It's really funny seeing people up here trying to move around when there's an inch of snow on the ground. Everyone looks the same on the Southside at 1 A.M. The girl has high heels, a pair of ripped up jeans, and some terribly low-cut top on. Maybe one of those short denim jackets. The guy wears the pair of designer jeans and the dress shirt that he wears every time he goes clubbing, probably because his girlfriend, or a girlfriend in some point in time, said it looked good on him. He tries to look tough as he helps his girl up every time she falls on her ass, but the truth is that he is suffering from hypothermia caused by vascular dilation from all those shots he had, and will need serious medical attention soon. It really is a hilarious sight. People who have lived here all their lives still have no idea how to dress in December.
On nights like this, when my still-wet hair crystallizes as soon as I walk out of the dorm, I'm decked out in a pair of thick canvas Hot Topic cargo pants, merino wool socks and my trusty pair of combat boots, two sweaters, a big full-length wool overcoat, a lambswool scarf and a pair of cashmere-lined leather gloves. And, of course, a cup of piping hot coffee. It felt really nice outside tonight. I also had a rollicking good time sliding down hills on the worn-down soles of my boots. The entire city is covered in powder snow--Market Square is a big white sheet untouched by human feet, and heavily salted sidewalks make miles of cement look like giant Icees.
Pretty chaotic day at work. I opened and closed the place, and an hour after we ignited the kitchen the dining room filled up and we had tickets coming out for a 16-top among others. Not one of those nights where the grill is an unintelligable field of caramelizing protein, but not an easy dinner rush at all. At one point when I was searing an Ahi steak in sesame oil, I flipped it over and caused a quick grease fire that sent a giant fireball into the hood and made enormous flames wrap around my entire right arm--not even burning me but certainly supplementing my imagination later on while I continued reading The Inferno.
It was just me and my two buddies in the kitchen, but we kicked some ass and banged out a pretty creative and prep-intensive special at the same time. I think we ended up calling it a Horseradish-Crusted Flounder Fillet with a Lemon Dill Beurre Blanc and Risotto. The other night I took an old 16-inch sauteuse we lovingly call the Millenium Falcon and completely decarbonized it with steel wool and really corrosive chemicals so I'd be able to make the Risotto alla Parmigiana in a batch triple what I did when creating our recipe for it.
At the same time as all the stuff happening today, we were getting heavily prepped for tomorrow--there's a Steelers home game and as I probably mentioned earlier, we're on the way to the stadium. I fabricated ten pounds worth of hamburgers out of ground sirloin, emptied the oil out of both the fryers and cleaned them (a rather exciting process since if you spill the 350-degree oil on your hands while taking the giant stock pot of it out through the iced-over alley to the giant drums of spent grease, you can pretty much expect to need amputation), made a bunch of salad dressings and sauces in the blender, and when I should've been clocking out, I refilled a bunch of shit on the line as best I could and pulled scores of IQF meat and fish items, as well as a big tub of calamari, from the freezer to thaw overnight. My knees are going crazy from the 70-pounds-of-fry-shortening trips up and down the stairs and I'm starting to see grillmarks on everything.
And I have to be at work again in another six hours.
This is probably closer to the level of work I'll be doing once I get out of school. I know it. My job is a pretty sweet gig right now; the kitchen in a place where food is only half the attraction doesn't get too slammed on Friday nights, and walking down East Carson street tonight gave me a reminder of how nice that is. As I walked past the windows of several popular dining spots, I could see burnt-out sous-chefs with their jackets half unbuttoned and the callouses seared off their hands, already writing notes on prep sheets for tomorrow. And I knew that it really is like that every night, and the fact that I feel like I should have tongs and spatulas instead of hands right now is only a taste of what I'm going to experience in my career.
And I love it. I was thinking on the way back home tonight that I really don't regret anything I've ever done in my life. Except for not making out with Andrea Oncken at region choir--that was a pretty stupid move. But the whole professional cooking thing is definitely for me, as well is the school I'm going to (despite my hatred of the related classes this cycle), the place I moved to, and just the way things are going in general.
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