Garde Manger
A kitchen memoir by Robin Hong
San Francisco
Aug 3, 2018, 10:00am
My alarm went off and I pulled the sleep mask from my eyes. My low back was sore, my ankles ached, and the sciatic nerve running down my left leg felt like it was left in a panini press overnight. Anthony Bourdain warned me about starting a kitchen career in my 30’s. He said I’d be slower and more likely to get injured than my junior counterparts. As much as I’d like to be the exception, the effects from working these past 6 months in a high-octane restaurant are now part of my reality.
Six months earlier…
It was noon in Oakland. I was in the parking lot of our commissary kitchen packing the last fruit platter into a white windowless sprinter van. I closed the double doors and jumped into the passenger seat as Chef Eddy shifted to reverse and peeled out of the parking lot. It was the holidays and business was booming for the catering company, but we had taken more jobs than we could handle. Overbooking meant longer work hours, late arrivals and oftentimes leaving critical items behind during pack out. That day was no exception.
On route to our next gig, I handed Chef Eddy a paper plate of pasta carbonara that I quickly threw together. Neither of us have had a proper meal nor adequate sleep that week. After his first bite, he set the plate down on the center console, where it would remain for the rest of the night. I took a bite too. The pasta was undercooked, the egg yolks had curdled into the texture of cottage cheese, and the whole thing was under-seasoned. I was so embarrassed to think that after 2 years of catering, I couldn’t make a proper carbonara for staff meal. I turned my gaze to the back of the van filled with trays: a caprese salad, grilled chicken, store-bought brownies, and a 10-gal stock pot of the same, tired mac & cheese that we’ve served a thousand times. Our food lacked originality and soul. My culinary growth was stagnant. As I reluctantly ate my sad carbonara, dreading the fact that I’ll be washing dishes until 3am, it had become painfully clear that I was wasting my youth (what’s left of it) at this job.
I admit in my first 31 years of life I had never committed myself to do anything challenging. I squandered my 20’s pursuing a film career in Los Angeles, clueless, with no business sense and my head in the clouds while the country was in a recession. Afterwards I had various stints in other industries drifting without direction nor the mindset to truly immerse myself and get ahead. Within a year of a new job, two things would happen: either the job got tough or I didn’t vibe with the team, and in effect I would quit. This led to me thinking that there was no suitable career path for me, that maybe I didn’t fit anywhere, and over the years I struggled with several bouts of addiction to video games. I never imagined that by taking a prep cook job at the Cheesecake Factory I could utilize my multi-tasking, compulsive organization and tidiness, and least expected of all, my insatiable appetite in a professional setting. I vowed to get sober, to fully throw myself into cooking if it meant I could attain a higher consciousness of cuisine.
The Michelin Guide has been as popular with diners in search of a special meal as it has been with cooks looking for employment. The search began online where I scanned the guide for dishes, menus and wine lists. If a restaurant looked promising, I’d arrange a “stage”, an evening where I would help out in the kitchen and experience what a typical service was like. Once I found a place, I promised to commit 110% to learn and work for the next 12 months.
When I arrived at The Progress, I was genuinely enamored by every aspect of the restaurant. As soon as you walked through the heavy frosted-glass door, you got a sense that every inch of the space has a special touch. The smooth birchwood-lined walls, art-deco prism sconces and soft candlelight gave the dining room a warm glow, like a campfire beckoning to hungry and weary wanderers. Every detail was a conversation piece; from the hundreds of handmade ceramics in muted earth-tone glazes, the curiously scented diffusers in the lavatories, to the wild assortment of fresh-cut flowers arranged in the dining room. Past the dining room, the eyes are drawn to cooler tones of a brightly lit open kitchen clad in stainless steel where the cooks were busy with prep. Chef Laura greeted me warmly and assigned me one task: to cut ginger thread. It involved peeling a knob of ginger, shaving it on a mandolin into thin, translucent sheets, then hand-cutting it to resemble thread. When I finished the task, Chef Zack came over to inspect my work. “Thinner… Cut it thinner.” He showed me an example and I tried again. “Still too coarse. I need it thinner.” Several attempts later, I still could not cut the strands thin enough to save my life. My thread was either too thick or all connected at the ends, resembling a barber’s comb. I was frustrated. An hour had passed and I had shaved and cut five knobs of ginger, none of which were usable.
Though a little shaken, I was excited to see just how all those beautiful dishes I’d seen online came to be. During service Chef Zack let me taste four dishes. The food was plated as beautifully as it was mind-blowingly delicious, with each new dish more provocative than the last. First came a sturgeon caviar covered in potato foam with lime zest, followed by squid ink noodles in an umami tomato kale ragout, a grilled squid dish with chorizo over a silky-sweet corn pureé, and a tender braised pork shoulder with watermelon radishes and beet salsa.
Cupid’s final arrow came in the form of dessert: a “floating island” composed of a pillowy football-shaped meringue, a perfect sphere of coconut sorbet, and a spoonful of vibrant blood orange, pomelo and grapefruit, all floating on top of a chrysanthemum-infused cream anglais. Not in a million years will I forget how good this dessert tasted.
Alas I left the restaurant defeated, thinking my best efforts weren’t up to par for a Michelin-starred restaurant. If I didn’t get the job, I was determined to find another restaurant with similar demands for excellence. To my surprise, the next day Chef Zack called with a job offer and without hesitation I accepted the position on garde manger (GM), the station in charge of cold appetizers and desserts.
On my first day, during the grand tour of the building, I felt what Galileo must’ve felt when he looked through the telescope for the first time. How small and insignificant was I in this ever expanding culinary universe? Every inch of this building overflowed with decades of cooking knowledge and experience. In the commissary kitchen, chefs were butchering whole lamb and Alaskan halibut, rolling out fresh pasta and making duck liver mousse. In the pastry kitchen, chefs were gently placing pillowy quenelles of meringue onto a bed of warm milk and cutting macaron ice cream sandwiches into perfect squares. And from behind the dining room, 7 days a week, 7 cooks would bang out genuinely delicious and unique dishes for dinner service. This was the kitchen I dreamt about and I wasn’t going to take it for granted.
Six months later…
12:10pm
I sprinted down three blocks to catch up to the 38 bus. As much as I relished my quiet time off-the-clock, I was more anxious about letting my team down. My inefficiencies in the kitchen could be slightly remedied by showing up early. With my day comprising of only sleep, meals, and work, my schedule was already super tight. Any plans of laundering my oil-splattered aprons or sharpening my dull knives have been postponed… for the third day in a row. My thoughts were on the day ahead. I hopped off the bus, ran to the Korean market across the street, stuffed my face with fish kimbap and slowed my cadence in front of the restaurant just enough to appear as though I was moseying in.
PHASE 1: PREP
12:45pm
The kitchen was already bustling with activity as cooks trimmed down the firey red leaves of chicory into uniformly shaped hearts, picked blossoms from bouquets of cilantro flowers, and sorted through a box of red, green and orange heirloom tomatoes, ripe and on the verge of bursting. The counter was covered with box upon box of freshly harvested herbs, fruits and vegetables supplied from our private garden every week, all of which must be stored away before we start our day.
1:09pm
The floor was swept of all leaves and soil and the cooks lined up to discuss the day’s agenda. “Happy Friday,” Chef Zack greeted us calmly. “We have 160 on the books, 2 parties coming in at 5:30… For staff meal, GM is on salad” (that’s me).
It was the beginning of the weekend rush. 160 reservations could easily turn into 190 - 200 covers, which meant there was a lot to do. I was in charge of preparing 5 snacks and 4 dishes for service. In order to serve the freshest product possible, everything was hand cut daily and discarded at the end of the night. My plan was to get the station ready with enough mise (ingredients) to start service, then prep hard as I go.
1:20pm - 2 hours remaining
I ran upstairs to pull my ingredients. The walk-in fridge was tightly packed chaos. There was just enough space to squeeze between the columns of containers to see that the ears of corn that I needed were at the bottom of a totem pole of produce stacked 15 boxes high.
1:49pm - 90 minutes remaining
The kitchen was full of activity with the sounds of sizzling pans, herbs being chopped and sauces being blended. I brought down all my produce, washed my melons, peaches, and pluots, put the corn in the steamer and started my timer. Prep had finally begun. What followed was a sequence of 15-20 minute projects including sauces, mixtures, aiolis, cut herbs and garnishes. My heart was palpitating. I was going full throttle, knife to board, trying not to lose a finger. I had viciously cut my thumbs several times in the past shaving peanut-sized French radishes on the mandolin. Time becomes your greatest teacher; you learn to work fast without compromising quality.
An aioli recipe required 2 egg yolks. As I separated the 2nd egg, the yolk broke and oozed between my fingers. I ran upstairs for another and the yolk broke again. Shit! I ran up again and this time separated the yolk successfully. I lost 6 minutes and today every second counts.
3:01 pm - 30 minutes remaining
Each time I glanced at my watch, I was shocked at how much time had passed. In the kitchen, there are constant interruptions that slow you down. For instance:
The spring onions I need hadn’t arrived from the market yet.
I needed the blender to pureé the corn I just steamed, but I was the 4th in line to use it.
My fridge was so full of mise that I needed to play Tetris to make room for today’s prep. I could consolidate into smaller containers…
…but no clean containers were available. Next I was rummaging through piles of dirty dishes to find the ones I needed and washed them.
By chance if the health inspector was in the building, the entire kitchen would be walking on eggshells until the inspector was gone.
Despite all this, like a Nascar driver, my eyes were set in one direction: forward. As the minutes slipped away, Chef Zack told me to plate the new melon dish for lineup at 5:00pm.
3:30pm
Like the jolt of a fire alarm, the “3:30!” announcement brought all activity in the kitchen to a screeching halt. The cooks scrambled to clear their stations, emptied their trash bins, and hid their mise in any nook that fit so that the kitchen could be scrubbed from top to bottom.
As I squatted, vigorously scrubbed the French cooktop, the soapy water instantly evaporated on the hot oven doors. My hands were pruny from being constantly wet, which was why my hands were always dry and cracking. I wondered how much longer my body could endure the daily abuse. I began to daydream about all the far away places that I’d rather be: going on a crisp morning hike through Yosemite Valley, having a hot soak in an onsen by Mount Fuji, baking under the summer sun on a pebble beach in Nice… anywhere but here, ankle-deep in kitchen degreaser.
3:47pm
I set up my station with a dizzying amount of mise: 8 squeeze bottles, 8 pints of sauces, 10 herbs, 2 trays of fresh cut fruit, a dehydrator with layers of cured ham, a tray of gluten free chips, edible flowers, and trout roe. As I stepped back to admire the station, it suddenly dawned on me, “Oh shit! I forgot to make staff salad!”
In the 13 minutes before the staff sat down for dinner, I ran upstairs for some greens. Herbs and shallots were frantically cut and dropped into an improvised mixture of vinegar, oil, sugar and salt. There is a time for thoughtful cooking; food made with love, measured and plated with the same finesse as a painter’s brush on canvas, but now was not the time. I gave the dressing one last taste and rushed the salad over to the staff counter. I return to my station now a complete dripping mess; a lexan half full of greens, a cutting board covered in herb scraps and a hand mixer in a puddle of dressing.
5:00pm - 30 minutes until doors open
All the cooks gathered around the counter to discuss our new dishes.
“Robin, where’s your dish?”
“10 seconds, Chef!”
After a few cracks of black pepper fell onto a plate of melon and cured ham, I turned to set it on the counter next to the new veal dish and 2 new desserts that would be the spotlight of the meeting. I straightened out the shirt that stuck to my back, exhaled slowly hoping no one would notice.
As usual each station described their new dish: ingredients, methods, the diet of the animal, etc. The chef did a round of pop quizzes to make sure all the cooks knew the menu, even the dishes they weren’t responsible for. My watch told me 20 minutes had passed. By the time the meeting adjourned…
5:20pm
…I had 10 minutes to slice 2 trays of melon, 1 tray of pluots, and shuck 70 oysters!!
It’s moments like these when you realize how mortal you are, how you wish for a lifesaver to fish you out of shark infested waters, how despite your best efforts you still have a mountain of tasks to do because if you don’t finish prep now, you’ll be extremely behind during service. The chef will certainly be around your neck about how you should’ve been more efficient with your time. You could refute this claim by giving a complete list of wild goose chases that hindered you and argue that it’s not humanly possible to meet all the kitchen demands. Perhaps you could simply throw your hands up and walk out the kitchen in defiance, saying, “I’m out!”, which would result in your immediate termination and permanent blacklisting from the San Francisco dining scene. The next day you’ll be on your knees in front of a tribunal pleading for your job back, saying that cooking is your last shot at an honest career and if that’s taken away then you’ll have nothing!!
…but for the sake of saving time, in that moment I inhaled deeply, swallowing all my pride, and exhaled a distress call, “CHEF, I NEED HEEEELLLLPPP!!”
The lights are dimmed just as they do in the theater when the show is about to begin.
PHASE 2: DINNER SERVICE
5:30pm
The doors opened. It’s quiet and I was shucking oysters like there’s no tomorrow. There was no announcement that the diners had arrived, only the sound of tickets printing in the distance. Any minute now, a swarm of guests could pour through those doors and wipe out all the mise I’ve prepared…
“FIRE snacks for 10 and 11!” announced Chef Zack.
Now...
I’m in deep...
fucking...
weeds...
If there’s one rule in the kitchen to abide by, it’s “never keep a guest waiting”.
2 parties, a total of 21 people arrived. I put down the shucker and started plating snacks.
Chef Laura stepped in and started slicing peaches.
Chef Omar stepped in and threw biscuits in the combi oven.
Chef Sheng on hot apps stepped in and dressed the oysters.
There were now 4 cooks on my station and all hands were on deck.
Chef Zack continued: “Fire 12 by 6 by 2 plain oysters, 3 summer bean, 1 no tahini, 1 melon, 1 veg melon, and 1 foie”
In unison we called back “Yes, Chef!”
“Make that 4 summer bean!”
“4 bean!”
Multiple hands grabbed whatever mise within reach to send out plates as fast as humanly possible.
I heard Chef Laura’s voice say, “Finish your snacks then go into melon. I’ll work your 4 summer bean.”
“Yes, Chef!”
“Wipe your counter down! Don’t send out food on dirty plates!”
“Yes, Chef!”
Tickets were printing nonstop. My mise was quickly dwindling and every time I pulled a fresh plate, the room felt a bit smaller. The walls were closing in, forming a pit of imminent and inescapable doom. The first thing to run out was the cured sturgeon. I had completely forgotten about that dish! Slicing fish during service really wrecked my flow: took out the cutting board, delicately sliced the sturgeon filet, and then put everything away. My 90-second dish turned into a 3-minute dish.
6:00pm
The first of 11 preset alarms reminded me to take the doughnuts out of the fridge for proofing.
7:00pm, 7:30pm, & 8:00pm
Alarms went off reminding me to prepare staff meal for the dishwashers. They were scheduled to take breaks every 30 minutes so there were never less than 2 dishwashers at any given time. The dishwashers were among the pickiest eaters on the planet; they didn’t like rice, soup or salad greens, eggs must be fully cooked and they preferred extra jalapeños and fish sauce when available. If I was late on delivering staff meal, I could expect my stack of clean plates won’t be there when I needed them. One night I gave the dishwashers his staff meal and he looked through my eye sockets and tipped the bowl of food into the trash because I had missed the window. Don’t be late. Everyone deserves staff meal.
9:00pm
The dishwashers bugged me relentlessly to hook them up with a snack; a daily, off-the-books bribe, which was annoying to say the least. Let the babies have their snack and get back to work.
The strip of tickets kept printing, resembling a Tibetan prayer flag. I reached for the shaved fennel only to find my pan empty. Then my cured ham trays were empty. I plated the last order of melons right when the chef fired four more. Chef Omar asked, “Why is your station not ready?”
I thought I could get the station ready, prep hard as I go. If I asked for help sooner on a busy night like tonight, I could’ve avoided being in this pressure cooker. I was too proud, thinking I could do it all myself. Rookie mistake.
“I need that foie badly!” exclaimed Chef Zack. “It’s been 18 minutes!”
“Yes, Chef!”
I started shaving fennel and Chef Omar runs upstairs for melons. Certainly every chef was pissed at me at this point. “Just keep going”, I thought.
“Can I get a sweep on the line?”
The line was swept and mopped several times a night; a necessity for an open kitchen.
And when you thought there wasn’t not enough to keep track of…
I pulled the tray of donuts off the shelf. They had overproofed, completely stuck together, gummy and unusable. Five orders of doughnuts were unfortunately discarded.
PHASE 3: BREAKDOWN
10:00pm - 1 hour till closing
Service was winding down and we started cleaning our stations. I had been holding my bladder all night, but the quicker we broke down our stations, the sooner we went home. I transferred all mise to fresh containers and took the dirty ones away. In this kitchen you don’t stop until you’ve taken off your apron. There was always something to do.
11:00pm
The restaurant was closed. We continued firing desserts while we wiped down the kitchen, scrubbed shelves, walls, ovens, refrigerator doors, sinks and countertops until it resembled a kitchen appliance showroom. At this point, most of the cooks were gassed.
11:17pm
“Fire one melon!”
I darted a look at Chef Zack and he shot a look right back that read, “You heard me.” 17 minutes after closing and someone at the bar was ordering their first course. By now all of our ingredients were wrapped and organized in the fridge and our stations were scrubbed clean. It’s not just cooks that dread these kinds of diners, but also the servers, managers, dishwashers, bartenders that have to stay late too. We all have lives to go home to, but instead we were held hostage, helpless to the threat of a bad review. You suck it up… it’s your job. You unwrap all your mise and execute.
“GM, you’re all in on desserts!” were the words I’d been waiting to hear all night. The kitchen was finally closed. GM was the last station to break down, so by the time I was washing my tools, my colleagues had already changed into their street clothes.
12:15am
I was the last one in the locker room. I threw my soiled shirt into the hamper and left the building. The door closed behind me and I took a deep breath of the chilly San Francisco air. Across the street was a line of 21-year-olds eagerly waiting to get into a nightclub. A young man was making circles with his hand on his girlfriend’s back as she vomited onto the sidewalk. Their night had just begun when mine had just ended.
The horror show was over. As I waited for the 38, my thoughts turned inward. What if tomorrow I put in my two weeks? I wouldn’t have to be running, sprinting, firing all cylinders all the time thinking about getting ready for service. My mind wouldn’t be clouded with recipes, quantities & cook times every waking moment. I wouldn’t be shamed or yelled at, thinking that despite my best efforts, I wasn’t good enough and I couldn’t make anyone happy. I would reclaim my life, get back in shape, read, socialize and be human again.
But I digressed from this most improbable fantasy. Tonight’s service was one of the worst and definitely won’t be the last. I recalled my decision to cook with a team of all-star chefs. I reminded myself that I am surrounded by a wealth of knowledge and have the support of my peers. We had access to some of the best ingredients and our staff meals were opportunities to express creativity and gratitude. Plus, I’ve gotten pretty good at cutting ginger thread. These blessings gave me assurance that yes, I was a 34-year-old cooking among 20-year-olds, but I was far from throwing in the towel.
My mind returned to my tasks: laundry, sharpen knives, and prep for another busy Saturday. Just sleep it off. Things will be OK.