I did it. I not only survived, I hit full stride in my career. I started getting noticed for my efforts. My food received accolades from the local press, earning me carte blanche to cook how I wanted to. Everything was happening just as I planned. I was living the chef dream, according to the tried-and-tested recipe.
It is not an easy thing, being a female chef. Most of the recognized “Best Chefs” in the world are mostly men, white men. I also work in a world where French cuisine is considered the gold standard of what good food should be.
But I don’t fit into any of these molds.
When I started culinary school, more than half of my classmates were women. The further I progressed in my training, the more of them dropped to the wayside. One day I looked up to find myself the sole representative for my gender and race in the exacting four-star restaurant kitchen where I was working.
Yes, I’ve heard all the usual comments about why this happens: women are too soft, they have kids to give birth to and take care of, they can’t cook as well, and/or they don’t have the killer instinct. You name it, the list is endless. I’ve heard every rationale. My response: try facing down a hectic dinner service while you’ve got aching cramps, or are several month’s pregnant, and then let’s talk. Even better, try doing that while simultaneously dispelling the idea that only men can cook.
I was determined that if a guy could do something, I would do it better and faster. I became an uber- competitive, get-out-of-my-way tough girl in the kitchen. I stopped seeing myself as female. Nothing triggered my indignation faster than a guy reminding me that I had two x-chromosomes. I could out-swear, out-cook and out-last most of my male compatriots any day. It was my mark of success.
Funny how we women try to out-tough the guys, thinking this is how we win the game. Shouldn’t we know better by now? We are more than capable of holding our own, so why do we try so hard to prove what we already know is true?
I acclimated and acquiesced. I ignored all the delicious country-style Japanese food my Bachan, grandmother, cooked. I thought French cuisine was the epitome of what fine cooking should be. I gave up my Asian identity to fit in; I vanished. I studied French, not Japanese. I traveled to Europe and brushed off visiting Asia. I was such a Francophile, there were days when I would surprise myself when I saw black hair and Asian eyes staring back at me in the mirror.
It worked, for the last fifteen years anyway. I was a French chef in a French restaurant, creating French cuisine with the precision of an over-achieving Asian woman who’d had a Tiger Mom upbringing.
Three weeks ago, this all evaporated when my sister Jane called. My father’s memory has deteriorated to a point where he can no longer run the Ocean Breeze, the restaurant our family has owned for the past twenty-five years. As Jane described, my mother Karen is in no state to take over as chef. She is too preoccupied wanting her daughters to marry rich men or become doctors. More importantly, she can’t cook.
Mom is still determined none of her daughters will work in a restaurant, not if she can help it. She focuses on little else. It irks her to no end that I chose to be a cook, and that now she needs Jane and me to keep the Ocean Breeze open. She would be happy if we all just walked away and let the business fail. She’s always resented living in a small town, away from the gossip and bustle of the big city. She wants her daughters to live her dream, to get out of Dodge and have a big house in Suburbia.
Desperate for someone to run the kitchen, Jane called, asking me to come back. I knew how hard it was for her to do this. From our conversation, clearly, it was time for me to step into my dad’s kitchen shoes and become the chef.
Solid dependable Jane remained behind and kept the Ocean Breeze going through all the changes and parental drama over the years. She’s 32 years old now, and has never complained each time I flitted off to pursue my next big job or exciting break and left her behind.
Now, it’s my time to help her shoulder the burden. I told her I would be there in a month. I quit my job, packed my trusty old Volvo, and headed north.
At the end of my fourteen-hour drive, I pull into the parking lot of the Ocean Breeze. Dido barks once in recognition, and I stroke her silky yellow ears, whispering to her that yes, we are home again. The neon sign blinks erratically, but I know fixing it is still low on the priority list. There’s always something more urgent needing repairing. The neon sign’s Morse code signals how I feel: happy, sad, happy, sad.
The gravel crunches under my car wheels, the restaurant front door creaks open, and I see my family tumbling down the front steps. When I emerge from the car, Jane has me in her arms, hugging and crying at the same time. She pulls back, takes a look at me, and then hugs me once again. I see the joy in her eyes, and behind it, relief.
My mother walks up, and pulls herself up to her full almost-five feet. She stands back, her arms crossed. She looks me up and down, and then says “humph.” My father shuffles up, and I see him trying to place me in his mind. He struggles until I step towards him, telling him I am Elizabeth, his second daughter. He smiles hesitantly, and then shakes my hand awkwardly, saying he’s pleased to meet me.
My younger sister Lydia only thinks about herself, as usual, and doesn’t bother to welcome me back or ask about my drive. She pirouettes in the parking lot, showing off her cheerleader moves. For her, I am one more audience member to applaud her incredibly amazing teen-age life.
“Look, Lizzy, aren’t you jealous of my high kicks? I’m going to be captain of the cheer team this year!”
Mom dotes on Lydia and tells her how wonderful she is doing as she shepherds us into the house adjoining the restaurant. She chivies us with hayaku, urging us to “Hurry up, or dinner will get cold.” I reach over and place my arm around Jane’s shoulders and say in a hushed voice that the Dynamic Duo rides again.
Jane and I were left to our own devices when Mama and Dad worked to open the restaurant and establish it. No surprise that we became partners in crime. When our younger sister came along, we were the default babysitters and nannies. We balanced each other out. “Tick and Tock, Jane and Lizzy are cogs in a clock,” Dad would sing.
Jane wants to be an actress, to leave the running-a-restaurant mania behind and study drama. But she can’t escape the duties of the eldest child. Her dream has taken the backseat to family obligations. Besides, my mother would never let Jane pursue acting. For her, it's a fate worse than working in a kitchen. My mother discourages Jane and tells her, “Only tall blondes are movie stars.”
Jane carries my bags up to our bedroom, despite my protests to let me help. Looking around, I’m delighted to see my old teddy bear resting comfortably on my pillow. “Mr. Teddy is so excited you’re home,” Jane tells me gleefully, “and so am I!” We may be older now, but this room remains a time capsule of our two-sister sorority.
The futon, a heavy quilt that Mom sewed for me when I was four, is neatly arranged on my bed. It’s faded from too many washings to count. The once-bright pink fabric border and the purple floral calico are now a dusty rose and lavender, but I can’t get rid of it. It is rare tangible proof of love from a mother who seems perpetually disappointed in me.
Mr. Teddy was a gift from Dad when I turned seven, a consolation prize when my pleas for a puppy fell on Mom’s deaf ears. Bachan taught me how to crochet, and I fashioned an uneven vest out of leftover turquoise yarn for Teddy. He still wears his handmade vest as he sits expectantly on my bed, looking at me with his remaining button eye. I pull him into my arms and see where I’ve worn bald spots into his fur. I may be thirty now, but I don’t think I will ever outgrow Mr. Teddy and his every-ready hugs.
As the house settles down for the night, from our bedroom, I hear waves lapping against the shore. Jane breathes deeply and steadily, asleep and peaceful far off in Slumberland. I turn under my quilt and clutch Mr. Teddy closer to me. I hope I have made the right choice. I start counting sheep and eventually drift off to dream of roaring ticket machines, overcooked steaks and tidal waves drowning me
.
Chapter Four
Elizabeth
Back in the Saddle Again
I wake to the warbling voice of my mother scolding me for still being in bed. I glance at the clock on the nightstand, but it is not even six! My mother and I have a distinct difference of opinion about the definition of “early riser.”
I look over and discover Jane’s bed is empty, her blankets neatly folded and her pillow perfectly centered. With a sigh, I push myself out of bed and head down the hall for the bathroom.
Ten minutes later, I am downstairs in the kitchen, gratefully accepting the steaming cup of coffee Jane hands me. My mother fusses over toast and butter for my father, who sits at the table and smiles benignly, unaware of the commotion brewing around him.
Lydia rushes in, grabs a piece of toast, and then runs out the door, yelling over her shoulder something about cheer leading practice later today. My mother shouts back a retort about dressing more appropriately. Too late! Lydia is already halfway down the drive, and hopping into her friend Lynn’s antique Chevy truck. They peel out of the parking lot, giggling and chattering over the grumble of the engine.
I finish my coffee, stand up, and tell Jane I will be in the restaurant in a half hour. I carry my dishes to the sink, heading back upstairs for a shower, to dress and to collect my knife kit.
My knives are my pride, the true treasure of every professional chef. I’ve honed my boning knife down to a shiv. Its delicate needle point easily slips between flesh, bone and silver skin. I bought my chef’s knife in a tiny shop in Kyoto, Japan. It’s the workhorse of my kit. My paring knife comes from an open air market in Solingen, Germany. Using it with my practiced finesse, I can take apart whole chickens or turn mushrooms into delicate flowers. I inwardly scoff at chefs who carry around twenty different knives. Knives are like trusty friends; when they’re good, you only need a few.
I grab the red Matco tool kit that holds my knives. It also houses an odd assortment of pastry tips from Dehillerin in Paris, three vegetable peelers from IKEA, a set of silver soup spoons for saucing from an antiques shop on Highway 29 in the Napa Valley. A sturdy mandoline I inherited from a cook in Thailand rounds out my brigade of tools. They rattle excitedly as I dash back downstairs.
I pause as I step through the front door of the restaurant. The dining room looks like a time capsule. The red and cream wallpaper wrap up twenty-five years’ worth of secrets. The carpet is claret in color, although it’s hard to tell if it was originally planned that way, or if it has absorbed too many wine spills. Milk glass bud vases, a garage sale find, now holding wilted red carnations, adorn every table. Even the chairs’ upholstery looks defeated, as if they’ve propped up too many diners' backsides over too many years.
I reach the restaurant kitchen to find Jane there with her laptop open. She has the last five versions of the menu printed, plus a list of all our purveyors. I look and discover the dishes listed are standard fare of the seventies. Jane says quietly, “With Papa’s memory going, we kept the menu as simple as possible and restricted it to what he can remember. Caesar Salad, Chicken Cordon Bleu, Steak Frites. He used to have these dishes on the menu when he first opened the Ocean Breeze. It’s all he can manage to cook now.”
“Then let’s leave it as is for now. I need some time to make changes. Memorial Day weekend, the start of our season, is a few weeks away, so we have a little bit of wiggle room.”
Jane agrees, and then runs off to answer the phone, while I go and open the back door to let the delivery drivers in. I check each one before signing off. I ask for current product catalogs. I begin making lists of contacts, new products and best pricing. By the time everything is properly sorted and put away, it is going on ten o’clock.
I rush to prepare for a busy lunch service, but Jane assures me we will be fine because it’s the slow off-season. We have a small but steady stream of locals coming in for lunch, and I easily send out their orders.
There’s no other staff in the restaurant besides Jane and me. We’ll run with a skeleton crew for another month. After the last customer leaves, Jane shuts off the “Open” sign and starts to tidy up the dining room. I begin cleanup, loading rack after rack of dishes and utensils into the machine, listening to the soothing whoosh and hum of the cleaning cycle.
As the dish washer works its magic on the plates and cups, I lovingly scrub the carbon steel sauté pans with oil and salt. Dad has used these pans since Day One of opening the Ocean Breeze. I then set them upside down on the stove hobs to let the open flames burn off accumulated carbon and grease. Red sparks fly and are inhaled by the exhaust hood as the fire sears and cleanses the pans. Soon the pans are professional matte black again. I spread a protective layer of vegetable oil on each one, and then place them on the rack next to the stove.
I set two bowls holding rice and sunny side-up eggs on the table for our lunch. I’ve drizzled the eggs with shoyu, soy sauce, naga-negi, green onions, shoga, ginger, and a splash of goma-abura, sesame seed oil. It's my old stand-by from our restaurant-orphan days.
Jane picks up her bowl and o-hashi, takes a bite, and then turns to me, tells me how much she’s missed my cooking. “Papa is a great cook, but you, Lizzy, add something extra, unexpected to your food. I’m so relieved you’re back!”
I smile at her, and nod my thanks. This style of cooking is something I’m good at—and love. In fact, I remember adding black pepper to the boiling water for my instant ramen as a child. Even my critical mother remarked how much better my ramen was because of the dash of pepper.
I’ve always done things like this instinctively, and have to admit the results are usually delicious. Vanilla beans in pickled onion brine, fresh bay leaves scenting lemonade; I love building unusual yet harmonious flavor combinations. Somehow, I need to create this culinary magic for the Ocean Breeze and hope it revives sales. If we don’t have a strong summer season, we won’t have enough money to make it through the slow season next winter. Add Dad’s mounting medical bills, and there will no choice but to sell the restaurant and close up shop.
The front door opens and in walks my mother carrying an armful of red carnations. She likes carnations because they are cheap and long-lasting. She lays the blossoms down on the table, and then chides Jane for not yet changing out the bud vases in the dining room. When Jane protests and tells her she has been busy getting me up to speed, my mother brushes her off.
“Lizzy is a French chef,” my mother retorts. “ This should be child’s play for her. Isn’t this why she left us all behind, went to Europe and refuses to marry? She thinks she’s so much better than this little town. Well, now is her chance to prove it.”
I can feel Jane’s temper rising, just like mine. I lay a hand on Jane’s arm to calm her. I turn to face my mother, and reply, “Is this what made you so angry all these years, Mom? Because I didn’t stay to marry Mayor Collins’ son, and be a traditional wife?”
My mother snorts, muttering something about me being an impossible wife anyway, and how Scott Collins would have divorced me after a year. She walks out the front door before I can respond.
It’s always been this way between us. She would berate me about something I was supposed to do, such as be more obedient. If I had followed her directives, I would have married the mayor’s son and become a pillar of society in this small town. When I would retort that I wanted to be a chef and travel the world, she would look at me in disdain and walk away, never letting me finish the argument. There are so many unspoken words suspended between us like armed-but-unexploded grenades.
As it happens, Scott Collins, the mayor’s son, is gay, but my mother refuses to accept this. She is still convinced that had I been more feminine and married him, he would now be straight and father of at least four kids.
Mom also thinks if I was the mayor’s daughter-in-law, the restaurant would always have stayed busy with official functions—and she would finally be driving a Lexus. Never mind that the only official function this town has ever hosted w
as when a Hollywood crew filmed for one day off the coast for some B-grade movie that went straight to DVD.
For a long time, I chafed at her demands. It’s only been in the last two years that I’ve realized maybe she wasn’t disappointed in me. Instead, I’ve started to wonder whether she’s been envious she wasn’t free and able to pursue her dreams the way I have? Was she venting her frustrations onto me?
I stand up, tell Jane it’s all good, saying you can’t argue with a rock. I return to the kitchen to start my mise-en-place for tonight’s dinner service.
Chapter Five
Elizabeth
Solidarity of Sisters
A week goes by and Jane and I easily fall into familiar patterns for managing the front of the house and the kitchen. We present a united front to my mother every time she complains about one thing or another. She is impossible to please when it comes to how we are running the restaurant. We’ve learned to smile and nod, and then direct her attention somewhere else. I must say, she’s very easily distracted.
One morning, I walk into the restaurant to discover a tall man with sandy blond hair cheerfully swirling wine in a glass. He reaches out his hand, introducing himself as Charlie Bingley, a wine representative from one of the importers in the area.
Charlie has five different Washington wine samples poured, two whites and three reds. As Jane and I swirl and taste them, he excitedly describes each wine, how they are made and who the producers are. My brain is whirring in fifth gear, figuring out dishes that would go with each wine, but I also catch the shy glances Charlie darts at Jane. He clearly has a crush on my sister, who has no clue of her effect on him.
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