White Jacket Required

by Jenna Weber

  I cut an onion the way Chef demonstrated—peeling it, slicing it in half, and then making vertical and horizontal cuts, leaving the root ends attached. This was supposed to produce perfect small dice, all uniform and complete. After chopping, though, I noticed that some of my dice were quite a bit larger than the others. With the clock ticking, I had no choice but to put them all in a ramekin and let them go. After my onion was chopped, my orange was supremed, and my shallot and garlic were minced until they were barely recognizable, I took my silver sheet pan and ramekins to the front to be graded.

  “I’m finished, Chef,” I said as I stood there, rather awkwardly, with my large tray held out before me.

  Chef didn’t say anything at first, just made a low grunting noise while he finished jotting something down in his book. Finally, he looked up. “Ah, the enemy,” he said with a grin. “Let’s see what you got, Weber.”

  Immediately he went straight for my misshapen oranges. “These are not how I demonstrated. See how yours falls apart when picked up? You were overzealous with your knife. Be gentle. I could not serve these.” My cheeks began to burn, and I could only nod. He then picked at my onion dice, separating the good ones from the longer pieces. “These need to be uniform. All the same size, perfect quarter-inch dice. Every one of them. You need to throw away the ones that do not fit that mold.” He marked some numbers in his grade book and looked up at me. “You better get going, Miss Weber.”

  I hustled off to start on my pasta. This had been the first real test of my culinary skills, and I felt like I had already failed. I had one hour left, and Chef had told us that on this day, about eighty-five percent of students get a zero for lack of finishing. Thirty minutes later, after my torchon (hand towel) almost caught fire on my gas burner, my onions hit the oil without any hiss of a sizzle, which meant the oil had not warmed up enough. I finished with only five minutes to spare, but at least I finished. I anxiously seasoned my pasta with salt and pepper and piled it into a large stainless-steel bowl before taking it up to Chef to taste and grade.

  This time: “Not enough salt.” He chewed on a diced vegetable. “Vegetables are cooked nicely, and so is the pasta, but there is not nearly enough salt in this . . . and a little too much oil.” He gave me a four out of five as my final grade for the day and left me to pile my greasy, undersalted pasta into a Styrofoam cup to have for dinner that night at home. A lot of my classmates were still struggling with their sauté pans and water that was refusing to boil. I exhaled. One day down, fourteen more to go.

  I ditched the pasta and came home that afternoon completely exhausted, bearing a couple of potatoes and leeks that Chef had given me to “practice” with. Helen was just waking up from a nap and laughed when she saw my arms full of dirty potatoes.

  “More pancakes?” she asked.

  I just gave her a glare. “Ugh, I wish. Chef is making me practice my knife skills with these . . . part of my ‘homework.’ I didn’t do as well as I’d hoped on the first graded plate, so I guess this is the consequence.”

  “Well, at least we know we’ll never go hungry!” Helen laughed. “Can we make mashed potatoes with the leftovers? I’m craving something creamy and comforting.”

  I nodded and immediately got to work, peeling the potatoes and slicing them directly down the middle to start and then into perfect medium-size dice according to Chef’s instruction. “Honestly, it’s not totally what I thought so far . . . but it’s still fun,” I said as I chopped. “I just want to get past all this initial stuff and move on to the fun, creative cooking.”

  “Yeah, but don’t you have to be sure you know the basics before you can move on? It’ll all pay off in the end,” Helen replied. Cooking at home had already begun to take on a whole new meaning without Chef constantly in my ear and mind and without the classical music droning. Even my dreams at night were consumed with chopping and slicing, and at times I swore I could hear Chef shouting in the background. However, by the end of that first week my vegetable-dicing skills were almost professional and I was proud that my practice at home had really paid off.

  Pasta with Sautéed Vegetables and Pesto

  Serves 4

  I love this tasty vegetarian pasta dish but have been known to add chicken sausage to kick it up a notch. During the summer, I make big batches of pesto and freeze it so that I can enjoy this dish whenever the mood strikes.

  For the pesto

  3 cups packed basil leaves

  3 garlic cloves

  ½ cup extra-virgin olive oil, divided

  Juice of ½ lemon

  ¼ cup grated Parmesan cheese

  ½ teaspoon sea salt, or to taste

  ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper, or to taste

  For the pasta

  8 ounces dried bow-tie pasta

  1 tablespoon canola oil

  1 small summer squash, diced

  1 red bell pepper, diced

  1 yellow bell pepper, sliced

  Freshly grated Parmesan cheese to taste

  Freshly ground black pepper to taste

  Make the pesto: Add the basil, garlic, and 2 tablespoons of the oil to a high-speed blender or food processor and blend on high until smooth. With the blender on low speed, slowly add the remaining oil in a stream, then add the lemon juice and cheese and continue blending until smooth. Transfer the pesto to a bowl and add the salt and pepper.

  Make the pasta: Cook the pasta in a pot of boiling salt water until al dente, then drain and set aside. Dry the pot and return it to the stovetop. Heat the oil in the pot over medium-high heat until hot but not smoking then add the squash and bell peppers and cook, stirring, until just tender, about 5 minutes.

  Add the pasta with about ½ cup of the pesto, or to taste, to the pot with the sautéed vegetables and toss to combine. Sprinkle with the freshly grated Parmesan cheese and black pepper and serve.

  Spicy Roasted Root Vegetables

  Serves 4

  Aside from being a great way to practice your knife skills, this side dish is easy and delicious. Sweet potatoes or butternut squash make nice additions when they are available.

  2 carrots, peeled and diced

  1 rutabaga, peeled and diced

  1 turnip, peeled and diced

  1 large parsnip, peeled and diced

  Splash of olive oil

  4 tablespoons minced parsley

  Sea salt and pepper to taste

  Cayenne pepper to taste

  Preheat oven to 400°F. Keep all medium-size diced vegetables separate in little piles or bowls. Combine the carrots and rutabaga in a roasting pan. Roast for 5 minutes. Add the turnip and parsnips, drizzle with oil, and continue to roast until tender, about 5 more minutes. When the vegetables are tender, remove from oven, sprinkle with parsley, and season with salt and cayenne pepper.

  Chicken-Pepperoni Parmesan

  Serves 4

  This is a great way to jazz up traditional Chicken Parmesan. Serve with spaghetti and additional sauce on the side.

  2 eggs

  ¼ cup milk

  2 cups panko breadcrumbs

  ½ cup flour

  4 chicken breast halves, pounded thin

  Salt and pepper to taste

  2 tablespoons canola oil

  1 large jar marinara sauce

  ¼ cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese

  1 cup shredded mozzarella

  2 ounces pepperoni (I use turkey pepperoni)

  Preheat the oven to 450°F.

  In a shallow dish or pie plate, combine eggs and milk. Put panko in another shallow dish, and spread out flour in a third shallow dish.

  Season chicken with salt and pepper. Batter one breast at a time by dunking it in the egg-milk mixture, then the flour and finally the panko. Repeat until all chicken breast halves have been covered with batter.

  In a large ovenproof skillet over medium heat, heat canola oil until shimmering. Add the chicken breasts and lightly fry until golden on both sides and cooked through, about 8 minutes.

&n
bsp; Cover with marinara sauce, Parmesan, and mozzarella. Finally, lay the pepperoni slices on top.

  Transfer the skillet to the oven and bake for 15 minutes.

  7

  MAKE THEM FEEL LIKE YOU CARE

  I WAS DUE IN TO THE RESTAURANT AT FOUR O’CLOCK AND probably wouldn’t get off until close to eleven, seeing as it was Friday night, the busiest night of the week at Roy’s. On the kitchen counter were stacks of my notes from class, recipes for chicken stock and béchamel sauce, grease stains on the edges. I pushed them aside and wrote a quick note to Helen that I had some pasta primavera leftovers in the fridge from class and that I would probably be home late. Then, I untied my sneakers, flung them across the room, and hopped in the shower. I had a fresh burn on the inside of my right wrist, an unfortunate result of letting the tender skin touch a five hundred–degree sheet pan full of Parmesan tuiles straight from the oven. The hot shower burned my blistery skin, and I held up my arm to shield it. Once upon a time, I had unblemished skin and manicured nails. Now my arms more resembled a line cook’s and my fingernails those of a dishwasher. I didn’t really mind, though, other than when I got odd stares and glances at the restaurant. I gathered people thought I had a cutting problem, which always made for interesting conversation.

  After my shower, I pulled on my standard work outfit—a black A-line skirt, black sweater, and heels. It felt so odd to wear nice clothes after running around in baggy checkered pants and an oversized chef jacket all day. I felt like I was constantly playing two parts, with one foot still in the world of heels and pearls, and the other in that of grease and frying pans. I got to work early, as usual, so that I could pick up some tea from the Starbucks next door to sip at the hostess stand. As I walked through the restaurant doors, Laura immediately looked up and gave me a big, warm smile.

  I noticed the restaurant was just starting to fill up for the night; it was mostly families with small children occupying the roomy booths along the wall.

  “How are you, Laura?” I asked her while setting my purse down below the stand.

  “Good. Tonight should be a busy one,” she said. “We have about 140 on the books with mostly late reservations.” She made a face. We both hated late reservations because the later people sat down to eat, the later we had to stay. I took my stand next to her and started preparing special birthday menus with pieces of colorful ribbon tucked inside. It was only 5:30, and we had about an hour until things really started to pick up.

  Just then, Tony walked out from the back office. The look on his face told me he was in another one of his classic moods, and more than anything I just wanted to stay out of his way. He walked right up to the hostess stand and stared at the computer for a moment.

  “Girls, the Greens are coming in tonight, and they had a really bad experience last time. I want both of you to make tonight the best night of their damn life, you hear me?” Tony was talking to both of us, but he was looking straight at me and just his presence almost made me start to sweat.

  “Of course, Tony,” Laura said. “They’re coming in at eight, so I’ll set their table up early with some Hawaiian flowers and a candle.”

  “Nice, Laura. Now you,” he said, pointing at me. “You need to start being more assertive with guests. Have conversations with them, get to know their babies, that kind of stuff. Make them feel like you care about them. That’s how people feel special and then want to come back. Don’t just stand up here like a stone. Do something with yourself!”

  I could feel my face start to burn. I had always been introverted, and there was nothing I hated more than confrontation. “Of course,” I said. “I’m sorry; I’ll really try to do better.”

  Tony stared at me for a second and then walked away without another word.

  “I know he seems hard, but I promise he’s like a teddy bear deep down,” Laura said sympathetically. “It took him forever to warm up to me, too. That’s totally normal.”

  “I hope so,” I said. “Between him and my chef-instructors at school, I constantly feel like I’m up in arms.”

  “Seriously . . . I don’t think Tony started liking me at all until I had worked here for a year. Before that he just thought I was some airhead, I think. I had to prove myself to him first by putting in the time here.” Laura shrugged. “Now he’s almost like my second dad or something. I know he’d help me out in any situation.”

  “Well, you’re lucky then. I still think he thinks I’m a dumb blonde,” I said right as the double doors swung open and a family of eight walked in.

  “Aloha!” Laura called out and I started to prepare four children’s menus with crayons. It was 6:45 now, and the rush was about to begin full-force. I was glad I’d packed a gingerbread cookie in my purse for later because I had a feeling I would need it. The cookie was from my favorite bakery in Tampa; I had picked up a few when I went home last weekend, and had hoarded them like gold ever since. The thick, spicy cookie was one of the best I had ever eaten, and though I’d tried numerous times, I had never been able to make my own as well as the bakery could.

  Around 9 p.m. the restaurant was still jam-packed. In an effort to please Tony, I had thrown myself into making absolutely sure the Greens had a wonderful dining experience; I had even stopped to chat at several other tables. Tony was in the back, shouting at the line cooks. He had sweat dripping off his bright red face and was throwing his hands around violently. I stood up at the hostess stand, sneaking bites of gingerbread cookie from my purse, and smiled to myself. Despite Tony and his crazy mannerisms, I still loved the intense atmosphere of the restaurant.

  A few of the cooks knew I was going to LCB, and one was even in my program. They had questioned me early on as to why I didn’t want to work in the kitchen with them, why I’d settled for a lowly front-of-house position. I just smiled and said it was temporary and this was what worked with my schedule. The real reason, though, was that the idea of working in the kitchen scared the heck out me. Working in a classroom kitchen under a chef-instructor’s supervision was one thing, but the thought of working on the line, making people’s dinners as quickly as I could, made me want to crawl into a hole and hide. I suppose that’s why I went into my program with the firm knowledge that I wanted to write about food rather than cook it. Writing was safe. I could hide behind my laptop and dodge the grease, the yelling, and the pressure that the kitchen brought every night. When you worked on the line, it almost seemed like you were on the front lines every single day. My quiet, conservative demeanor didn’t seem to fit with the back of the house, and I was fine with that, though it was always a topic of conversation with my peers at school.

  “Weber! What are you doing just standing there?” Suddenly Tony was behind me, and I could feel his hot breath on the back of neck.

  “I just got through booking some new Christmas Eve reservations,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  “I hired you to work, not just to stand there and look pretty,” he replied. “If you don’t have anything to do, you can go help Jason clear some tables. If you haven’t noticed, we’re slammed.” Tony’s voice offered no room for discussion, and I gritted my teeth and smiled.

  “Sure,” I said. I left the stand and made my rounds, picking up napkins, stacking dirty plates, and gathering silverware. Laura had been allowed to go home early, so it was just me now. I glanced at my watch and checked my phone for text messages. Finally, an hour later, the last of the tables was leaving and I wandered to the back, looking for a manager to ask if I could head out for the evening. As I walked back to the office, I heard laughter coming from the kitchen and glanced up to see Tony with his son on his shoulders, joking with the chef. The little boy was all smiles and was hugging Tony’s neck for dear life.

  So maybe he does have a soft side, I thought to myself. Laura had said that more than anything Tony loved kids, and that’s why Roy’s was so child friendly. We kept a big cabinet full of toys, games, and pillows up front near the hostess stand, and I had seen Tony playing with the children before
. It was as if kids were the crack in his “mean-guy” façade, and I had to admit, he wasn’t so intimidating with a cute little boy on his back.

  Tony saw me standing near the office and called over to me. “How’d it go, Weber?” he asked in a much friendlier voice than before.

  I smiled. “It was a good night. Busy, but everyone seemed happy, and the Greens seemed to have a wonderful time.”

  “Good,” Tony said. “Thanks for all your hard work tonight. I know your schedule is tight right now, but thanks for being here. You can go.” He turned his back and then returned to laughing with his son, leaving me standing there with my mouth wide open.

  A compliment from Tony? That had surely never happened before. After his hard words earlier in the night, I was convinced that he hated me. Now, the simplest of compliments completely made my night, and I smiled broadly while I walked back through the restaurant, out the door, and to my car. When I got back to the apartment, Helen was heating up some chicken soup in the microwave.

  “Hey, stranger!” she said. We really hadn’t seen much of each other lately, with my busy school and work schedule and her odd hours. She had dark circles around her eyes and looked like she had lost a little bit of weight off of her already very slender frame. I set my bag down on the counter and pulled up a bar stool.

  “How are you? How’s work?” I asked her.

  “It’s okay . . . not exactly how I pictured it going, but that’s life, you know?” Helen’s words were soft and hinted there was more to the story.

  “I can’t even imagine. I feel like all I do is complain about my busy schedule, but you’re over here hardly sleeping and potentially getting shot at!” I laughed to lighten the mood.