Firstly, apologies for the lack of activity here in the last month. An exceptionally busy Christmas season is taking its toll, and we have literally not been able to grab 5 spare minutes to update the blog. We offer up the first part of this Yuletide two-parter as compensation…
We have a lot of books in the kitchen. We read for reference, we read for inspiration, we read absent-mindedly during a quick meal break. There is always something new to be learned, and we have no problem admitting that recipe books have helped us immensely. However, this article is not about recipe books. I’ll explain.
We’re an odd bunch, chefs. We often tend to be the type that doesn’t quite belong anywhere else but in a kitchen – obsessive, stubborn, self-destructive, masochistic, pick any character flaw and a chef probably displays at least one at work. I know that countless thousands of words have been submitted in praise of the hard-working “artist” that the modern chef has become – we’re trendy right now, it’s inescapable – but I’m not writing this to feed my own ego. This is really just a chance to share some great books about food and the people that prepare it for a living.
Down And Out In Paris And London – George Orwell
Orwell’s semi-fictional account of poverty as a menial worker and eventually a vagrant on the streets of the two titular cities is not the first book that springs to mind when considering classic “cook’s books”. However, in describing his experience of working as a plongeur (dishwasher), the lowest of the low in the curious but rigid hierarchy found in every professional kitchen, Orwell manages to convey the humidity, the heat and the frenzied, slippery-floored hell of endless work in the bowels of the grand Hotel X in 1933 Paris. Although written 77 years ago, there is still a hugely familiar tone in the attitude of hotel chefs/staff and their opinion of themselves…
“On my third day at the hotel the CHEF DU PERSONNEL, who had generally
spoken to me in quite a pleasant tone, called me up and said sharply:
‘Here, you, shave that moustache off at once! NOM DE DIEU, who ever
heard of a PLONGEUR with a moustache?’
I began to protest, but he cut me short. ‘A PLONGEUR with a moustache
–nonsense! Take care I don’t see you with it tomorrow.’
On the way home I asked Boris what this meant. He shrugged his
shoulders. ‘You must do what he says, MON AMI. No one in the hotel wears a
moustache, except the cooks. I should have thought you would have noticed
it. Reason? There is no reason. It is the custom.’
I saw that it was an etiquette, like not wearing a white tie with a
dinner-jacket, and shaved off my moustache. Afterwards I found out the
explanation of the custom, which is this: waiters in good hotels do not
wear moustaches, and to show their superiority they decree that PLONGEURS
shall not wear them either; and the cooks wear their moustaches to show
their contempt for the waiters.
This gives some idea of the elaborate caste system existing in a
hotel. Our staff, amounting to about a hundred and ten, had their prestige
graded as accurately as that of soldiers, and a cook or waiter was as much
above a PLONGEUR as a captain above a private. Highest of all came the
manager, who could sack anybody, even the cooks. We never saw the PATRON,
and all we knew of him was that his meals had to be prepared more carefully
than that of the customers; all the discipline of the hotel depended on the
manager. He was a conscientious man, and always on the lookout for
slackness, but we were too clever for him. A system of service bells ran
through the hotel, and the whole staff used these for signalling to one
another. A long ring and a short ring, followed by two more long rings,
meant that the manager was coming, and when we heard it we took care to
look busy.”
“In a few days I had grasped the main principles on which the hotel was
run. The thing that would astonish anyone coming for the first time into
the service quarters of a hotel would be the fearful noise and disorder
during the rush hours. It is something so different from the steady work in
a shop or a factory that it looks at first sight like mere bad management.
But it is really quite unavoidable, and for this reason. Hotel work is not
particularly hard, but by its nature it comes in rushes and cannot be
economized. You cannot, for instance, grill a steak two hours before it is
wanted; you have to wait till the last moment, by which time a mass of
other work has accumulated, and then do it all together, in frantic haste.
The result is that at mealtimes everyone is doing two men’s work, which is
impossible without noise and quarrelling. Indeed the quarrels are a
necessary part of the process, for the pace would never be kept up if
everyone did not accuse everyone else of idling. It was for this reason
that during the rush hours the whole staff raged and cursed like demons. At
those times there was scarcely a verb in the hotel except FOUTRE. A girl in
the bakery, aged sixteen, used oaths that would have defeated a cabman.
(Did not Hamlet say ‘cursing like a scullion’? No doubt Shakespeare had
watched scullions at work.) But we are not losing our heads and wasting
time; we were just stimulating one another for the effort of packing four
hours’ work into two hours.
What keeps a hotel going is the fact that the employees take a genuine
pride in their work, beastly and silly though it is. If a man idles, the
others soon find him out, and conspire against him to get him sacked.
Cooks, waiters and PLONGEURS differ greatly in outlook, but they are all
alike in being proud of their efficiency.
Undoubtedly the most workmanlike class, and the least servile, are the
cooks. They do not earn quite so much as waiters, but their prestige is
higher and their employment steadier. The cook does not look upon himself
as a servant, but as a skilled workman; he is generally called ‘UN OUVRIER’
which a waiter never is. He knows his power–knows that he alone makes or
mars a restaurant, and that if he is five minutes late everything is out of
gear. He despises the whole non-cooking staff, and makes it a point of
honour to insult everyone below the head waiter. And he takes a genuine
artistic pride in his work, which demands very great skill. It is not the
cooking that is so difficult, but the doing everything to time. Between
breakfast and luncheon the head cook at the Hotel X would receive orders
for several hundred dishes, all to be served at different times; he cooked
few of them himself, but he gave instructions about all of them and
inspected them before they were sent up. His memory was wonderful. The
vouchers were pinned on a board, but the head cook seldom looked at them;
everything was stored in his mind, and exactly to the minute, as each dish
fell due, he would call out, ‘FAITES MARCHER UNE COTELETTE DE VEAU’ (or
whatever it was) unfailingly. He was an insufferable bully, but he was also
an artist.
The PLONGEURS, again, have a different outlook. Theirs is a job which
offers no prospects, is intensely exhausting, and at the same time has not
a trace of skill or interest; the sort of job that would always be done by
women if women were strong enough. All that is required of them is to be
constantly on the run, and to put up with long hours and a stuffy
atmosphere. They have no way of escaping from this life, for they cannot
save a penny from their wages, and working from sixty to a hundred hours a
week leaves them no time to train for anything else. The best they can hope
for is to find a slightly softer job as night-watchman or lavatory
attendant.
And yet the PLONGEURS, low as they are, also have a kind of pride. It
is the pride of the drudge–the man who is equal to no matter what
quantity of work. At that level, the mere power to go on working like an ox
is about the only virtue attainable. DEBROUILLARD is what every PLONGEUR
wants to be called. A DEBROUILLARD is a man who, even when he is told to do
the impossible, will SE DEBROUILLER–get it done somehow. One of the
kitchen PLONGEURS at the Hotel X, a German, was well known as a
DEBROUILLARD. One night an English lord came to the hotel, and the waiters
were in despair, for the lord had asked for peaches, and there were none in
stock; it was late at night, and the shops would be shut. ‘Leave it to me,’
said the German. He went out, and in ten minutes he was back with four
peaches. He had gone into a neighbouring restaurant and stolen them. That
is what is meant by a DEBROUILLARD. The English lord paid for the peaches
at twenty francs each.
Thus everyone in the hotel had his sense of honour, and when the press
of work came we were all ready for a grand concerted effort to get through
it. The constant war between the different departments also made for
efficiency, for everyone clung to his own privileges and tried to stop the
others idling and pilfering.”
Blood, Bones and Butter – Gabrielle Hamilton
The subheading says it all. Pennsylvania’s Gabrielle Hamilton never intended a career as a chef. The child of a domineering and fastidious French wonder-housekeeper, Hamilton knew “how to clean up, and how to get everything comestible from an animal. We were the kids at school with the stinky, runny cheese in our lunchbags”. And yet as we in the trade know, Gabrielle Hamilton is the chef patron of the hugely respected NY restaurant Prune, and has been for 10 years. The tale of how she got there, and the story of her wilder, younger days dabbling with drugs and counter-culture to her pre-Prune experiences in the trenches of party catering company warfare are thankfully devoid of the sensationalism many memoirs fall prey to. There are two key reasons why this book stands out for me as a true chef’s companion. Firstly, she can write. She can write brilliantly, in flowing, easy but beautifully crafted prose (Hamilton graduated with an MFA in fiction writing before becoming a chef), and this makes the sheer ordinariness of her life remain hugely interesting. It is this straightforward nature that is the second defining characteristic of the book for me. Her story is the simple dream of most chefs:
A girl drifts around, unaware of who she is. She tries to be a writer, then drifts into the “we’ll employ anyone” end of the catering industry. A succession of joe-jobs and corner-cutting. Then she travels, she begins to fall in love with food and dining. Eventually, she opens the restaurant she dreamed of – no frills, serving exactly what SHE wants to EAT (there is a difference between what chefs like to serve, and what they like to eat. Promise).
Her passage about the excited thought process involved in planning what YOUR restaurant would be like hit home. We chefs all do it. It’s kind of our version of “How would you spend a Lottery win?”…
“I wanted a place with a Velvet Underground CD that made you nod your head and feel warm with recognition. I wanted the lettuce and the eggs at room temperature … I wanted the tarnished silverware and chipped wedding china from a paladar in Havana, and the canned sardines I ate in that little apartment on Twenty-Ninth Street. The marrow bones my mother made us eat as kids that I grew to crave as an adult. We would have brown butcher paper on the tables, not linen tablecloths, and when you finished your meal, the server would just pull the pen from behind her ear and scribble the bill directly on the paper like [the waitresses in France] had done. We would use jelly jars for wine glasses. There would be no foam and no ‘conceptual’ or ‘intellectual’ food; just the salty, sweet, starchy, brothy, crispy things that one craves when one is actually hungry.”
There, in just a few lines, is the vision of a generation. It’s an exact description of Prune, of course, which has inspired a thousand other chefs to follow Hamilton’s lead. Her vision is so aptly and evocatively written that it’s hard not to succumb to its rough-hewn glamour. It is truly a chef’s book, possibly only surpassed by the legendary Kitchen Confidential from fellow Manhattanite tearaway Anthony Bourdain. And THAT book is exactly where part 2 of this piece will begin.
A very happy Christmas to all our customers and readers. See you soon!
Casey – Head Chef
The Garway Moon Inn
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