“I’ll give you five minutes,” said the Chef.
“You got it,” I responded. I hung up the phone and glanced at the clock – 2pm. I had three more hours of deskwork to go. The confines of my cubicle were nauseating. It was like a pitiful rendition of “Office Space.” Hell with it. This bird has to spread her wings. I grabbed my coat and scrambled out the door.
I made it to the restaurant in fifteen minutes flat. It was an impressive spot with a farm-to-table spiel and a highly publicized chef. After convincing the maitre d that I was here to make the food, not eat it, I was escorted to the kitchen to meet with the Chef de Cuisine – a rather chichi title for a very un-chichi character. I stuck out my hand to introduce myself. I got a hand in my face back.
“I need ten minutes. Ten minutes! Get the hell out of my kitchen,” he said.
And so began my introduction into the professional culinary world – a world where death by knife, fire or public shaming is just a shot away. One month ago, following a spark of inspiration, I began cold calling chefs around the city for a stage position. With no prior kitchen experience my tactic was as follows – incessant harassment. I called mornings, afternoons and nights. I sent emails and re-sent them three hours later. I was annoying, very annoying. Some may say stalker-like. But I broke those bastards down until one agreed to see me.
After 40 minutes, he whistled over to me. “Come back next Saturday for a trail (chef speak for trial run) and don’t where what you’re wearing right now.” I looked down; I was in heels and a pencil skirt.
“Oh, and don’t quit your job just yet,” he hollered as he headed back into the kitchen. And so, the next morning I did what any rational being would do. I quit my job.
On Saturday, I arrived at the kitchen at 10:00am sharp. I was one of two women working the line. Yep, just Diane and I, drowning in a sea of testosterone. It was one pissing contest after another. I mean the scent of “man” in that space could suffocate a small mammal. It was like a gay gym, but everyone was fat and ugly. I started singing the Eurythmics, “sisters are doin it for themselves.” Just as I was about to reach Aretha’s solo:
“What the fuck is on your feet?” said a voice behind me.
“Shoes?” I responded.
“Oh yeah? Shoes? Well get some better fucking shoes, you’ll break your ass in those.”
Five minutes later, he returned.
“What the fuck is in your hand?” he said. His vocabulary didn’t extended much beyond various four-letter words.
“A knife?”
“Oh yeah? A knife? Well get a better fucking knife. This isn’t your mommy’s kitchen anymore.”
I paused and took a moment to find my Zen place. This was a jungle – a jungle of fat, sweaty men trying to eat me. But I could do this, even if I had to spend the next ten hours as the kitchen newbie. They may have been bigger but I was scrappier.
After ten minutes of working garde manger (chef speak for appetizer station), I cut my finger – oh boy did I cut my finger. I was using one of man’s great torture devices – the mandolin. One slice and there went my fingerprint. Someone’s beet salad now has an extra bit of protein.
“Did you already cut your fucking finger?” Genghis Khan had returned, knife in hand.
“It’s nothing, really,” I said, as blood spurted all over the tuna tartar I had just prepped.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he said.
“It’s just a scratch,” I said, hiding my blood soaked apron. I prayed to the powers that be to make it stop gushing. But the more I ignored it, the more it erupted like Old Faithful – like Sunday Bloody Sunday – all over the mixed greens, the pickled shallots and the cured smoked salmon.
One of the cooks told me to stick my finger in lemon juice to stop the bleeding. Another said to jam it into an open flame. Um, I think I’m good, thanks. I wasn’t about to take medical advice from these wackos – some lost tribe of Nazi scientists.
By the time service started, I had gone through an entire pack of Band-Aids. I made friends with one of the busboys who slipped them to me like dime bags. As I snuck around to score some Neosporin, I encountered Genghis Khan and his cronies laughing. They had just come up with the genius idea of deep-frying duck testicles. This was something only true morons could create. Yes, beer battered testicles. The irony was too much. I wish they had just whipped out their junk and called it a day.
I escaped to the walk-in (chef speak for freezer). As I opened the door, a pig – yes a whole dead pig – greeted me. Eyes wide open and everything. I chose the pig over the jackasses outside. I sat down and took a breather. “Rough day?” I said to the pig.
Since that day in March, I have found a different professional kitchen more suited to my needs. The kitchen is small and the staff familial. Not every chef is a bloodthirsty dictator who castrates ducks. Many just want you to do your job and do it well. “Being a tyrannical asshole,” as my current chef eloquently put it, “does not cook the food faster.” In fact, it’s just a waste of energy.
In honor of those barbarians aping through the jungle, I’m making something that every testosterone filled being loves – chili. However, unlike their menu, no animals were harmed in the making of this dish. RIP ducks.
Duck-Free Vegetarian Chili
¼ cup of extra virgin olive oil
1 yellow onion, diced
1 celery stalk, diced
1 green bell pepper, diced
1 red bell pepper, diced
2 poblano chilies, roasted, seeded and diced
3 cloves of garlic, minced
1 cup of corn (using frozen is fine, just make sure you defrost it before use)
2 tablespoons of chili powder
1 tablespoon of ground cumin
1 teaspoon of oregano
1 teaspoon of packed brown sugar
¼-½ teaspoon of cayenne pepper
¼ teaspoon of ground cinnamon
1¼ teaspoons of salt (to taste)
1 28-ounce can of diced tomatoes
1 cup of dark lager beer
1 can of black beans, drained
1 cup of kidney beans, drained
Garnish (Optional)
Avocado
Chedder cheese
Red onion
Chili is one of those recipes where you throw whatever you got in a pot. It’s a stew – you can’t really fuck it up. The above recipe is a guideline. Don’t treat it like the bible. I realize that the breadth of ingredients is intimidating but vegetarian chili can err on the boring if not seasoned well. If you want your chili to have more of a kick, add more cayenne pepper or a jalapeño garnish. If you like your chili on the sweeter side, add more sugar or ground cloves.
The key to this recipe is completing all prep ahead of time. You don’t want to be chopping peppers while your garlic burns.
Turn on your oven and set to broil. If you don’t have a broil setting or your oven is temperamental, heat to 450. If your oven doesn’t reach 450, build a fire.
Roast the poblano chilies until the skin blackens on each side. Place in a paper bag and allow to rest for approximately five minutes. The peppers will steam making the skin easier to remove. You can also use aluminum foil. Once cooled, wash away the seeds and dice.
Dice your onion, bell peppers and celery. Heat the olive oil in a large stockpot and sauté vegetables until softened (five to six minutes). Add the roasted poblano peppers and garlic. Cook until the oils are released from the garlic and become fragrant (thirty seconds). Add your spices and salt and cook for thirty seconds until blended.
Take a sip of your beer, throw some in, and take another sip. Finish the beer – very important part of the recipe. The natural sugars in beer add depth of flavor to the dish. It won’t make the chili sweet per se but will balance the bouquet of taste. Obviously, if you use a can of Bud Light, your chili will taste like shit. Shitty beer results in shitty chili. You do the math. But maybe you’ll be so buzzed by the end of this recipe that you won’t know the difference.
Use the beer to deglaze the pan and cook until reduced by half. Do not allow the beer to burn or your chili will become bitter. Add your tomatoes, corn and beans. Bring the chili to a boil and allow to simmer, partially covered for thirty minutes. The longer the chili sits, the better it will taste so make in advance. Serve with cornbread, grated cheddar and avocado. Open up another beer, sit back and say a little prayer for Donald Duck.