they were re-directed to Beginning Garde Manger at the South Campus. We breathed a collective sigh of relief. Apparently we like our group as it is, and we're not interested in getting to know "strangers". When I saw Tashana from down the hall this morning, she said, "Oh, there you are!" and the "you" was "somebody I know." I felt the same way.

We've all returned. Even Jim, who was on time, and in uniform. Nadeen showed up about ten, complaining about traffic (!!!) and then she grumbled when Chef excused us 20 minutes early. "I drove all that way for an hour?" She has issues.

So. The classroom, as rumored, is COLD. I'd say it's 55° or so. Tomorrow, I'll ask. You can wear layers, but nothing that will show outside your uniform. I had a long sleeved thermal t-shirt on, but it wasn't much help during lecture. Once the knives started to fly, things warmed up. We also got nice plastic disposable aprons to wear over our coats — I came home practically clean. The North Campus doesn't offer free coffee, though. I may have to step up my morning routine and bring my own Peet's. (I have a nice thermal mug decorated with the Frame Relay Forum logo — it's probably a collectible!)

The butchery kitchen is filled with six foot butcher block tables with stainless legs and shelves. Around the edges are stainless tables topped with meat grinders and sausage presses, and a nifty MultiVac vacuum packing machine which Chef adores. He spent quite a while describing its use and clean-up, and vacuum-packed a folded towel to show us how effective it is. He said it'll keep refrigerated meat fresh for three to six weeks, and prevents freezer burn if you're storing longer.

Chef Allen himself has elaborate well-trimmed facial hair and a little pot belly (which one of them doesn't?) He clearly loves butchery, and he's enthusiastic and engaging. His number one goal, he told us, is "to get you a job, and keep you a job. You will not get a job by knowing when the chicken was first domesticated. Although I will teach you that, too." In the next three weeks (minus a day for yesterday's in-service, minus a day for the MLK holiday next Monday), we will learn how to butcher beef, lamb, veal, pork ("hooves"); fish and shellfish; and poultry, at least chicken, turkey, and duck. And we'll make sausage. Our butcher shop, such that it is, produces all the meats for the North Campus — the other classes, the student cafeteria, and the public dining room. So every day, we have a "production assignment" in addition to our demonstrations and lecture. Today we cut up 3 cases (birds = 75) of chicken.

Before getting on with the dismemberment, we got to know Chef Allen a little bit. He's a Napa Valley boy, born and raised (he said his dad went to school with Robert when he still pronounced his last name "Mondaaavi" instead of "Mondahvi".) He's gonna teach us "the Gary Danko way, and the $9.99 all-you-can-eat buffet way." He told us that we were "lucky suckers": once we have him as a teacher, he will be with us through the whole experience and into the "real world". Also: "I think I'm the best damn Chef here." He pointed to the embroidered Cordon Bleu medallion on his coat front, and said, "We'll learn 'Le French way,' eh? And then we'll do it how they do it in Chinatown." He brandished his heavy cleaver.

And if you lose a finger, you get an F.

We received three deliveries during class, and Chef took the opportunity to remind us that purveyors are always out to make a buck. Knowing the jargon and all the dirty tricks will make us better consumers. But: be nice to your delivery guys. One hand can wash the other. Offer him a day-old danish and a cup of coffee, but don't keep him waiting. He's got 16 other stops to make.

We also learned some rules particular to the butchery classroom. Chef Allen says they're holdovers, "homages" to past butchers "who may have been a tad OCD". First, we fold and store the clean blue kitchen towels that get delivered in a trash-sized plastic bag, and they get stacked neatly on shelves. (In the skills kitchen, we just grabbed the towels from out of the bag.) And at the end of the day, the mops and brooms must be hung with the tops of their sticks in an even horizontal line. (The handles are clearly visible from the front of the classroom where the Chef stands when he lectures. Uneven handles could easily distract an OCD type.)

Chef told us that the correct first answer to any question asked in the butchery kitchen is "money." We learn to cut apart large pieces of meat into individual portions because they're so much less expensive. For example: a package of boneless skinless chicken breasts costs the same as a whole chicken. So with the chicken, you're getting the legs, the thighs and the wings for free, plus you can use the carcass for stock. I'll never buy chicken parts again.

I can say that, because I have the correct tools (a boning knife) and the Method, which I practiced on six chickens today:

First, remove the wishbone, using your knife and your fingers to wiggle it out. If you leave it in, you can't get the entire half breast out in one piece.

Then, with the legs facing you, use a "cut cut" motion to slash the skin between the thighs and the breasts. Flip the chicken over and twist the legs to dislocate the thigh bones. Turn the chicken over again, and push on the legs to expose the thigh joint.

(Chef Allen: "Use LONG SHALLOW STROKES." It's like a mantra.)

Point the tail towards you and cut one leg away from the body, until you get to the cartilage where the thigh bone previously resided. Cut down to sever the ligament that holds the thigh to the body, and pull the leg away from the carcass. If you do this correctly, you will remove the "oyster" along with the thigh. Cut through the rest of the skin that attaches the leg to the carcass. I found it harder to do the right leg than the left, but eventually I achieved the Holy Grail of chicken butchery: a carcass with two completely bare curved bones where the oysters once lodged.

You turn the chicken with the wings towards you, and use LONG SHALLOW STROKES to cut down one side of the keel bone, turning your knife as you reach the ribs. Sever the joint where the wing meets the carcass. Remove the tender.

You can then remove the wing (slice it off), and slip off the skin and you're left with a boneless, skinless breast. Or, remove all but the "flat," the wing section closest to the breast. You can "french" the end of the flat, pushing the meat down towards the breast and cleaning the bone: this is an "airline cut". Who knew.

(The other two parts of the wing are called the drummie and the tip. Tips go with the rest of the carcass into stock. You can do fancy things with the drummie and the flat, most of which are good with beer.)

We cut and cut and cut. We used LONG SHALLOW STROKES. We ended up with pans full of parts, neatly wrapped, and a box full of carcasses, gold for the stock Chef. Clean-up was different: NO DISHES!!!! but tables to sanitize and scrape, product to wrap and deliver to the various kitchens, towels to fold.

Our grade will be 1/3 participation, attendance, teamwork; 1/3 "competency" (we are evaluated as we go, on 8 specific cuts), and 1/3 written final. In addition to the required "cuts," which are mandated by the CCA, Chef will be teaching us some more advanced cuts, such as "tunnel-boning" (turducken!!).

And in preparation for tomorrow, we were fed one more interesting tidbit. "Pork butt" is actually a cut from the shoulder; it was originally called a pork "buttress" (as in architectural support), but it's now commonly called "butt" though it has nothing to do with the rear end of the pig. "Why do they do that? SO THEY CAN CONFUSE YOU!!" We have animal diagrams with parts to identify (and it'll be on the final). It's like maps in geography, only different.

It doesn't look like I'll have the chance to cut any heads off any chickens, but we may be butchering a whole pig.

The Program, to date

Lisa's great at asking the pointed questions, so at lunch yesterday she had me thinking hard about my experience so far, and whether or not it's met my expectations.

So: I liked Chef Joseph. Of the Basic Skills teachers, he seems (anecdotally) to be the best, and I'm glad I was in his class. His range of experience is broad; he tells a good story, always with a moral; his kitchen skills are impressive; his expectations are high. And he is a kind man who clearly enjoys students. He took a lot of time to enforce, and reinforce, the uniform code, study habits, and the importance of taking personal responsibility, always with an eye to the realities of the workplace. He assumed that we will all be in charge of other people some day, and his lessons were often framed in that manner. He regularly stressed some of the non-glamorous parts of the job, including hiring and firing, OSHA inspections, selecting vendors, unhappy customers. He urged us to Cook Every Day.

While the 2-week Safety & Sanitation course was intense (culminating in the national certification exam), the other two classroom modules, Food Science and Nutrition, covered the material very superficially. The expected project for Nutrition was never actually assigned, and undoubtedly the Chef's absence for radiation therapy had some impact on the coherence of the lectures we received, from both him and our substitute, Chef Glen. I must say, though, that the level of training in the kitchen never wavered, as we received lots of attention and instruction from our assigned chefs as well as from the other CCA chefs who were in "our" kitchen during class time.

Our kitchen skills curriculum started with stocks and progressed through sauces and soups, then on to the various basic methods of cooking protein: sautéing, frying, roasting, braising, grilling. It was never actually acknowledged that we were working our way through the basics of French cuisine, nor was there any attempt to frame our lessons with any historical perspective. For example, I would have appreciated a timeline of the significant people and discoveries that provide the underpinning of classic cooking, as well as discussion of other culinary traditions. Perhaps some of my future Chef-teachers will provide some of this perspective, but it doesn't appear to be part of the "official" curriculum, and I think it should be.

Monday is a staff in-service day, so I don't resume school until Tuesday, this time at the North Campus, up the block from City Hall. I still have to sort my uniform into daily stacks (to prevent a recurrence of apronlessness), but I did dig out my thermal t-shirt from the bottom drawer. Apparently the butchery classroom is refrigerated.

Don't Try This At Home

Last night, the menu was Roasted Half Chicken with Pan Gravy, Mashed Potatoes and Peas, and I started out by butchering the whole chicken myself. Figured it could be a "before" experience, with butchery class starting next week. (Actually, I cut each half in half, so truth in advertising requires that I restate the menu as "Roasted Quarter Chicken...")

I tossed the back and giblets into the freezer for stock, stuffed maitre d' butter under the chicken skin, and seasoned the pieces heavily with salt and pepper before dusting them with flour. I melted some clarified butter in my big skillet, browned the chicken thoroughly on both sides, and then popped the pan into a 400 degree oven. Potatoes happened. Wine happened. A bowl game and the Warriors happened, so there was no Jeopardy. I added a couple glugs of white wine to the pan about seven, and a half a can of low-salt chicken stock about fifteen minutes later. At 7:25, I pulled out the pan and set it stove-top to finish up the gravy. First, I removed the chicken onto a separate dish, and put it back into the oven (now off) along with plates to be warmed. Then I grabbed a teaspoon to taste the liquid in the pan.

David heard the true feeling behind my "OW. OW. OW." and rushed into the kitchen while he was still saying "Everything alright in there?" By that time, I had my right hand under a stream of cold water. Silly girl — I didn't leave a hot pad on the skillet handle to remind myself that it had been in a 400 degree oven for the last 45 minutes. I immediately took three extra strength Tylenol, and set a extra tall glass of ice water at my place setting, which I "hugged" with my hand during dinner. Hugged the water, drank the wine. The chicken was delicious. (And fully cooked.)

As we cleared the table, David asked about my hand, and I told him that the meds were kicking in. He asked if he needed to take me to the hospital. I declined the offer. He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, and said, "Minus five points."

Lessons to Carry Forward

Not exactly "baggage". More like high-quality luggage. Here are some things I learned (or re-remembered) in 2006 that I want to bring along in the coming months (they'll all fit into the overhead compartment, or under the seat in front of me):

1) Don't dream it, be it.
Let's all sing along with Dr. Frank-N-Furter.

2) Start with the end in mind. [The second Habit.]
For me, this is most relevant in the kitchen (at school and at home): planning and acting in order to get the finished dish "on the table" at the correct time. More broadly, I'm keeping my ultimate goal in mind, after this cooking school adventure: a livelihood as a food writer; financial success; travel opportunities; autonomy and independence.

3) Make more thoughtful purchases. (Use Amazon's Wish List.)
Well, having taken on tuition costs, I've spent my wad, as they say, for a long long long long long long long long long long time. My impulse buying tendencies must be strongly curbed. It's just as easy to put it on a Wish List as it is to buy it, but much less expensive.

4) Use what's in the refrigerator.
A corollary to #3 above, with the subsidiary lessons, "Eat more fruit," and "Have salad for dinner at least twice a week." And "Make more interesting lunches for David."

5) You usually have to participate in an argument to have one.
Make love, not war.

6) Don't assume you'll remember. Write it down.
A "writerly" habit to cultivate.

7) Spend time with people you like.
Duh.

8) Exercise: do it.
Duh. Again.