Save Your Tuition Dollars, Here’s The Secret

While I am reserving judgment on formal culinary education as a means of career improvement, my fifty weeks in a cravat and starched hat were, if nothing else, a hoot. I got to hang out with all varieties of the food-obsessed – I made friends with young men who had been working on hot lines for years, seeking their degree only as a means to a pay raise. I met sweet older folks, looking to break out of their midlife crises, former big rig truck drivers and housewives in need of a change. Some of us had big, crazy dreams of owning a restaurant, a place with some kind of nutty theme. Like Star Wars. And of course there were those just like me: kids, not quire sure of what to do in life, but certainly fond of the kitchen. That year, I figured out how to deal with people just as much as I learned the trick to de-boning a chicken. I got comfortable laughing with just about anyone who had something funny to say. I figured out that it’s OK if people don’t like me (though they’re clearly insane). It’s nice to know that I can make a demi glace in a 102º kitchen while a six foot plus chef is yelling at the side of my face that I’m just not moving fast enough. I can’t imagine a world in which I’ll ever have occasion to use that skill again, but it’s in there. And thinking about it makes me smile. So does recalling the day I was tapped to cook the grains for the Flavors of the World tasting. While my Storeroom classmates sorted dried chilies and filled orders for the nighttime classes, I was alone in the a la carte kitchen, commander of 20 gas burners, and 20 grains and legumes in 50 minutes. Maybe it’s a silly thing to be proud of.

On the other side of that year, I know that whatever skills I honed back there, most have gone soft. I couldn’t make consommé tomorrow, but I doubt I’ll ever want to. I have since learned how to break the rules. I realized this last night as I tried to explain to E how to make granola. When pressed about how much all I could say was enough. And as for how long, all I know is ‘til it’s done. I think I do that a lot. I’m pretty sure it drives my friends a little closer to crazy. After my 3 am mornings with the Frenchman (to whom I owe more than I would ever, ever publicly give him credit for…but I’ll admit this: I learned more in six weeks in that kitchen than I did in a year at school), food doesn’t scare me nearly as much as it used to. Chef Jasso taught me how to read a pastry recipe: how to apply just a little bit of food chemistry to see the finished product – its crumb, texture, thickness – while its still just abstracted on the page. Eggs are binders, thickeners, and a useful source of fat; did you know that? And when I left for my internship, I learned speed, fearlessness, and a whole lotta shortcuts. I learned how to use better ingredients in the most effective way. I learned how to bake in bulk – 15 pounds of butter at each go, ten sheet pans of tiramisu instead of one.

When I tell people I’m into food, many immediately back down. Oh, I can’t follow a recipe to save my life. Good! Recipes are totally useful guidelines, but they are not commandments. If you really understand pastry cream, for example, either because you have made it a hundred (or six) times, or because you have read Harold McGee’s On Food and Cooking, then you know how to make it so it turns out the way you want it to. You don’t need a recipe to tell you what tastes good – you already know what tastes good!! At best, recipes are just an offering of someone else’s idea, of the way it’s worked for them.

It’s a huge, embarrassing cliché, but the greatest thing I’ve figured out in the kitchen is that it just won’t do to fear it. (Just like it just won’t do to cry over my piecrusts, though occasionally I still do.) One bad batch of muffins won’t ruin my life or drive me to drink; neither will a tough breast of chicken, or a loose pastry cream. You don’t learn anything by getting it right the first time. And it’s way more fun when you figure it out – the interplay between your chosen flavors, how to get the texture you want (not too creamy and not too crunchy, mind you!) and, of course, how to make it look sexy…

So there. Now there’s nothing (important) I know that you don’t. Just mix it ‘til it looks right and then cook it ‘til it’s done.