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 

  

Plum Restaurant

Succinct & focused; these are how the directions were relayed to me for breaking down local squid:

mise-en-place:
- Arrange three containers on ice; one for tentacles, bodies, guts and scrap.  
- Have a cutting board, a paring knife, and a bench scraper.

1. Left hand: place one squid on cutting board, face up and fins down.
2. Right hand: make cut below eyes to remove tentacles.
3. Squeeze out beak (like popping a zit,) and place in scrap container.
4. Left hand: hold squid at the top point of body.
5. Right hand: scrape (with blade) the outer skin, squeezing out guts along with it - at the open end, catch the skeleton (plastic) with your blade and pull it out.  place in scrap.
6. Left hand: flip squid over so fins are facing up.
7. Right hand: scrape off remaining outer skin along with fins and place in scrap.  
8. Place tentacles and cleaned bodies in their respective containers.  Scrape cutting board clean of ink and squid parts.
9. Repeat until the case of squid is empty.  
10. Re-wash, pat dry with a towel, place squid parts in refrigeration on ice.  

       Up until 5:00, this is how my day went.  Job after job, issued with clarity and intent.  "Make falafel mix, cut fennel, dehydrate beef tendons, butcher chickens, cryovac pickled onion, clean squid," etc.   The chef did not stutter-step once through any of his instruction.  All the while, the restaurant carried on.  The pastry chef experimented with a new Thai Tea Panna Cotta, the bar manager waddled accross the kitchen with a hot 30-gallon stock pot full of ginger beer he was brewing, the sous chef cut rock cod fillets by the sink, and the cooks bullshitted with the dishwasher in broken Spanish about last night's service.

Pablo's Ginger Beer

      Staging can be a beautiful thing when you take the liberty to just stop and observe.  Prepping away in the back kitchen, I heard one voice rise above the clatter of the pre-service scramble.  I put my knife down and craned my neck out of the doorway to get a glimpse of this chef at work.  The garde-manger cook who was unsure of the new soup change was being given a step-by-step on its new plating as conceptualized.  Instructions which I assume were not to be repeated, so attention better be paid.  This chef made sure his vision was executed as he intended through the hands of each cook there.  Every detail was important, every detail represented his standard of quality.  For that, his directions were delivered with clarity and efficiency.  No recaps necessary, as every component was called back with a "Yes Chef" to signify it was understood.  This confidence and self-awareness in management is a trait I hope to one day adopt.

The Pass (plates about to be delivered to guests)

       Dinner service began:  After finishing up the jobs I was given, I was permitted to step out on to the line among the pretty people which patronize this ultra-hip dining room.  The restaurant is designed so that the immediate cooking and plating is done at the bar-style showcase kitchen, which is also the most prominent feature of the dining room.  Fluorescent light shined down from beneath the guest's bar top on to the delicately arranged mise-en-place and plating space for each station.  The cooks dance between this work surface and the beautiful plancha and french flattop against the wall behind them.  Conversations were held between the kitchen and bar-side guests; about food, about their Friday, about what brought them there that night.  Despite this guise of frivolity, composure is required at all times in such a vulnerably exposed work environment.  When trying to function in a space like this, you become obsessively aware of your appearance and movements.  Your towel and apron should remain clean, while keeping a close eye on the consistent location of your squeeze bottles, forceps and knife.  With out having to spin around in circles looking for your lost tool, you will be able to follow you muscle memory through service.

The Line (Garde-Manger Station)

Mastering this work style with religious devotion will ultimately lead to the attainment of "skills" or "economy of movement." (Anthony Bourdain)  This trait was evidently apparent here.  Even on a Friday night, service was calm and composed.  Though the concept is a "feed your neighbors," casual dining style, the food was beautiful.  A line was coy-fully walked between Michelin-standard food and burgers with french fries.

*A few stars in my opinion:

* Stone fruit: Peach, pluot and plum with vanilla yogurt provided a sweetness which was kindly offset with bitter cocoa nib, coriander oil and sorrel leaves.  One of those dishes that makes you go, "Damn! I wish I thought of that!"  

Stone Fruit

* The soup:  A "forest-like" arrangement of charred beach mushroom, pickled beach mushroom, bitter leaves, sliced yellow and purple potato, all presented in a hand-thrown ceramic bowl and than sent out with a medical beaker of cosmic-looking potato and bitter greens soup.  This soup was to then be poured table-side by the server.
  
* The pork chop: cast iron- seared, turned over every thirty seconds in the pan to promote even cooking and distribution of moisture.  F- YEAH !

       

Melissa's Thai Tea Panna Cotta 

    It's 8:30 in the evening and the sun is setting.  My writing hand is getting shaky as I sip the now cold, bottom inch of my coffee.  That Starbucks is strong shit.  The rain dissipates and I have a clear view of the Bay Bridge.  The new bridge lights cascade down the suspension cables.  As they shift and blink at staggering rates, the lights seem to be reacting to the traffic, or the wind, or some external trigger.  Pretty cool.  It is interesting to think that this light show may have been written off as an artistic, romantic but unnecessary investment.  
     As I spend more time in the kitchens, clubs, galleries and streets of this town, sharing cigarettes with tech geniuses and immigrant dishwashers alike, it becomes more clear that maybe this art IS necessary.  It is a display of someone's perspective and talent, for you to take in and react to.  If you look, it is everywhere in this city.  Without this spark of creative energy, scientific or classical thinking might never have wings to get off of the ground.  It is the creativity in the facades of buildings, the murals on the street, the bridges we drive, and the food we eat which furthers free thinking in all parts of our lives.  Who knows, it could be a restaurant's dish which plants a seed crystal in someones brain, allowing them to approach their work in a new way.  Allowing them to create something brand new.  
       
     Seventeen kitchens to go.  Lets come back to this thread down the road...   

Chili Pepper Rock Cod

     
                       

Albatross 16 (Rockridge)

   Colin shared with me his example of "quality cooking."  I learned that, no matter the medium, make sure you are working with your heart.  For that, I thank him... 

       My next work experience was at a site still in the embryonic stages of its life-cycle.  The owners of this restaurant keep a close eye on its public image, so for posterity purposes, we will call it... Albatross 16.
       Even though good hearts and obvious talents are present, a restaurant where EVERYONE is "the new guy,"  will undoubtedly come with a few hick-ups.  This brand-new kitchen is the East Bay recreation of its San Francisco namesake.  The Cuisine is Southern Italian, Puglian and Neapolitan to be specific.  While fresh pasta is made daily, I was most impressed with their fish and Neapolitan pizza concepts.

Sea Bass Al Forno

       A restaurant's success, like any business, is a representation of functionality, or lack thereof.  Like a combustion engine, every part is a necessary component, shaped and maintained to perform a specific function.  If at anytime, one component fails, no matter how small, the system does not work.  From ingredients, to decor, kitchen equipment, expediting, purveyor relationships, hiring, employee incentives, service standards, communication, training systems, cleaning, etc.  each component is in place to deliver a final idea.  In the case of the engine, this idea is forward motion.  Albatross 16's idea is upscale Italian dining.  It seems that all the parts have been put in place, but a few inefficiencies are muddying up the experience.  The injectors are dirty and its robbing fuel economy.  The coolant has been mixed wrong, and overheating is immanent if the problem is not fixed.  A break-in period is needed to work out these kinks.  A few issues became sadly noticeable to me before I could even get a look at the food.  There is a serious disconnect between front and back-of-the-house.  This means that the ones cooking and the ones serving are not communicating.  The unfamiliarity has people shouting "Hey guy!" or simply, not addressing an issue at all.  It is strange working in a place where people feel social barriers between each other.

two cents:

I believe open and clear communication is the key to success in all interaction; 

whether it is a relationship or a dinner service.  

The cooks working the line, while wholeheartedly talented, didn't seem too pleased to be working there.  Many of them who came from the restaurant group's Michelin-star sister restaurant seemed accustomed to a particular style of cooking which was not Albatross 16's focus.  I noticed a tinge of bitterness in the air because of this.  In another instance, the garde-manger cook who was responsible for slicing the live geoduck to order, was a dread-locked animal rights activist who proclaimed his discontent for serving the dish every time one was called.  Though they might have been good cooks, no one really seemed to be in support of the concept or more importantly, each other.  ALL ENERGY COMES THROUGH ON THE PLATE!  These were a few things which made service much more difficult to get through than it had to be.  I don't know if Lucas Oil makes a product to clean this kind

of choked fuel line. 

Back Line

       The Food quality, despite the aforementioned, is commendable.  The chef's vision is simple and direct.  Albatross 16 is Southern Italian through and through.  Simple food done with stellar ingredients.  A nod to the chef's direct heritage and travels.  I'm into that!  

Crudo Tasting: (from top going clockwise)
Yellow fin, Sea Urchin, Geoduck

       The concept of Italian cooking is Zen-like in nature.  I would like to take a minute to do yet another stretch of an anology:  Bikram yoga, from what I understand, revolves around the same sequence of stretches and poses practiced loyally.  You are asked to develop your ability and capacity within this one unchanging sequence.  Though doing the same movements, a master will rise above a novice in their overall execution; their style, how long they can hold a pose for, how far they can stretch and how they feel during and at the end of a class, are factors which make this unchanging routine a very subjective experience.  The same is true in Italian cooking.  The cuisine is a framework to work within.  The test comes in the development of technique within these walls of tradition.  Respect and reference become paramount, rather than the desire to re-invent.  

    Ahh yes! we now begin to see that great chefing can mean about a million different things. 

      A bar-style front kitchen showcases a genuine Stefano Ferrara Wood-Fired Pizza Oven!  From what I hear, this is in fact, the undisputed "best" pizza oven in production now.  Shipped in from Naples, it is a monument of pizza cookery.  A testament to the fact that we as humans thrive off of obsession, that people will die attempting to achieve quality in their craft, and their gravestone will briefly state something about their family life, only to be completely overwhelmed by a statement about the love of PIZZA in big bold letters, etched into the stone, representing their soul's quest for generations to come.  I will attempt to convey what I learned in the following:

       The individual manning this station did this oven justice.  We will call him...Colin.  On his own time and dollar, Colin traveled to Naples to become certified in pizza making.  I will do my best to relay his "certified" instructions on "proper" Neapolitan pizza-making: (Margherita)

Stefano Ferrara

- Italians believe there should only be three toppings on a pizza.

- Your work-top must be marble to keep dough cool, preventing it from heating up (cooking) and sticking.

- A proper fire must be maintained throughout service (cook time: about 90 seconds)

-A good dough must be properly proofed: too short (hard proof) and it will not hold proper shape.

1.  Create crust by working the dough in a circular motion on the bench, allowing your right hand to do the work, using your left hand only as a guide.
2. aggressively slap the center of your dough to toughen gluten strands, promoting a better base for shape and toppings.
3. Apply crushed tomato, basil leaves and fresh mozzarella ( not too much mozz, as it will dispel water)
4. With your large peel (traditionally metal, not wood; measured to span the gap between your oven and bench-top) should be rested as such so you are able to transfer your pizza on to it with both hands by dragging.
5. Now inside the oven: Using your dominant hand (on the back of the peel handle,) place the top of the peel down and drag it out from under the dough.  
6. Wait for light, golden color to develop on one side and than rotate.  Rotate by tilting the now set pizza on its edge and drag it towards the front of the oven (like a wheel.)
7. Rotate the pizza through the four points of heat in the dome-shaped oven, exposing all sides to the fire, promoting even browning.
8. Italian preference:  Look for light, even browning on crust, with sporadic "leopard spots" to know it is done.  (This opposed to the heavy-bubbled and blistered American preference.)
9. Remove and finish with some good extra-virgin olive oil and sea salt (always)       

       Precision and attention paid to every step, it was clear Colin cared about his craft.  His fastidious nature was represented in the final product.  His idea was to make excellent pizza.  All analogies aside, I believe he succeeded.

"Define Quality"  attempt # 1.

- Enjoying food is analogous to sexual attraction.  "Quality" is in the eye (senses) of the beholder (your guest.)  Eating is a subjective, emotional experience.  The feeling put in to the cooking directly translates to the final idea. On what level do you connect with what you do? Engaging with your true passion is a brave endeavor, but also the common denominator in finding quality.  We can say:

Quality then becomes purely a measure of emotion.