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.
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| 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.
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| 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.)
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| Eggplant, Red Hawk, Pine nut |
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| 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.
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| 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.
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