Flamenco and Food

I spent a lovely long week end in Berlin, which contrasted sharply with France and Marseille, with its unending strikes and garbage accumulating on the sidewalks. It was my first time in that city, and since a friend from university had an exhibit scheduled, I thought it would be the perfect opportunity to go. I sent out a message online to whoever wanted to meet me there as well, and was met by two friends, one living in another German town (with his companion) and the other in Sweden. Though it was only my second time in Germany (the first was in Munich, years ago, to meet a crazy scientist who had devised a water desalination contraption), it felt vaguely familiar, reminiscent of Switzerland, where after all, I have lived five years.
Back in Marseille, the trash was still on the streets but at least the buses were running. I have to say that in spite of all the garbage, I have seen far more rats and cockroaches in New York City.
So my first full week at the restaurant ends tonight, Saturday, and I never imagined I could enjoy myself so much at work. It’s been a week of creating, tasting, team work, giggles, skill-honing, vodka shots… though the atmosphere is still hierarchical and military, with lots of low-brow humor and testosterone, there is a binding love of food and excellence that makes it all okay, almost entertaining for an outsider such as myself. Maybe I’ve read too much Anthony Bourdain and Bill Buford that I would have been disappointed had the kitchen been less intense. Or maybe I like the combination of pressure and discovery, everyday bringing a different bounty of top quality produce. The chef is very spontaneous, and also gives his more senior staff a lot of creative license, which is very appreciable.
On the other hand, I have had to reconsider my initial idea of giving a detailed account of my experience, since number one, I am too tired to write daily, and number two, if I were the chef, I would expect a certain amount of discretion from my staff.
Speaking only briefly of the chef, in certain ways he reminds me of my flamenco teacher. They are both extremely demanding and perfectionist and can tear a person down faster than a New York minute. They are very sparse with compliments and extremely passionate of their art… I think this passion is what draws me towards these types of characters. It’s as if their creation was a matter of life and death…

i blame it on starbucks

So, what I really set out to write about was not the lyceens striking, but of course, my first day at the restaurant.
I set out bright and early, but, as is often the case, I was too early, and so as to be right on time, I decided to take a little walk around the block. It so happens that the one and only Starbucks in Marseille was around the corner, and they have free wifi, and, well, I ended up in line there behind two Starbucks virgins who had a thousand and one questions about the intricacies of the American giant they had ventured into. Instead of staring down on them impatiently as any self-respecting New Yorker would do in her hometown waiting for her caffeine fix, I could not help but enjoy the puzzled looks of the customers (Q: "What size do you want?" A:" Oh they come in different sizes?" Note to self: do not laugh out loud as I did when I heard this because the guy looked at me disapprovingly, as one would if one heard a stranger laughing at presumbably something one said).
So when I returned to the restaurant, skipped happily up the staircase of the employee entrance with my take-out espresso, I greeted the Chef and he said: "The first quality of a Chef is punctuality." Damn you Starbucks!

blood thirsty high school students...and i don't mean Twilight

This morning as I was serenely sipping a hot beverage and looking at the sea - and not the ocean, as someone accurately pointed out to me this week - I heard the sound of a hundred young voices screaming. At first I thought it was a race, since I have seen a few going past the beach and by the ocean drive. But there was no crowd on the beach, on the contrary, I saw people at their windows and balconies in the building across from mine and I knew it was the Lycee, or high school, located near my building. The voices grew louder, I still thought it was a sporting event, until I heard "Mort a ..." or "Death to ..." Yikes. The transport system coming to a halt for the fourth time (or was it fifth) in the two months I've been back in France is one thing, but kids screaming for the death of god knows who (probably Sarkozy) made me a little more than annoyed. I suddenly had images of Bastille Day revolutionaries brandishing long forks (what are thise things called, like in "American Gothic") - right, pitch forks... I got a little paranoid and for a split second considered not going to class. Fortunately when I left the building the kids were still gathered half a block away, wich gave me the opportunity to get on the first bus going downtown... I was still five minutes late for class, and when I explained to my teacher that I almost got lynched, she didn't believe me!

I am in danger...

... of putting on ten pounds from eating cream puffs, cream sauce, buttered everything, Napoleons - all homemade biensur. What's a French cooking student to do?

So last week we gutted and guillotined chickens, this week we explored the insides of trouts. Strangely, the gills are used for the fumet or fish stock, and let me tell you, fish do not like to part with their gills, even when they are dead. I had to wrestle my two slimey specimens with a kitchen knife to end up with what looked like very little.
Also this week we are tackling very delicate pastries: iles flottantes (one of my favorites), choux pastry and puff pastry (we are making Napoleons or millefeuilles as they are called here, on Thursday). My choux pastry was a success (okay, it was not my first time), but my islands of soft meringue poached in barely sweetend milk were a bit of a distaster.
As for the puff pastry... it was a momentous event for me as I am a "feuilletage virgin," one might say. For now it is sitting in the fridge, but I have a feeling it will come out nicely.

Butter, cream, more butter

Given that I am studying traditional french cuisine, I should not be surprised by the amount of butter and cream employed in each dish. I am, however, slightly nauseated. I realize that this training is an excellent base to have, but it has made me realize how multi-cultural and, for lack of a better word, modern, my own cooking style has turned out to be. It is actually nice to realize that I actually have a style at all.
So today we were given dead chickens with the heads, feet and innards still attached. I am usually not squirmish in the kitchen (except when it comes to beef tongue, which I associate with a childhood trauma), but that's probably because I am not often in a situation which calls for me to be in close contact with animal heads and innards. Still, I called on the inner igorot in me to face the bird and my own aversion.
A little note on igorots for those who are not familiar with the term, which denotes a tribe from the Mountain Province of the Philippines, where I was born. I was thus nicknamed igorot early in my life, in a slightly pejorative (from a Manila or plain-as in flatland- people's perspective) yet tender manner, which I always took pride in, at first simply because of the otherness of its resonance, but later in life because of the anti-colonial implications. The Mountain Province were able to conserve their rituals and traditions more than the plains folk. One of these was a ritual chicken stew called pinikpikan and which involved tapping the head of a live chicken against a rock until it hemorraged internally. The whole process is absolutely inhumane, yet traditional and apparently makes for better tasting broth. I will not enter here into animal ethics, it's just something that came to my mind in class this morning looking at that dead chicken head...

First day of class

So yesterday was my first day in class (I had to miss the first few days as I was in Paris). Eager to make a good impression, I woke up with an eye infection that made me look like I just got punched in the face. On top of that, I got a haircut in Paris, my first since I left NY, and it was way too short... I look like I just got out of prison.
Nevertheless, the day went smoothly, the teacher and my fellow classmates were relativedly pleasant, and the menu was good. On the other hand, I almost slipped on the wet kitchen floor, so first thing this morning, I bought a pair of hideous "chaussures de sécurité" as they call them.
For lunch we sat together and ate the Veau Marengo and Tarte Alsacienne we made in the morning, and we took home the Blanquette de Veau and Tarte aux Pommes we made in the afternoon. So far I am holding my ground, though I can definitely use some improvement on my knife skills.
I wonder what is on the menu for Monday...