Bittersweet

I tied my last cravat yesterday.

Classes at the Giant Corporate Cooking School are over.  People I have seen and worked with at obscene hours of the morning on a daily basis for the better part of a year are going to stop being a part of my life.  Or at least I won't be seeing them every weekday and commiserating about whatever the task du jour was.  There are a few people I will keep up with, but it won't be the same.

I've been so frazzled lately (witness the half a dozen blog posts that never made it), I hadn't even given it much thought.  It wasn't until we were scrubbing down the kitchen for the final time that it hit me:  I won't be cooking in here anymore.  And that was the tipping point, that was when I began to look around and realize, this is it.  

I didn't cry, but I thought I was going to.  Everyone lingered a bit longer than usual.  There was hugging.  We did the hokey pokey (I kid you not).  And then...

Well, I had to go to work.  Life rolls on, even when you want to stop for a moment.  

No one rides for free

I just went to get my oil changed because I had a coupon for a $17.99 oil change with complimentary fluid check, tire rotation, and the like.  Do you know how much I paid?

$282.67

It turns out that the rubber protecting my right front drive axle was gone, vanished, simply not there and eventually it would mean that I would go to make a turn and the car would go no further.  At least this is what I was told.  Sadly, cars and car parts are relegated to the realms of unreal for me; I would just as soon believe I had gnomes living in the engine emitting a magical juice that makes the car run.  Actually, I 'd prefer that - then I could attempt to bribe the gnomes with food.

Because I have no way to confirm or refute what I'm told about my car, and because I desperately need it to get around, I panicked and agreed to replace it immediately.  I, of course, was in no way prepared to shell out nearly $300 today.

Cars break down, I know. And I should be better financially prepared to deal with emergencies.

What I would rather do is just say "to hell with it" and drive the car into the ground and on that fateful day when it does make the terrible crunching noise and stops - I wish I could be the kind of person who would just leave it there, title and keys on the drivers seat and hitchhike out of town.  I wish I was the type of person who could let every material possession I have slide through my fingers like sand, never holding tight, always running free.  I wish I wasn't nostalgic, I wish I didn't look back, I wish I didn't let myself become stuck between this endless adolescence and the trappings of adulthood without the paycheck.  I wish, I wish, I wish.

But here I am.  It hardly fixes what's wrong with the car either.  Twelve years and almost 110,000 miles means things wear out and need to be replaced.  Like the breaks ($250) which are getting thin.  And the tires (no quote given) which don't have much tread left.  And the pinion is leaking oil ($400+).

All of this leaves me with a longing for public transportation that borders on religious ferventness.

How sweet it is (for now)

I am halfway through my very last class at Giant Corporate Cooking School.  There are only two projects left to realize before I walk out those doors for the last time ever and just keep going.  The reality is beginning to set in and I know I'm going to miss it.  But I'm also chomping at the bit to move onward to other things. 

But here's what I've been doing:

My super girly princess torte: yellow sponge cake with vanilla buttercream and raspberry jam covered in marzipan and topped with a giant marzipan rose.  Not my thing, both on the cake and color palette front, but it is what it was supposed to be.

Croquembouche: a traditional French wedding cake made up of cream puffs dipped in caramel and stacked on top of each other.  Legend has it that famed pastry chef Antoine Carame came up with the idea to torment future pastry students.  Or maybe it was when he witnessed marrying couples kissing over mounds of sweetened buns, the idea being if they could do it without knocking any over they would have a prosperous future.  

And hey, does that rose at the bottom look familiar?

Reduce, reuse, recycle people!  Besides, who eats the marzipan decorations?

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.