food. according to me.     Sauce and Sensibility

Orange-Colored Soup

In culinary school, our final exams often took the form of what we called Black Boxes, which were, of course, neither black nor in a box exactly. But “black box” does lend a certain intimidating ring, doesn’t it?

They went like this: Nervous students in ridiculous starched hats and bleached aprons line up in the kitchen, waiting to take a shift at the burners. The rules: Every item in the “black box” (which is actually a grey or green bus tub or milk crate) must be used in the preparation of a three or five course meal. Anything in the kitchen – stocks, onions, flour, spices, etc. – is available for use, but one may neither leave the kitchen nor send out for any special ingredient. Meals are served to the Chef in order (appetizer before main, and so on) & all within maybe one or two hours. Some students would sit in faux-calm contemplation and make sketches & lists, tucking scraps of paper into the breast pocket of their chef coats next to the requisite black sharpie and insta-read thermometer.

“Black box” ingredients were usually pretty boring – three shrimp, for example, a piece of chicken, two shallots, radicchio, asparagus, a small bag of rice. Grading was done based on the finished meal, of course – appropriate utilization, cooking methods, execution, presentation. Cleanliness (of self & workspace), waste, and grace were also considered in the evaluation. Exams often happened all week long. The PM A la Carte class was responsible for running dinner at the school’s restaurant. During exams, five or ten students were pulled from work as mini-sauciers, salad-platers and grillardins, to perform the test while the rest of the class kept the machine shakily running.

These exams always made me nervous. In school, I was only ever really “in my zone” in the bakeshop. The remaining 83% of my time was there I passed in a constant state of low-level panic. I got by just fine – at times exclusively on charm and delegation – but, unlike many of my classmates, I had not worked in a “real” kitchen before school. School for me was a challenge. For the more-seasoned among us, it was a vacation.

A moment from the last black box I took:
Chef hands me my tub in the middle of some small crisis in class. We are already behind. As soon as I have a grip on the indents on either side of the tub, the chef snaps a nod at me and says, “see you in an hour.” Then he is gone. I look down at the ingredients in my hands. Everything looks normal & an image of the meal I will make begins to form in my mind. I cannot make the words yet, but I know it will be OK. Then I see what is surely intended as my main entrée item: venison. Deer; like, you know, Bambi. The Rolodex inside my head begins to spin on its black plastic axis. I am shuffling through everything I know about venison: appropriate cooking method for this kind of cut (and what the hell cut is it, anyway?), flavor matches, doneness indicators. This list is woefully short. I don’t even know what it tastes like. I take a deep breath as classmates gather to inspect the tub. The look on my face gives me away. One man is gone and back in a flash. He has a small ceramic ramekin & holds it out for me. It is his venison spice rub: he’s been using it for years. I poke through it and nod. We talk about what kind of sauce I might make to compliment it. The guy in charge of the grill that night tells me he’ll cook it for me. He disappears with it, winking, after he asks what time I would like it done.

The cool thing about these exams is that I learned how to work within constraints – limited ingredients, space, time, and patience. All of these things are in short supply in the “real” world. This is how the specials in your favorite restaurant happen.

I am still doing black box exams, only much less formally. Emerging from this season’s final exam stupor I discover myself hungry last night, but neither the fridge nor the freezer offered up any obvious solution. I am not dressed, nor have I the inclination to dress, for being seen in public. Without thinking, I pull likely-looking ingredients out on the counter: half of a Hubbard squash, a shriveling yam, a yellow onion. Pinching the phone between my ear and neck, I peel the yam, cut the mold off the squash. A saucepan of water. Salt. Fire. All ingredients are cubed and go into the pot. I open the fridge again. Garlic emerges – and ginger, more onion, corn. Phone call ends. I pluck a drying serrano pepper, rinse it, and throw it in whole. Thyme. Black pepper. Fifteen minutes later, when the squash and the yams are tender, I use the immersion blender to make it smooth. No dairy, no added fat, no stock. A pinch more salt. I begin to imagine fetching some fresh thyme from the yard. I think about how nice a ribbon of crème fraiche would look in the middle of the bowl. Before either transpires, though, I am eating. & it’s good: no worries, no stress.