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.
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| 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.
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| 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".
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...
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| 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.
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.
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| Painted Serpent Cucumber Salad Sour cherry, fromage blanc, buckwheat |
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.
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.
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