Glide: Lookin' for soul food and a place to eat

Painting done by an inmate at San Quentin State Prison

Why do we cook?
       Cheffing has evolved into a personality-driven industry which seems to rely on constant growth.  It thrives on expansion and reinvention.  But at its root, at the core of our motivation, there's a little idea that takes all of the pride, all of the trendiness, all of the hype and hysteria; takes it, and fills it with meaning.  There is a driving impulse which gets us into our clogs and chef whites every day.  When the institutional empires, frighteningly untouchable reputations and viral fame is removed --when the ego and dick-swinging is taken out of the picture-- you are left with something beautifully simple.  In its purest form, you have nothing more than a cook feeding a guest.  One human feeding another, with care and energy.  This is a special thing that we, whether we can verbalize it or not, can all feel.  It is a visceral, sentimental, even primal calling which understands food as energy.  As life.

       We are a hip, image-conscious dining public.  We brim with drive and creativity.  As patrons, we are begging, crying-for, picking apart and devouring every up-and-comer who is trying to make a mark with a new restaurant.  Like seagulls to a fishing trawler, we scour for it.  We beg for permission and fight for a space.  Whatever's in front of us we WILL put in our mouths, and we WILL bow down to the chef for showing us the way.  We are looking for it and we will travel great distances to get it.  A good chef with a new concept and a publicist = easy sell to us.  All cynicism aside, this "foodie" trend is pushing boundaries in a positive direction.  We are looking for better ways to eat.  We want to feed our minds.  We want to do right by our bodies.  Trend or not, it is a good thing.
     
       But what about the rest of them?  You know, the ones who don't ogle over Lucky Peach.  The ones who don't know the name of any chef in town.  A people who's priorities lay beyond such luxuries as eating out. The ones who don't frequent these expositions of affluence or hubs of hipsterdom.  I'm sure they are still eating.  Right?

     
Yes, but they are not searching like you and I. 
          Now, I am not talking about your average schmo; grabbin' a burger from the drive-through window, -- from the driver's seat of his tow-truck, flicking the only green leafy thing off of his sweating "meat" patty on to the yellow line, regarding it as "rabbit food."  While you, in the seat next to him, with your helpless, busted truck on the flatbed behind, sitting in utter amazement, listening to the vulgar remarks he belches out to every female you drive passed, knowing full well, he has never made good on his promises to "show" anyone "a good time." -- a sample of the population who generally just hates food...  I am speaking of the severely marginalized population of the Bay Area.  They do not pick and choose what they have for a meal.  They have forgotten how.  How do we connect with those who don't know how to even look?  How do you lure a person to eat well, who would otherwise opt for two bags of Flamin' Hot Cheatos for their dinner (if anything at all) because it's all they can see?  How do you nourish one who's only priority now is satiating a debilitating habit?  A person who gave up the option to do right by themselves a long time ago?

Sunday Church Service

Glide:
       The brain-child of Reverend Cecil Williams, Glide is a truly unique institution.  A church, a free medical and counseling center, a shelter, and a free meals kitchen.  It's been around for over fifty years and is still going strong.  This kitchen which I worked in is a volunteer-based powerhouse, serving three meals a day for over three thousand people.  A tremendous service to a marginalized community in need.

       This particular site is a drastic departure from the theme of cooking I have previously been analyzing.  This "shock to the format" is a fitting reference point, as it represents more than just donated Wonder Bread and cauldrons of instant mashed potatoes.  (These classic soup kitchen champions curiously do not get served at Glide.)  This is cooking.  It is a deeper exploration into why we cook.  It not only applies to what I am doing, but deserves to be outed as the Food Culture stimulus it is.

       Walk through the Tenderloin and look around you.  Shit!  Human shit on the fucking sidewalk!  Prostitutes, disease, hypodermic needles, babbling, ranting, emergency room wristbands, plastic bottles of clear alcohol regretfully sucked dry, possessed individuals with no control over their actions. shopping cart-lives towering so high they are onerous just to look at.  You wonder about the cold San Francisco night and what it's like to sleep out on these streets.  Concrete has a way of sucking the heat out of your body, chilling your core, even when it's warm outside.  This is the state of living when all choice has been abandoned.  The thought of improvement or any form of a future plan does not exist.  It becomes only about the immediate situation; moment by moment; band-aid by band-aid.

       Not once are these individuals actively choosing a direction or a path or a mode.  Agreed, many (not all) have been traditionally marginalized.  Some have grown up with mental illness.  Some have incurred mental illness through a new age of drug use with a new age of drugs, cut with a new age of handicap-inflicting chemicals.  Some live in urban areas where grocery stores do not exists.  Effectual "food desserts," "education desserts," "moral example desserts."  

       That being said, those which I have met have, at one distant point in their lives, had options.  Had been members of households.  Had been fed a warm meal by someone who cared about them.  

   

Mauricio:
His first night staying at Glide.  I stood and chatted with him while he waited for a bed.
 He explained to me the responsibilities we carry as "privileged" individuals.
Mauricio is a smart guy.

       Let me be frank.  I do not think it is possible to completely understand such broad concepts as poverty or homelessness.  The root, the psychology, the complete story is very subjective and nearly impossible to grasp.  I will venture however, that its roots do exist solely in the mind.  There are a hundred different reasons why people end up out on the street.  The cases I have witnessed generally revolve around circumstances of drug addiction, alcoholism, mental illness, etc.  At a point, when these individuals have fallen far enough, they forget about an inherent part of themselves.  "Choice".

"Out there? ... Out there, there are no choices."  

-Chef Bruce Mckinney     

         So in comes Glide's idea.  At Glide, they understand food to be pure, to be beautiful, to have a direct-link-to-the-soul.  They believe that cooking food can be a catalyst.  "what if we implant a conscious choice into a person's life?"

       How? 

                 With a meal.  

       When asked, "What would you like to eat?"  in lieu of  "What is cheapest to eat?" or "What is easiest?," something triggers in the mind.

"What would you like to eat?"

       Old sparks begin to fire.  Long forgotten recesses of the mind are accessed again.  Dark, dusty archives of memory open back up to reveal a certain smell, or a feeling, or the look on your mother's face while your family sat around a table and bonded over her pot roast.

Joanne, "Mama":
A former client of Glide.
Now she runs the dinner service.

"Ohh, I remember... I think I would like to have that."

       All of a sudden, the concept of "choice," of individual pride, is introduced.  This, all through the medium of a fucking pot roast!  The meal acts as a gateway experience to becoming human again.  After this first step has been made, the idea of self improvement will eventually emerge from the fog.  From this, we can see that the kitchen table can truly be a sacred place.  That food can be a vehicle of empowerment.
       Hype, hysteria, food trucks, foams, Michelin stars, micro arugula, Food Network, Bourdain, criminalized foie gras, Noma, Chipotle, balloon food, Michael Bauer, The Laundry, pork buns, smearing purees, Chang, "essence of", tweezers, olive oil-ice cream... all aside;  are we now beginning to see the potential power of food and its place in our culture?

"Food is a tool."

-Chef Bruce Mckinney 

      Glide facilitates this concept quite nicely.  It was "Choice Saturday" when I worked in the kitchen.  Options between King Salmon and Smothered Lamb were being offered.  Vegetarian options (as always) were offered as well.  I did not understand the depth of this small gesture until I was actually able to sit down and speak with the Chef.

She takes pride in her cooking

      Chef Bruce Mckinney, a jovial character plagued with an underlying current of stress; he is in control of the entire meals program at Glide.  Lucky for me, he was happy to kick back for an hour and drop some wisdom.
      I walked down the linoleum-tiled hallway toward his office.  Passing by, one by one, glittery smiley-face stickers and post-it notes stuck to the heavy brown doors on either side of me.  I was overtaken by the smell of generic cleaning solution and body odor.  All of the interior colors were orange and brown.  I felt like I was back at my old elementary school.  The same style, asbestos-lined building which hadn't been renovated since the seventies.

      After a knock on his door, Chef Bruce called me into his office.  He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes, taking a break from what he was typing on the computer screen.  He asked me, what was my intention with this project?  Why was I here?  Before any response could be given, Chef Bruce proceeded to completely open up.  An hour of unbroken conversation unfolded.  

       His attitude toward his job was magnificent.  So special in the way that he expressed his love and empathy for the clients he deals with, but also his blunt frustration, and at times, despair over coming to work.  It is a cruel dichotomy which is impossible to ignore.

       His storied past makes him perfect for the job.  A certain level of "understanding," which not everyone may have, is required to do this work successfully.  He understands that his duty as a chef is to not only feed and nourish the physical body, but the emotional as well.  This, I know, is a recurring theme that, no matter the level, any chef in this town will stand behind.  It is his empathy towards his clients which qualifies him.  His underlying passion and drive to make this Free Meals Program more than just as "band-aid," puts this site right at the fore-front of my little project.

       It's cold out today.  wind whips through the Capital Building Green and funnels down Market Street.  I want to light a cigarette, but I withhold.  I know, at the distant site of a burning cherry, I will be motioned by a shaky hand to spare a smoke by every person in a one-block-radius.  I just don't have the energy to say "nah, sorry man," to that many people right now.
       A silver Maserati kicks up a spin-drift of dead leaves and garbage as it speeds towards the Financial District.  This ever-present juxtaposition of social class seems to be synonymous with San Francisco.  Should I feel guilty?  Is it my responsibility to shelter the homeless?  To feed the starving?  Why has Glide decided to take on this task?  Even they do not believe they can eradicate poverty.
       Understand, this is not something to be "cured" like a disease.  This is not the goal.  The goal is to find a cure for hopelessness.  This I believe, can be achieved.  It is a reality which will not go away any time soon, but hope can still be found.  Sometimes people just need to be picked up off of their knees.  Glide has shown me the spiritual benefit of food.  Congruent to attending a church service; sitting down to eat can feed the soul.  It is powerful enough to pull someone from the gutter and breath new energy into a deflated life.  When the hollow pangs of hunger and depression set in, a meal cooked with care can be a lifeline.  We as cooks are proponents of a human tradition essential to existence.  The next time you pick up your knife or flick on a burner, think about the act you are undertaking.  Think about the how fortunate we are to participate in this unassailable tradition.  Understand what it means to feed someone.      

      

       

  

AQ

   

      Riding the BART back to Oakland, I spot him.  Wearing the same hat he had on while prepping, headphones on, not noticing me.  It was one of the cooks I had worked with while trailing at AQ.  I look away, pretending to be enthralled with the nylon strap which I am clutching, struggling to balance in this packed, sardine-can of a train car.  I glance back over.  He sees me seeing him.  Shit.  We both reluctantly take off our headphones and play nice.  I notice a flask of whiskey jammed in his back pocket which puts me at ease a little.  This signifies that he is, in fact, fallible.  Maybe we did have something in common after all.
     

Wine Room

       Why was I so timid around this person?  That's not me at all.  What happened at that restaurant which made me feel like I was on time-out, cast in the corner to think about where I went wrong?  Of all my trails and time spent toiling in the bowels of this industry, why was it AQ which made me feel so insecure?  Was it the "Best New Restaurant in the Country" James Beard thing?  Was it the 29-year-old owner, capable of making me scour my past life for shortcomings?  Was it the Chef, seemingly unaware of my existence during my stage.     ...Yeah, the root probably lies somewhere in there.

       But here I was, already sweaty from the over-crowded train ride, staring that irksome experience in the face one more time.
       It's been three weeks since that stage!  I tried to write about it, but to no avail.  Every time I sat in front of the keyboard to type, I felt compelled to start drinking, just to keep myself from chewing the inside of my bottom lip too badly.
       Okay, the food was good, the chefs are tireless perfectionists, the dining room, counter tops, ceiling fans, bar trim and all, gets re-designed seasonally, eating there was a monumental pleasure.  Maybe it was good no one spoke to me during my time there, maybe they knew better than I, that it was time to shut up and watch.  In a business where attitude means everything, AQ definitely had it.

Staff Meal

     
       Lets talk about AQ's concept.  At least what I perceive to be their concept.  It was so damn hard to get a word out of anyone there, I can't tell you verbatim what their vision is.
       After enjoying a superlative meal,  and finally, working a shift behind the line, I can surmise that they do have their priorities in order.  Aside from creative, delicious food and luminary service, there is a shared vision, a unified effort to deliver something special that no other restaurant in the area is touching right now.  AQ is a representative, a prophet, an outright temple of the seasons; unabashedly relishing in the perennial offering that is our natural environment.  They source locally, they cook in respect to the seasons, they make the little annotations and parenthesis on their menu stating the origin of each ingredient.
       But then again, so does everyone.  You can't hold water in this town if you don't do that.  As far as the hip, conscious San Francisco dining public is concern, if you're not supporting that organic farm in Marin, or Bill Neiman's ranch, if you don't know the name of the boat which caught your halibut, you might as well pack your knives and go fuck yourself.

The line at 8:00 pm

       AQ knows this, takes it to the next level, and thrives on it.  The restaurant gets a quarterly face lift, courtesy of the sprite, ambitious restaurateur-owner.  I was present just days after the "summer look" was installed.  Lighting design was altered, chairs were changed out, linens were swapped, the trim around the bar was replaced, chef's aprons changed color,  the lofty flower arrangements which crept up door frames and trellised through-ways were re-designed, dark marble counter tops were replaced with a lighter, rough-finished fir plywood, server's uniforms had a new style, the herb garden which surrounds the bar was also changed to reflect the new menu.  An interior designer's wet-dream, boasting an army of deep-pocketed investors.  AQ is an institution of seasonal change.  It was not a mistake that this was the first thing noticed upon entering that brown-stone facade.      

Potting station with grow lamps:
Herbs & micros for kitchen and bar use

And than this happened:

       So here I was, about an hour into my stage, cutting okra into oblique shapes,to then be roasted.  The kitchen is completely exposed to the dining room, a fitting stage for this theatron of a restaurant.  Everything you do is on display for the discerning public to see.  Not a new concept for me as this style of kitchen has transcended the "trend" faze right into commonplace amongst the restaurant world.  
   
   Turn 90 degrees and cut, turn, cut, turn, cut. 

       The back-of-the-house is no longer alone as servers, hostess', bartenders, bar backs, captains, sommeliers, GM's all file into the dining room.  A wave of new faces has arrived to start their day.  An amalgam of responsibilities are carried out, culminating to, yet another, successful dinner service.
      I stop to take a drink from my deli container of water.  I look up and notice a well-dressed, stern-faced woman lock eyes with me.  She begins to walk in my direction with purpose.  ...This isn't right.  

       -- Like the only unknown face in the room, noticed mere seconds before a catastrophic act of terrorism unleashes, Die Hard 2-style -- 

       "Excuse me.  Yeah, Hiiii.  My name's Shellyyy. I'm with the Department of Public Health."  

...Oh no.

--"You just took a drink from your cup and placed it back down on your work surface.  That's in direct violation of code-blaah blah blee blaahh."  

...Oh shit.

       Immediately, the front line clears of every cook.  I am left standing alone, face to face with what could be the only individual on earth capable of removing the balls of a notable San Francisco chef.  

      Knowing exactly what to do, I run.

Beautiful Dry-aged Squab,
Waiting to be seared medium rare 
+corainder &honey, pickled blueberry,
sprouted lentils, licorice herbs.

       In the downstairs kitchen, the entire team, chef and all, are scrambling (with their lives on the line;) packing up left over staff meal in quart containers and putting them on ice, playing Tetris with the walk in, throwing out livers that were being cut on the bench top, sweating, yelling, "DID YOU KNOW SHE WAS COMING?!"  "HOW LONG HAS SHE BEEN HERE FOR?!"  Panic has ensued, the likes of which had not been seen since Y2K.  All this pandemonium amazed me as the kitchen, from what I had seen, was immaculate.
  
   The dust cleared.  The health inspector did what she came to do, consulted quickly with the chef in the office and left.  He emerged from the office door with a smile of relief on his face.  "Everything is fine." He said. "We got an excellent score with the exception of a few tiny details."
     I cringed at that last little remark.  I knew what that tiny deduction was about...  In a business where "perfection" is the goal, even a tiny slip-up can mean your balls on the cutting board.  They knew. I knew.  Nothing more was said.  I look like an asshole.  
       
    The cause of me having to spend the next three hours shucking a deep hotel pan of fava beans is becoming more clear now.

Wild Pacific Salmon (an awesome year for this fish)
+summer melon, truffle & white soy, young turnips.  

    Finally!  Fingernails impacted with fava shell, dark circles forming under my eyes, the faint memory of a past life in the outside world, I emerge from the basement ready to greet the dinner service already in progress.  

The Pass

   



     I step out on to the line having no idea where to put myself.  Orders are fired and called back with a "Yes Chef!"  "Saute!:  One Salmon, two squab!"  "Garmi!:  Three Peaches, one halibut, one cucumbers!"  Orders are called back to the chef verbatim.

       Fish skin blisters and pops on the plancha.  Broilers are slammed closed and adjusted in one seamless motion.  "Click, click, click," as spoonfuls of clear butter are hurriedly basted over squab in a heavy saute pan.
       As I walk down, I glance, wide-eyed at the plates being produced.  I'm instantly curious how they achieve such vibrant purees, how they balance those rolls of cured meat like that, how the make that salmon skin shine while maintaining its potato chip-like crispiness.  After that numbing three hours spent in the basement, my senses become flooded. I have to readjust.  I feel like I just took the "red pill," and this is how deep the rabbit-hole goes.

       No one looks up to direct me.  I ask Chef, "Where would you like me to work?"  No response...

  Here I was, behind the line at AQ, feeling more albatross than ever before.  Then it hit me.  No one is telling me to do anything.  On the other side of it, no one is telling me not to do anything either.
   
       I walk over to the garde-manger station and watch.  Carefully arranged segments of nopales, delicately rolled slices of house-cured ham, a light dusting of cheddar cheese powder, micro greens tweezered on to garden-like arrangements of quinelled chicken liver mouse and summer berries.
       I study the calculated movements of the cooks as they call and receive orders.  I wait, like a kid timing the revolutions of a jump-rope before throwing themself in.  Then I hear a call I recognize.  With out asking, I begin assembling the dish.  The line cook steps aside and lets me finish.
                                         
                                          I place it in the pass for the chef to garnish before sending out.  
                              
                                                    Nothing is said.  
                               
                                                                 Service continues.  

                                                                                  ...Redemption! 

12:00 am.
After-service menu consultation

Central Kitchen

Pretext:  

I do not wish to exploit the pain and trials of others, but rather react and learn from it.

       I live on my boat.  Currently, we reside in a charming little marina in the East Bay.  At least, the idea of it is charming.  From 300 yards away, it's charming.  Up close, it's a dirty, desperate place.  An episode of Trailer Park Boys, riddled with individuals who are bound with debt or swept away in the throws of loneliness and alcoholism.  The population of tweakers and bank evaders far outnumber those with the romantic dream of a life on the water.  In this mix, I have met a motley crew of characters who, whether I chose it or not, make up a large part of my social life these days.  We all have our problems, so it is easy to look past these rough edges and find a few good hearts in the mix.

       Three nights ago, after a dinner of brown rice and avocado shared with a few friends, a neighbor of mine came knocking on my cabin-house.  Holdy, a silver-haired fox with enough skeletons in his closet to make Van Gogh look like Giada De Laurentiis.  His dog, Jules, scrambles down the gang-way like an avalanche of love-seeking energy.  In follows Holdy, can of PBR in hand, looking to join our little party.  We talked, laughed, and shared stories late into the night.  Bottle of bourbon floating around, ashtrays piling high, worries and inhibitions drifting away into the salt air.

       Prompted by the topic of discussion we had hit, Holdy exclaims  "I used to smoke crack!" ...Silence.  Another  individual in the bunch counters, "ME TOO!" Even though I was seeing double at this point, I pull out my notebook (both of them.)  Holdy takes a sip from the bottle and lights another cigarette.  The two begin to share their experiences of their past lives, and I, with nothing to contribute, listen.

     

 " I remember the first time." " UGHHH, so good. "  "I can still feel that warm fuzzy feeling in my chest sometimes."

    While maintaining respect for the fragility of the topic at hand; gears begin to turn in my head.

     

       "She was a hooker."  "She held the tin-foil in front of my face."  "She told me I DID NOT want to put this up my nose!"  "She ran the lighter under the foil and told me to do the rest.  That was all it took."  (Insert: Requiem For A Dream-like montage here.)

     

    "Wow!", I thought.  These guys are incredibly strong-willed, the best kind of humans, to be able to pull out of that spiral of addiction.

       But wait.  What was that?  What was that draw?  That satiation?  That distinct, precise recollection of a feeling??  Addiction, heartache and terror aside, was this not the feeling I was trying to deliver with food?  Chefs are always attempting, testing, experimenting, searching for new flavor, new feeling, the hope to tap into those primal urges that we subconsciously yearn for.  The descriptive information that I became privy to, gave me a little window into this experience.  

     It's sexy and new.  It viscerally draws you in.  Suddenly everything you were taught has gone out the window.  Priorities become redefined.  There is a level of ambivalence present.  You are standing on a shaky platform of unsure or mixed emotions.  You have a guide, a necessary vehicle to take you through the steps.  Your surroundings make you aware that you are now part of something exclusive.  You are on the inside...  

Wait a minute...  Are the great chefs that we all adore merely glorified, white-collar drug dealers??

       The first dish they showed me was the cheese plate.  Three varieties of artisan cheeses, set off with green, viscous fennel preserves, shaved walnut, fronds, plated on a sheet of lavosh cracker, brushed with buttermilk before baking to give it an unmistakable shine in the dim, electric filament lights which adorned the high-ceiling dining room.  

When brought out to the table, the server dabs a touch of honey (from their rooftop behives) on the lavosh and then proceeds to crack it in front of the guest with two sharp taps from the back of a spoon. 

 ...

The contents of the plate have been described for you.  You have been told how to eat it.  You are in their world -  excited, uneasy, a willing subject to an experience that will unfold in ways which are sure to inspire.  Beginning to see the correlation here?

  

       Central Kitchen might just have the most beautifully arranged dining room I have seen in this town.  It is open, barn-style rusticism met with sharp, right-angle modernism.  Heated concrete floors and heat lamps maintain an even distribution of comfortable warmth beneath the retractable sky-light roof.  - I hear that when it rains, time spent in this space can become quite the special experience. - On the other side of the space is the open kitchen.  Here you can see the front line: two cooks and an expediter, stirring copper pots, hanging fish carcasses to dry above the wood-fired grill, swooshing purees, and searing roulades on the plancha.  In the back is the garde-manger line, a pastry kitchen, and another line of burners which wield massive stock pots, perking and bubbling all night long.  Though, like any kitchen, these guys are busy, a calm resolve is maintained through service.  Not once was anyone screamed at.  That being said, not once were any noticeable mistakes made.  Pardon my lack of descriptive pathos here; but I could best describe the tone in the restaurant as, well, "cool."  From design to execution, they just kind of nailed it.  

       Before Central Kitchen opens for dinner, the same dining room is used by the company-owned, Salumaria.  Salumeria offers the same customer base a chance to eat a more casual lunch.  They incorporate the same cured meats and pastas used by the company's more upscale flag ship.  As previously mentioned, the ambiance treads the line between rustic and refined very tastefully, which allows for this versatility.  

(Two cents)

Sharing a dining room between two separately operating entities is extremely clever.

 -Expand your business while your capital investment remains static.  

Menu

       The menu changes daily.  Before being printed, the rough draft gets taped up to the kitchen divider wall for everyone to revise, check, and sign off.  Initials are put next to each dish by the person responsible for producing it.  This insures each ingredient is accounted for, and no part of the guest's experience be overlooked.  Each cook behind the line is asked to contribute to the final product.  In a work environment where your employees are your greatest asset, and quality cooks can be hard to come by, Central Kitchen seems to get it.

Melon, Cheese Curd, Purslane: Melons are compacted in a Cryovac machine to promote structural integrity  & create translucent look

       

Staff meal and a round of espressos were had before the doors opened for dinner.    As orders began to trickle in, I witnessed something brilliant.  Multi-course tasting menus were brought to life one station at a time.  No curses or exclamations of frustration were heard as a la carte service was seemlessly integrated.  I like to be involved with plating as much as possible, but it was hard not to just stand and gawk:  Delicate arrangements of fresh and pickled vegetables with black tea-pickled quail egg.  Wagu tartar tossed up with fermented turnip.  Rustic wooden planks of seared duck parts for private dining parties.  Liver mouse finished with pickled oyster mushrooms and a healthy portion of freshly shaved truffle.  Hen roulades seared hard on all sides, sliced next to duck confit wrapped in kale.  Roasted eggplants with unctuous Red Hawk Cheese melted on top placed over pine nut puree.  (Insert: Requiem For A Dream-like montage here.)  

Eggplant, Red Hawk, Pine nut

up-stairs prep kitchen

       The last table's order shutters out of the ticket printer.  The night's service had come to an end.  Cooks begin changing out containers, washing their knives, wiping down counters and filling up soap buckets.  I did a double take when I caught the Chef de Cuisine running dish racks through the machine.  He was not just washing his own tools, he was helping out in the dish pit outright.  Twenty minutes later, he was still there; spraying, scrubbing and sending racks of dishes down the line to be collected by the dishwasher at the other end.  From my past experience, no chef does this.  No matter how down-to-earth or diplomatic the manager was, I had never witnessed such an act.  

       

Duck in the pass

       I'm beginning to understand why I embarked on this project.  I'm searching for ideas.  Ideas which contribute to the success of these restaurants.  As the night progressed, Central Kitchen's idea began to show its face.  There is a common respect shared by every chef under this roof.  They cook together, they eat together, they clean together, and they conceptualize together.  I asked the chef how he builds the menu each day.  He quickly and proudly spun me around 180 degrees.  "Every cook here contributes equally." He said.  "Myself, Chef Thomas, Mikey, it doesn't matter.  We make the menu together."  Each and every night, after the cleaning is done, a meeting is held in the upstairs kitchen.  Every cook sits down with a drink, a pen and a prep/requisition list.  They talk about what products are coming in fresh, what has become stale, what they are excited about using, how to best use that pork trim in the walk-in, what is selling well, what needs tweaking, etc.  This brainstorming session becomes the groundwork for the following day's menu.  I have never seen such reliance on the skill and forethought of a line cook.  In that respect, maybe this restaurant is ushering a new era of cooking.  Picking up where the Food Network failed; branding chefs not just as greasy line dogs or pop-celebrities, but as actual intellectual, influential members of society.  Central Kitchen has fostered a work environment where cooks are viewed not as expendable help, but rather as craftsmen who uphold tradition and further creative thinking.  Or in my twisted tangent... drug dealers. 

      It's 1:30 in the morning.  The guests have gone home.  A few servers remain, finishing side work and answering emails.  The cooks change into their street cloths, offering a rare glimpse of their neglected outside lives.  Goodbyes are said, cigarettes are lit, bikes are unlocked, I go home to think about what I just saw.        

Quince

   I'm sipping Jasmine Tea from a small porcelain cup in one of China Town's standard Dim Sum joints.  You know, one of those dirty, rubber-floor mat, carbon-crusted pots on the wall, seductively narcotic-smelling establishments where one would go to shamelessly fill up on a hulking bowl of noodles for five bucks.  They had trouble finding a seat for me when I first walked in the door, which was conspicuously matted with clear packing tape and paper cut outs of kittens holding up one paw.  Among the raucous clientele, one of the dining room tables was occupied by a dirty-apron cook cleaning ong-choy leaves.  The pervasive umami smell which had its hands around my face and through my sinuses was soon overtaken by smoke when someone in the back decided to light up a cigarette.  To be honest, the pairing kind of worked for me.  
       The waitress put down a malt shop-style glass with a few cubes of ice in it, doused the ice with sweetened condensed milk, and cracked and egg yolk on top.  This was finished by placing a bottle of club soda in front of me to pour on my own.  This thick, sweet, bubbly concoction is affectionately listed on the menu (taped to the door) as "SODA EGG MILK."  If the smell of the kitchen didn't make me lethargic enough, this drink was sure to do me in.

       Just a few blocks away is an institution quit on the opposite end of the culinary spectrum.  Quince.  A name I was aware of coming up on the east coast.  A fine dining, silver-plattering, caviar-slingin', foam spooning, snarling beast of a kitchen.  (I say "snarling" in the most delicately refined way though.)  The Chef/Owner, who is chummy with the likes of Thomas Keller and Daniel Patterson, has been recipient to much attention and accolade in the San Francisco Fine Dining World.  From what I saw, he is a relatively soft-spoken individual (as chefs go) who relies heavily on the efforts of his Chef de Cuisine and team of Sous Chefs.  As classic kitchen hierarchies go, this team of chefs would be nothing with out the underpaid, overworked army of talented cooks who willingly subject themselves with devotion and care, to the toils of fine dining.

Chef Butchering Lamb

       My day started with a brilliant hangover which would stick with me through a better part of the night.  This would not slow anything down though; there was farmers market shopping to do!  I met the chefs of Quince at the Ferry Building Market at 9:00am.  I was excited to see the number of industry people shopping here; sniffing, squeezing, prodding, and ultimately buying the product of these California farmers (institutions in their own right.)   You can spot the kitchen people, wheeling around their plastic gueridon carts, piled high with local produce.  Chefs pushing by one another, darting glances, sizing up the contents of the other's cart.  -A large component to the success of Chef Tusk and Quince, is the close relationship they have with their purveyors and market vendors.  Consistent product of the best quality is prioritized for Quince as a result of this.-

        I anticipate my "Preserved Egg Porridge" to come, but am overtly distracted by the Chinese soap opera, blaring from the fly-tape-accessorized television in the corner.  Steamed chickens were carted past me, their forlorn, squinted eyes sunken into wrinkly heads.  I'm intrigued by these whole birds, but always reluctant to actually order one.  Camping stoves are brought to some tables around me, accompanied by large, communal pots of broth and ingredients to be incorporated.  As an expected practice, a whole pot of Jasmine Tea is placed next to me with a porcelain cup.

       11:00 am.  The stainless is polished, the tile floor is crumb-less, there is a whole lamb being butchered on the center table.  Against the back window is a team of cooks thoughtfully rolling, cutting, filling and crimping some of the sexiest pasta shapes I have ever seen.  I don't know if it was the sterile white surroundings I was in, or that hangover giving me its worst, but I believed I had died and gone to that place where all good cooks go.  

Lamb

       By 1:00pm, the kitchen was bangin' on all cylinders.  All cooks were in, aprons tight, prepping and stocking their stations for the dinner service to come.  Some in panic-mode from the start (a feeling I know a little too well), others calmly and surely handling the list in front of them with calculated precision.  Kitchen shears cutting the fins off of Black Cod, almond wood smoking on an open flame, cracker dough being spread thinly over a sheet tray, brown jars of chemicals and powders were dipped into more frequently than the flour and olive oil, the Cryovac machine was carrying over all of the kitchen noise - a droning electric pump which climaxes with a quick, sharp suction to be heard by everyone, as if it were the lungs of this animal, this beast of a kitchen.- 

       I had great conversations with the cooks here.  The working environment was high-pressure.  Not so strangely, I didn't meet anyone who had been working here more than a year.  Everyone had a different story of where they came from, where they had worked, and what they hoped to do.  One was a writer who decided to change careers, another had just returned to the industry from an Alaskan- snowboarding hiatus, others were from different parts of the country, or had worked at acclaimed kitchens in other parts of the world.  The common denominator, which was of no surprise, was the ever-present Michelin Star thing.  When asked what excites you about cooking?  Or, what other restaurants do you care about?  None ventured far past the three-star sites that everyone has already been talking about.  

(Two Cents)

In this respect, I wasn't overwhelmed by a lot of original thought like I had hoped.  No one is trying to do things backwards or reinvent.  
It seems that the examples of the great chefs which came before us
are still followed with close attention.  
I am aware of this ladder that we are told to climb in order to achieve "success". 

 Maybe it's worth while to look beyond these steps... 

       

David Little's Farm Egg

       It was Saturday and the restaurant was expected to serve just over 100 guests that night.  Parties arrive, and teams of servers initiate what appears to be a choreographed, suit-and-tie-ballet of marking tables, pulling chairs, complimentary champagne service accompanied by multiple waves of Amuse courses, all before the first order is placed.  If the guest were to choose to experience the Chef's tasting menu, ten courses would be brought out, one after the other, on silver platters.   This was all done in a calculated and timed sequence.

Painted Serpent Cucumber Salad
Sour cherry, fromage blanc, buckwheat

 The virtuous level of service was congruent with the food coming out of the kitchen.   It was an installation of seasonality, tradition and mastery of technique brought to the diner by a skilled team of professionals.  I would go as far as to compare it to a symphony, if not for the flashes of rage coming from the chef during a few heated moments that night. 

      It was the warmest reception to a stage that I have experienced.  During service, I was permitted to roam the kitchen, snap pictures, taste the food, and talk to the cooks about what they were doing.  All the while, the plates were leaving the kitchen in absolutely stellar form.  The pasta was cooked right, the cod was seared hard while maintaining a delicate flakiness, the farmer's egg, in a nest of greens, held a dark amber hue which I could only describe as inviting.  This execution was carried through every time, with out exception.  

Each plate before being ran, was placed on the center table under the drop-down lamps to be finished by the chefs; tweezers in hand, delicately arranging micro-greens, placing edible flowers, garnishing, analyzing and approving.  To say the least, this was a departure from the New England seafood, turn-and-burn-joints of my past.  

     I get up to go use the bathroom.  I walked through a maze of tables, whole families glancing up at me from their steaming bowls of broth, green onion and noodles.  I am the tallest, whitest person in a four-block radius.  There are wooden, saloon-style doors (also adorned with the aforementioned packing- tape paper cats) which separate the back hallway from the dining room.  Inside the bathroom, I spot a pair of cook's tongs hanging from the sink faucet.  "hmmm," "I'll assume the worst and ignore it." 

       The night comes to an end around 12:30am, and I am happy.  Not because I want to leave, but because of the great perspective I just received.  I know this is not the category of cooking every chef aspires to,  but I am happy that it exists.  These are culinary theorists, constantly pushing the limits of standard and formality.

 As frivolous as the concept is, chefs attempting to achieve "perfection" is a great test to reference and react from.  The levels which people are willing to climb, Quince in particular, is a testament to the human condition.  Always trying to better ourselves, always striving for more.  It is a healthy and real quality which leads to great achievement in our society.  The ego that comes along with it, while sometimes alienating, may just be the necessary force to execute such an ambitious vision.  Is Quince doing great cooking?  Who's to say?  But I will say from experience that their conceit is the source of great inspiration in this food culture. 

    I have been sitting in this torn, vinyl-cushion chair for about two hours now.  I can't bring myself to leave.  I have long since finished my food, and now just sit, sip Jasmine Tea and write.  No one cares, no one asks me if I "need anything else," and I love it.  I feel so comfortable here.  The family (who makes up the entire staff,) is casually taking breaks in shifts.  They sit at the round table in the center of the dining room, eating small bowls of noodles.  A patriarchal figure with big, thick glasses resting on his wrinkled cheeks, hasn't moved from this table almost the entire time I have been here.  Only to grab another Miller Highlife, does he get up.  He politely fills his glass up half way with a shaky hand and watches the television.  Nothing is hidden, it is honest, and I can feel that.      

Frances

"That's what Michelin is looking for - 

To get that chef's personality on the plate."  

  -Jean-Georges

     I chained my bike up a block down the road from the restaurant.  For some reason, I did not want the chefs to see me through the front window, bending and fumbling with my finicky U-lock. - The ridiculous things we consider when we are nervous.-  I stepped through the front door.  "Damn!" I thought, "this place is tiny."  The dining room consists of a few tables by the front window, a narrow hallway adjacent to the kitchen with three tables for two filed in, and a small service bar facing the front door, no bigger than a coffee table. The first cook I met here was posted up on this bar with a cutting board, just beginning his day's prep work. 

   "Michelin Star?!" "How do they do it in this space?"    
     

      I approached Frances not quite knowing what to expect.  I had not previously dined here and had no inkling as to what they contributed in this vibrant Bay Area food scene.  I've heard rumors of the Chef's resume and of her time spent as the chef at the Fifth Floor Restaurant, I knew the space was small, I've heard about their Michelin Star award, and I knew that people's faces lit up when I mentioned I would be staging here.

Learning a new method to make gnocchi 

     
   
     The kitchen was equally small, but efficiency was evident.  The hood vents gleamed, the mise-en-place was fresh, bright and organized, and the floor mats were of slatted wooded, bound with galvanized wire.  Clearly, there was a mind behind this shotgun-style restaurant who understood something about professional cooking.  There were five people, including myself, who would be working in this space tonight.  "Ok," I thought, "lets give it a shot."  "I don't know how I will fit, but lets give it a shot."

Plating

       They put me at the front bar to complete a few tasks before service began.  It was here that I met a very congenial individual, who we will call Yanni.  Whether he was conscious of it or not, this man gave me a few pearls of perspective which I would like to share with you.
       Yanni is a server, and a good one at that.  He had been working at Frances for some time now and like the rest of the staff, he seemed content to stay.  Before Frances, he, like much of this town I am discovering, worked for the San Francisco Restaurant Don himself, Daniel Patterson.  Yanni and I had a great conversation.  He told me he was from Greece, but had a family with his American wife.  For a time before his kids were old enough to be in school, they would swap residencies between Greece and the U.S. every few years.  This was a life which allowed him to connect with loved ones from both sides.  -He recounted this part with a glint of reminiscent longing in his eye.- Since Yanni has been in the states full time, he has only worked in upper-echelon establishments.  When I inquired as to why this was, his response was a quick and sure, "That's where the money is."  This was not validating for me.  Now Yanni was not a naive man by any stretch, and his calculated, personable disposition eluded to the fact that he was 1.) a veteran in his field, and 2.) had been around the block enough to know, all distraction aside, romanticism comes second to supporting a family.

The pastry station:
A small speed rack on wheels.
All station prep is kept on sheet pans below.
Donuts are fried to order.
 Laminated dough is baked to order.
An admirable use of a small work space. 

       So what does this mean to me?  A twenty four-year-old idealistic, scavenger who is trying to square away an inspired, passionate future.  It means that Yanni was only divulging a half-truth.  He left out the part about Personal Pride.  Frances is an institution of thoughtfully-designed menu concepts, well-trained individuals, refined decor, and focused vision.  It is a bustling, relevant dining destination, juxtaposed tastefully by its quiet neighborhood location.  It was clear that Yanni takes pride in his surroundings.  He takes pride in the product that he sells.  He takes pride in the fact that NOT EVERYONE is fit to do his job.  You won't find a server like Yanni turning tables at a Red Lobster, because the product at a Red Lobster does not inspire his idea of quality.
       So yes, maybe money is a driving force for this family-man server.  Money, however, does not materialize unless the heart is there to make the picture complete.  If the food on the plate comes from a place of passion, it will attract personalities cast from the same mold.  In that respect, every part of the restaurant becomes a product of the chef's vision.  It is a complete picture of harmony between food, hospitality and inviting surroundings.  Frances has servers like Yanni who will consistently provide a good product because they are working for a chef with a vision that they can stand behind with pride.

Diamond Princess Peach 'vol au vent' tart -
Frangipane, honeycomb candy, clover honey ice cream

   Michelin Star?  
Ok, I'm starting to understand now.

"Hey, thanks for the free help."
Appreciation from the kitchen, Ricotta Gnocchi- style