Where can I go to become a food monk?

It's at times like these, during weeks like these that I am torn between two worlds. One is the world of the real restaurant worker. Cursing, slinging food, getting the job done as quick as you can, just working for the end of shift. Where there's a whiskey sitting next to it's friend beer and they're babysitting a pack of smokes just for you. I gave most of that up, except for the occasional relapse. It dulls the senses, it slows down my head and generally makes me feel like shit. Feeling like shit is not conducive to fast, efficient, precise work. That is were the other world lies. An idealistic world were I can exist solely in a kitchen; there for nothing more than the execution of perfect food. It's a place without the worry of critics, without the stress of pulling two jobs, stretching myself too thin. Some mystical place where I go to sleep in silence and wake to nothing more than the sun. Where product comes fresh daily and is nothing but ideal. It would be a precious place where one could simply practice and execute technique. Working on precision and end results without the pressure of getting from one job to the next. It wouldn't pay the rent or student loans. It would isolate me even further from my social networks. It would leave me isolated from the real world of food and the restaurant business. Damn that sounds good sometimes. But then again, where is the hurry the stress? Digging your heels and chucking out damn good food. Proving the hyper-critical dining crowd wrong by showing them food they can't find anywhere else. I still need that ideal life. That life of study and intense practice in technique; however that is all lost without the daily slam and grind, the daily trial by fire to validate the skills.

Cooking in the dark

Finally had a reasonable wind storm the other night. We started to lose reservations around 4:30. Nothing like the fear of nature to turn diners indoors. A persistent and adventurous seven top was willing to brave the threat of winter storm. We lost power at Alba a little after 5:00pm. Luckily it was still light and we could finish what prep was going. We were to open at 5:30 but without power, and heat, our dining room would be far from agreeable. Still the seven top persisted and we decided to cook, hoping that the power would return sooner than later. The light dwindled and we began scrounging for candles, oil lamps and flashlights. We opened the windows for a little ventilation and kept cooking. The seven top arrived, a cheery group from a local bank, looking to enjoy themselves with a night out. The candle lit dining room set the tone for a very intimate meal, akin to feasting around a fire. They were appreciative of our efforts and I was more than happy to cook. Then a two top arrived. We had decided to turn any other comers away; the dining room was getting cold, we needed to get perishables on ice, and we were running out of dishes. Apparently the newcomers had been in traffic for an hour and a half, not too mention that this was a birthday dinner. Needless to say they were welcomed in. They ate well. The patrons laughed, they drank wine, they ate and passed plates, needless to say the ice cream was on the house. They had a memorable meal, a once in a lifetime experience. So did I. That is what we forget at times in this business. We push ourselves and bust our ass to stay alive and in business but it's these little times, these unique moments that make this life satisfying.

Noodles

I've been making pasta for 10 months now. Over that course i have began to understand the seemingly simple processes that overpopulate the kitchen. I'm a firm believer in the fact that you never understand a recipe until you've done it at least a hundred times. With certain things, like pasta, or bread, or stocks, it takes years to truly understand the complexity and fickleness of the final product. With pasta it is always about maintaining the right level of hydration. Too wet and the dough is sticky and unmanageable. Too dry and it is difficult to work through the machine and will crack and dry out before one can cut the desired shape. You begin to understand the climate and the touch of the dough. You understand how to manipulate the dough; how to cook the noodles; and how the noodle should be served.
Pasta is easy. It is flour. It is eggs. It is salt. There is no leavening. There is no elaborate folding. It is basically a dumpling. Flour bound together cooked in water. But when it is done correctly it is so much more than that. It becomes toothesome and durable. Flavorful and uniquely capable of holding sauce. It becomes something other than the flour that it is made from. Yet we still see pasta as the vehicle and the sauce being the real attraction. Fresh pasta needs no sauce. A little browned butter maybe? A little parmeggiano? It's final destination is not to be the carrier for a four hour over-reduced tomato sauce. Let a dried pasta do that. Even a quality dried pasta doesn't require the mounds of spaghetti sauce that most American anoint their noodles with.
It is easy to see these things after being so close to it for so long. Pasta was and is intended to be one with itself. It is it's own realization. It isn't Laurel waiting for it's Hardy. It is it's own act. Were it simply meant to be a straight man for the sauce then the Italians never would have been so particular about its production. They never would have cared about the shape of the noodle, the amount of egg yolks, whether it's dried or fresh. They just would have dropped some sauce on a chunk of old bread. See, pasta dishes are really about the noodle. And that's where we lose sight in our culture. We are so excited about the flavours that will shake the mundane off our palate that we miss the true complexity in food. We are so immersed in our rudimentary tastes of salt, sweet and fat that we miss out on the ability of something so simply to be something so grand. We eagerly go after sausage and pepper laden tomato sauces, or cheese and garlic heavy gelatinous cream sauces to cut through the normal routine of filth we feed ourselves on a daily basis. We want bold flavours. Bold flavours that have muted our ability to taste. Try a little olive oil and chili flake on spaghetti topped with parmesan. Let the pasta speak.