What is a "Foodie"? [rant in progress]

For those who have been regular readers of this, have no doubt realize my distain for foodies. So what is my idea of a "foodie"? Well, it could be anyone who steals everything that's beautiful about our profession and turns it into a side show.. or more accurately, a slide show.

Foodies are the ones who annoyingly take pictures at restaurants, go home, then blog about their experience to the world. What's worse, they have an overwhelming urge to assume the role of food critic. They've marginalized our profession to nothing more than 160x120 thumbnails. After all, I don't take pictures of my daily excrement to report on last evening's gastronomic indiscretions. Treat shit like shit. Food deserves to be eaten. Don't come into my restaurant, and leave a dish of time-sensitive fois gras dying on the plate. Or have your dining partner wait until you have satiated your selfish urges, before they're able to satiate theirs. It isn't just a matter of etiquette. It just makes sense.

I don't have a problem with picture taking. What I despise are those who seem to have something to prove, a self-driven desire to boast about their meals, or feel compelled to give an unqualified critique of what they've consumed. It's the nit-pickers, those snobby little parasites, that, with Michelin-like commentary, satisfies their need to feel important. The chronically-, obsessively-, compulsively-, pathologically-inclined asshole with an over-sized ego, and an under-sized camera who probably half-assed their way through most their life and now just wants to be part of another trend. 

Anyone with an internet connection and the ability to put two brain cells together could google "maltodextrin", and suddenly they're experts on how to turn liquid fats into powders. Who are they to tell me what the next food trends are, or that my glace de viande lacked body? Just because they may know what half the ingredients are on the menu, doesn't mean they know what to do with them. Even if they knew how to produce the results, they've already taken away the experience by dissecting it. And that's the danger in trying to imitate without first understanding the concepts. Do not, under any circumstances, position yourself as an expert, unless you are willing to put yourself on the line to learn the material.

Bice Curiger, the editor-in-chief of Parkett magazine, talks extensively about Ferran Adria's relationship with his followers, and the dangers of imitation. She says that "[these] followers merchandise the idea of 'op art' (optical art), putting it into design, turning it into fashion, making it for money". This commercialization essentially blurs the lines between those who truly give a shit about food, and those who simply pretend to.

Knowledge, creativity and talent is cultivated through dedication and hard work. There are no shortcuts. If you want pictures, get them from the website. Otherwise, just eat the fuckin' food.

Thoughts from the Underbelly: Part 3

This was a continuation of my thoughts when I was about 2 months away from making my decision. In my mind, I felt that the decision had already been made. I just needed something to catalyze the events. In the coming weeks, I was so disinterested in my regular job, that waking up felt like I had killed a cat the night before. The guilt of living day-to-day with little or no motivation were like wounds that refused to heal. It become an exercise in futility.

...

Sharing hardship breeds unity. Acquiescing to experience brings respect and humbleness. And unless you have worked in a professional kitchen, it is impossible to understand that free-form universe grounded in repetition that is known as professional cooking.

The best moment in a cook’s career, the time they invariably miss most is that safe, one-of-kind place where everyone knows their role and there is a hard-nosed camaraderie that exists between those who share the same passions. Being with such a close-knit family that can only have developed when everyone survives an adrenaline-fueled service. Nightly battles in the trenches, when the pressure was so intense, and the thought of being thrown off-line so imminent, that you struggle to keep breathing. Then the greatest moment comes when you finally "get it". The moment when you realize that you are cooking without realizing how you're actually doing it. Your actions become so automatic that you go from low-boy to pan, and pan to plate, without even knowing it.

Ultimately, what I would like to gain from all this, is a sense of identity, a sense of belonging, and to find something that continually lets me learn throughout my life. I’m not interested in something that has a ceiling, something with boundaries and restrictions. What I want is room to grow, a medium in which I can discover who I really am, what I can really do, and what my true potentials are. I may not be cooking all my life, but if I’m serious about this, it’s a fundamental step in the journey to understand myself.

I've always been willing to show others what I know and what I’ve learned from those who cared enough to show me. I want to inspire others to follow a dream that most people find too daunting and too unrewarding. Cooking professionally definitely isn’t for everyone, but isn’t the chance to realize your potential better than doing what's considered “safe”?

Thoughts from the Underbelly: Part 2

I wrote the following passage when I was at my lowest point in my corporate career. When I was finally ready to say good-bye to my cushy corporate life, and embark on a journey into the culinary underbelly.

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I simply enjoy the tireless work ethics of these 20-somethings who regularly cook some of the best food I've ever eaten. I share in the same appreciation of good food, and visual artistry. I admire how they take what they do seriously, and they take pride in how things get done. The idea that if you do something enough times, you're going to get better at it. These people are in essence, professionals; they're unique and they're good at what they do. They should be respected for this. I challenge any pompous schmuck who doubts this to work service at a busy restaurant and it's almost a certainty they will be offended by the dirty chatter and sorely ache the next day.

Ironically, this self-deprecating journey shouldn't be about anyone else but me, but it seems to affect everyone around me. On some level, I feel like I've let some people down, while inspiring others to go out on a limb even if I'm fully aware it might break. The ones that have inspired me will always have their place in my journey, and will be a constant reminder of how far I still have to go. I need to be humbled, and reminded that I'm not the know-it-all little shit I thought I was. In this industry, you can leave your ego at the door, or risk having whatever's left of it carved out by a 9.5" sujihiki. 

If there's ever a time, or if there's anything I'd like to take seriously, it's this. I want desperately to be good at something, but really, it's an arbitrary goal that cannot ever be achieved anyway. And that's fine with me. To me, the journey is more important than the destination. It's who you become once you reach your destination that defines who you are, and how others see you. 

Of course, I don't tend to live a life on the line, but I need to be humbled, my ego broken, and I need to learn as much as I can about good food, and surround myself with people who can support whatever dreams I might aspire to pursue. I've seen people's life evolve in the short amount of time I've been there, changing opportunistically as well as through self-motivation.

So it appears that the countdown has begun, at least for now. Hopefully this time it will stick, and I can finally allow myself to jump into the unknown once again. It surprises me that even though it's worked out great all the previous times, that I still find a way to dispel the confidence I might otherwise have. It's not the way to go, and I know it.

Thoughts from the Underbelly: Part 1

When I was weighing the pros and cons of transitioning from the corporate office to the kitchen, in retrospect, I realize that I was focusing primarily on the pros. I looked at all the things that the experience could provide for me. Deconstructed every argument against it with such conviction that I knew that the move was inevitable.

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Are we all born into our jobs, or do our life experience dictate where we ultimately end up in the vast social-microcosm that we call "careers"?

I stumbled into the food industry as a relatively older player, playing in a game usually left to more energetic youth. However, I refer to these "youth" with the utmost respect and admiration. Many of us don't think twice about where their plate of food comes from. Whether it's a $43 plate of lamb loin sous vide with lamb shank cannelloni, or a $14 plate of spaghetti bolognese, chances are someone who is a fraction of my age prepared it.

Part of my fascination with food is deeply rooted in how two very different people can take the very same ingredients, and come up with two very different preparations. Evidently, creativity is boundless and theoretically limited only by one's reservations. How do you overcome these restrictions on creativity? Better yet, how do you harness and nurture it?

I hesitate to categorize my enjoyment of food merely as a "hobby", a "phase", or even a "passion". I don't think either extreme is healthy, and does it even need to be categorized at all? As someone who's nearing 30, time is of the essence, and I would be lying if I said I didn't feel some pressure to "figure this all out".

Why do I struggle in making a decision that at first thought, feels like the right decision, only to succumb to the debilitating desire for a stable pay cheque? If we all did things for money, then artists and musicians would not exist, creativity dwindles and fades. Not saying that I'm either Rembrandt or Blumenthal by any stretch of the imagination, but who said it was a prerequisite?

An Honest Read

If you really want to get an honest perspective on what it's like to work in a professional kitchen, I would recommend Anthony Bourdain's book, Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly. Though it would be nice, I do not receive any money by promoting this book. Not that he needs my endorsement. It's simply a good read.

Tony's brutal honesty about what actually goes on in a restaurant, would be enough to scare away anyone remotely thinking about a career change. It's written with plenty of witty humour and dirty jokes, and I was fascinated with just how universal kitchen culture was. It was as if we, who were all trained in the knife arts, were secretly training to become a band of skilled assassins. At least pathologically. 

Trained Assassins

Every Saturday, I would make my way downtown, put on my whites, my apron, and prepare for battle. Returning to normalcy the following Monday, aching but feeling a great sense of accomplishment. Attacking (we liked to use particularly violent descriptions for everything in the kitchen, which put just enough crazy into everyone to cope with the stress) the mise en place list for our Saturday service was like trying to play ping-pong, sew a sweater, and touch your elbow while saving a baby from a burning high-rise.. upside-down. Like clockwork, pots went on the burner, just as another was coming off. The Vita-mix blender re-used the moment it came out of the Sani-Clean. Machines and tools passed from station to station like a cheap whore on a "good" night. It was intense, but everyone knew their roles, and everyone was ready, without fail, every single day. This kind of work ethic I had never before experienced. I was surrounded with others who also shared the same stubborn desire for perfection and discipline. I felt at home in the kitchen.

So I plugged away at Colborne Lane as a stagiere for about 10 months, volunteering my weekend and pent up energy that I had leftover from my day job as a marketing professional. I'm not saying that the corporate environment was easy, but perhaps it's just relative.

By September 2010, the old chef had moved on, and I was offered a chance to work there part-time. I was told I would get paid. But the truth was, I didn't need the money, and it wasn't the reason why I did what I did. The gig was that I could continue to work a full day on Saturday, but that I would also come and work service on Friday nights after I wrapped up my day job. I agreed. Hey, I wasn't about to leave money on the table. For the first week or so, it was if I was living a double life. During the day, I would be decked out in corporate attire, and at night, a hardened knife-wielding professional that prepared some of the most amazing dishes in the city. I was addicted, and food would be my drug of choice.

Over the next few months, fellow cooks had come and gone through the revolving door the industry is famous for. Some had left to pursue another kitchen to learn from, others for more ideal work schedules. Perhaps the creativity had dried up, or that the type of modern cuisine that had once brought it fame and fortune, had faded. Suddenly no longer the apple of a foodie's eye. I've always hated how these foodies make it seem like they were the first ones to stumble upon a trend that existed a decade ago. Like a giddy fat kid whose eyes light up at the sight of a jelly-filled doughnut. The food industry was transient and everyone just wanted a piece of the next doughnut until every congealed mass of jelly filling was sucked out of it, rendering it meaningless.

I also began to consider what might happen should I decide to do this as a career. Did I really want to become a cook? Seriously become one of them?! Needless to say, I would ponder many questions over the next little while, as I continued to enjoy free booze after service, every week. After all, alcohol makes everything seem clearer and more obvious, right?

A Quick Reflection

I've been busy these last few days trying to plan my trip to Switzerland and France. However, I wanted to throw what's on my mind out there for you guys. 

Initially, it was difficult for me to accept the idea that if I were to jump in head first, I would be subjecting myself to something I like to call, "industry shock". The sudden realization that all the comforts you once had, begin to vanish, only to be replaced by a billowing interest in food and food culture. As a marketing professional, and now, into the depths of the kitchen. How was I going to cope? Was my body going to react like a 14-year old boy after he stumbled upon his father's booze and suddenly found a new best friend called Jack Daniel? I wanted to really reflect upon these great questions. 

It's getting late. One more email then off to bed. 

Day One: Saturday, 14 November 2009

12:51pm: It was a rather cold afternoon as I stood there knocking on the backdoor of the restaurant. I was beginning to feel as if no one would answer. Finally, it opened. And I was led down a ramp into the belly of the beast. The kitchen.. was in the basement.

I was shown where to change, as I came only prepared with my checks from school, my steel toes, and the usual cook's tools. There I stood, a foreigner among a group of seasoned professionals. A stranger among those who seemed to move almost automatically, as if by some unseen form of energy. I would later realize that this energy was called pure adrenaline.

The chef de cuisine there told me to shadow the garde manger station today, led by a Japanese fellow who looked like he could turn me into sashimi if he wanted to. Instead, I was told to julienne lemon peel that would garnish a new dish they were serving tonight. I quickly realized that I was a tortoise running in a hare's race. My knife skills weren't bad. There's was just much better.

Next came the crème fraîche pearls, produced in a bath of liquid nitrogen. Small droplets of cream instantly freezing upon contact was something that although conceptually familiar, but in practice, nothing I had ever seen before. Next up were frying sage, picking micro greens, and variety of other small tasks.

Taking 2 hours to do 30 minutes of prep, I felt inadequate. I was told that tonight was going to be one of the busiest nights yet. A turn-and-a-half of the 72-seat dining capacity we had. The Japanese fellow told me simply to stay out of the way during service. So I was set on becoming an observer for the night. A godsend after I realized how focused others were, and how I hadn't a clue what was going on.

5:34pm: Service started with a tasting for 2. Each dish began with a meticulous polish of the plate with acidulated water. The chef de cuisine, I learned quickly, ruled the kitchen with an iron fist, and demanded perfection. If there was a spot, if a component was misaligned, the contents thrown out. The plate started over. As service picked up, I could tell that things were starting to turn from smooth to hectic. Turns out that plating dishes that had over 12 components on them takes time. I could watch no longer.

7:14pm: The peak of service hit with a string of customers all coming in for their late first seating. I pitched in the only way I knew how. Polish plates. To ensure that my fingerprints did not transfer onto the plate, I had to hold the plate on its rim. A habit that was so beat into me, I still hold plates the exact same way. Occasionally, I would place a garnish on there every so gently, and ever so slowly. A pace that quickly earned me a, 'faster!' or 'go go go!' from the chef.

10:47pm: End of service. 107 covers. And beers for everyone. I was told to leave when I wanted to, but decided to stay to help the crew clean down. Asking if I could do this again next week, the chef replied, 'see you next week'.

12:46am: I got home, still writhing from the adrenaline and booze. Excited to write down everything I learned, everything I saw and experienced.

The next morning. Entire body sore. This was the most alive I had ever felt.

Interesting?

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Thank you!

The Big Break

Why culinary school? Well, quite simply, I wanted to cook and cook well. Better than the run-of-the-mill "foodies" (more on these types later). More knowledgeable than your everyday home cook.

My food theory class was taught by none other than a famous "grill guy" on TV. During one of his lectures, he tossed about the idea that for those serious about cooking.. i mean, really serious, about a career in the restaurant business, that it would be worthwhile to first stage at a restaurant to get a reality check. For those who aren't familiar, a stage is simply industry terminology for "free labour". In return, you obtain an  unimaginable first-hand experience into the working profession.

So over the next couple of lectures, and during my days working as a marketing profession, I started to really give this serious consideration. After all, what would I have to lose? I decided to give it a shot. The restaurant: Colborne Lane in downtown Toronto (www.colbornelane.com). During its prime, various magazines had voted it as one of the most exciting new restaurants in the world. Toronto Life also awarded Colborne Lane with four stars. It almost never happens.

A phone call, and several emails later, I was in. I could not believe at the time that someone with no industry experience, could obtain such a glorious opportunity to experience, and to learn. This would later change any perceptions I had of the industry and everyone in it.

The following Saturday I would subsequently circle on my calendar.

The Pre-2009 Era

I guess I should begin by telling everyone a little something about the angle I'm coming from. So I'm calling this post the "pre-2009" era.

First of all, I come from a Chinese-Canadian family who, not unlike many others at the time, decided to get into the restaurant business. Suffice it to say that growing up in a restaurant serving horridly Westernized Chinese food, was not without its challenges. Though I fought tooth-and-nail to have a general appreciation for food, it was a difficult when your biggest seller were chicken balls (last time I checked, chickens didn't have balls... and they certainly wouldn't have been white meat).

Juggling school and restaurant was an intriguing experience that I suppose helped shaped who I was at the time. In retrospect, perhaps it could have turned out differently, but I digress...

Having gone through the usual high school to university transition, and graduating with an honours degree in biological chemistry, social norms thought it was time for me to get a job. So I did. Fresh out of university, and high on the freedoms that my job, and my income provided, everything felt... well, felt "right". But was it? That depends on who you ask.

Seven years, and several promotions later, the definition of "right" started to become a bit foggy. So I did what any 27-year old did to set things "right". I went to culinary school.

Perhaps it was a response to something I hadn't done in my early years. To rebel, to challenge, or to simply do everything in my power to piss off my family. After all, you could imagine how the conversations went: 'um, Dad?' 'Yes, son.' 'Remember when you had to work so hard to get me through school so that I wouldn't have to labour like you did? Well, I'm thinking of actually CHOOSING to have the kind of life you did!' *blank stare* You get the idea.

Ironically, my parents never really had a short leash on my career aspirations in my adult years. So I went to culinary school. And in 2009, on a frosty day in November during a class on food theory, that's where I got my break.