I fought the stage and the stage won

I bet you think the word stage rhymes with rage.  Wrong.  In this case it is a French word that rhymes with dodge.  (Originally, in my ignorance, I thought it was spelled stodge.)  What is staging?  It is the grand tradition of working for free in a kitchen to gain knowledge, a sort of kitchen apprentice.  Most people can't afford to do long stages anymore (could they ever?), so the modern meaning is more of working a shift or two for free to see if you fit in the kitchen.  A try out, so to speak.

Last Friday, I got to stage at Bouchon.  Yup, Thomas Keller's Bouchon.  They actually called me (!); the interview went well - I bonded with human resources over french fries and epis (baguettes shaped like wheat stalks).  But it doesn't matter how well I can charm the human resources, what matters now is how will I fare in the kitchen?

So the stage was set and...

Look, I know I wouldn't be walking into a Thomas Keller kitchen and be allowed to actually do much.  And I know that high volume kitchens have a lot of grunt work to be done and it's important that it's done correctly because it's the foundation for everything.  (Cue the "there are no small parts, only small actors" mindset.)  But it was a bit more mindless than I realized it would be.

To begin, I was nervous.  Like throw up in the bathroom before I walked into the kitchen nervous.  But once I got in and had my tour and met everybody (only about three of whom's names I actually remember), I was more or less fine.  The kitchen is beautiful - it's on the second floor, surprisingly airy and light filled.  There are less pleasant places to toil away for hours certainly.

What did I do?  Portioned: 100 pounds of cookie dough, (I wish I were exaggerating), coffee cake batter, bouchon batter.  Then I got to zest and juice 70 lemons.  All the while I cleaned and maintained my station, cater wrapped everything and generally tried to stay out of the way.

Though I felt I acquitted myself well but I left with a feeling of failure and defeat.  True to form, I have not heard a peep from them since.  And yes, I did call to thank everyone.  Even more discouraging?  I wasn't the only one staging, I wasn't even the only pastry person staging.  Though I did stay the longest.  10 hours.

So there you have it folks.  Odds are if you have eaten a chocolate chip cookie in the past week at the Beverly Hills Bouchon, it was lovely scooped by none other than me.  It will have been delicious, of course.  The bitterness didn't come until later.

Penguins on a Cake

For your viewing pleasure, I present my Penguins of Madagascar cake:

You can see where I broke the cityscape cocoa painting an hour before I had to present the cake.  I did my best to glue it back together but unfortunately royal icing needs about 24 hours to dry.  I'm actually really proud how it turned out; while definitely not the best cake, nor the most professional looking, it is clearly penguins.  They're so much cuter than I thought they would be!  Especially Rico:

But who doesn't like a guy with a healthy appetite and a mohawk?

Grit, Spit, and a Whole Lot of Duct Tape

I may have forgotten to mention that on Monday I started my last class at the Giant Corporate Cooking School and it's on cake decorating.  You know me and cakes:  it's a tenuous relationship.  But it has to be done - especially if I can't get an externship (Thomas Keller Restaurant Group call me - please!).  As of now if I pass this class I could fail the externship portion and still have a C average.  *Sigh*

So the cake decorating class is entirely different from any of the previous classes.  It's much more relaxed.  We have five projects due over the course of the six weeks and each one counts as a practical exam.  Instead of making something everyday and presenting it, we're doing different components for the projects.  And this go round there's sitting!

The first project is a children's celebration cake.  Whatever I'm supposed to be celebrating wasn't specified, I guess it's enough to celebrate being a kid.  And all the awesome tv programming they have.  Originally, I was going to do a Scooby Doo themed cake because who doesn't love Scooby Doo?  (True story:  when I was a kid I honestly thought I would get to travel around the country in a van with my friends and a solve crimes, talking dog optional.  In a way, Scooby Doo ruined my life.)

But then I started thinking about the Penguins of Madagascar.  The cake has to have a figurine made out of modeling chocolate, and I debated whether I wanted to do one figure that has more detail (Scooby) or four with less (Penguins).  In the great Scooby vs. Penguins coin toss, the Penguins won.  And I'm kinda glad because I don't think I have the skills do make a good Scooby.

This was my inspiration:

This is what I have so far:

I'm not going to say anything bad about because they turned out much better than I thought they would.  And consider what I started out with:

Is it just me or is there something vaguely "Elvis Impersonator"-ish about it?  It got better when I started to add the details:

The final cake is due on Wednesday.  Until then remember, "retreating is like running away, only manlier!"

Dear Thomas Keller,

I just submitted my resume and a cover letter to the Thomas Keller Restaurant Group in hopes that it will lead to a paid externship.  Thomas Keller.  As in French Laundry, Ad Hoc, Per Se, Bouchon.  If this doesn't impress you, you probably have no idea who he is.  Google now.


I hate writing cover letters.  I've never quite mastered the modern, formal, business style of writing.  I feel like I either come across as painfully proper and antiquated or way too casual.  Usually in these cases I write a letter that has every wrong and inappropriate thing imaginable in it, just so I can get it out of my system.  Then I move on.  So here's the letter I didn't send:

Dear Chef Keller,

Please hire me.  I know you have absolutely no cause to, and could not pick me out of a police line up if you had to (which hopefully you never will), but I still feel I am deserving of a chance to prove myself in one of your kitchens. Let me list my many fine qualities: in 9 months of study I have never once set anyone else on fire, destroyed any cookware, or lost any of my phalanges.   In addition to this strict safety code I adhere to, I am well versed in actual baking and patisserie.  For breads I can mix, proof, rest, and roll out with the best of them.  Cake and quick bread mixing methods?  I’ve mastered seven at last count.  Cookies?  Love them – especially for breakfast.  My latest obsession is tempering chocolates to make truffles and bon bons. 

Besides being a sugar junkie with a penchant for late nights and early mornings and all the hours in between, I am genuinely a fan of yours.  I was enchanted before I even had the chance to dine in one of your restaurants.  I fell in love during a brief fling at Bouchon in Las Vegas - sadly there was nary a fat Elvis in sight.  Now I want to bring it full circle and actually work in the kitchens.  

To quote Abba "take a chance on me!"  Not an Abba fan?  Well to paraphrase Leonard Cohen: If you want a baker, I'll do anything you ask me to.  Let me in, I'm your (wo)man.

Best Regards, etc, etc

Had I actually sent that letter, it wouldn't have been the first time in my life I've torpedoed myself.  It's tempting.  Getting to extern at someplace like French Laundry would be akin to being a PA on a Martin Scorsese film: you get to watch a master at work.  Obviously there are people who get to, but those people are never me and if I'm going to be rejected, I'd rather it be for who I really am versus a sterilized version of myself that a mid level human resources manager deems acceptably not hirable.  

But hope springs eternal and I sent a more "professional" cover letter.  And now the waiting for no response begins.

Aural Fixation / Goat Cheese Ice Cream

It's the dog days of summer and I ponder my goaty-ness, as DJ Sie provides cool and creamy treats for your ears:

Aural Fixation / Goat Cheese Ice Cream

Apples to Apples

I'm a Mac user and I love my Mac.  But I hate the Apple Store.  I didn't know what a fevered pitch of loathing I would reach for the Apple Store going in to this relationship.

For one thing, I'm not an Apple Store Mac.  I'm a second hand, behind the scenes, shady deal with an actual secret handshake Mac.  That's just how I roll.  So I was not familiar with the sanctuary of simple and intuitive (I hate that word) computing that is an Apple Store.

But eventually, with all technology, it will come to pass that something will get screwy or need to be replaced.  In this case it was my power cord adaptor.  For whatever reason last Monday my computer stopped recognizing when I plugged it in with my particular adaptor.  It recognized other adaptors and I was just happy I had a reasonably cheap fix.  I mean, it's not like I had to replace the hard drive (again).

I could have ordered it online - it even had free shipping.  But I'm a hope springs eternal kind of gal and despite past misgivings and experiences, I went to the local Apple Store to pick up a new one.  (Well, truthfully I had to get a set of pastry brushes and the Apple Store was in the same location, so I thought two birds, one stone.  I am so efficient!  I was wrong.)

Apple Store:  the word store is in the name.  That implies you can buy stuff there.  There are minimalistic yet sexy displays of electronics to suit your every need that will never go on sale.  But no one willing to take my money.

I knew what I needed; I even brought the old cord with me to eschew any complications.

I made my approach to the temple of clean computing.  One of the guards stopped me and inquired what business I had there.  I showed him my old power cord and said I need a new one.  He smirked, "That is old," and directed me to where the new ones are.  Yes you little emo scab, it's the original but up until last week it worked, so what was the point of replacing it?

Grabbed the box and looked around.  A sea of blue shirts and not a single person who would make eye contact or take my money.

Here is some hard won knowledge of the staff: they have stations that they're not supposed to leave.  So I meander over to a guy and ask to pay for the new cord.  He told me John would be able to help me in just a minute.  "Oh where's John?"  A gesture over the shoulder - that way.  I'm not sure which one of the Apple automatons John is, but none of the guys over there looked like they would be ready to ring me up in  "just a minute".

I smile.  I step closer.  "Okay.  Until John can ring me up, I'm just going to hover uncomfortably close to you."

30 full seconds.

"You know, I can just take care of that for you."

And children, that is the true story of the only time in my life I have gotten out of the Apple Store in under 10 minutes.