day ten: taste, and taste again!

February 3, 2009

“the [head] chef cannot taste everything; he is already overweight,” Chef Pierre told us on day seven, as our class discussed the Kendall gossip of the day–that the soup in the cafeteria had been too salty. “if students don’t know if the food is seasoned properly, maybe they are in the wrong profession. you always taste your food as you go.”

before our final exam on day ten, Chef set out a variety of basic flavor elements diluted with water for us to taste, re-taste and mix together to gain an understanding of the delicate balance chefs seek in flavoring food. we sampled sugar, savory soy sauce, sour lemon juice, vinegar, salt water and sweet and tart orange. we then ventured into simple combinations such as orange and soy, salt and sugar and vinegar and sugar. “do you notice how interesting the salt becomes when you add a lee-tle sweetness to it from the sugar?” Chef asked.

for chefs, taste is paramount. it requires the delicate ability to decipher whether something has just the right texture, temperature, moisture and balance of seasonings. “chefs’ physical palates are no more sensitive than other peoples’,” Chef said. “but they must be good at tasting the food.”

i gained a stronger appreciation for the ability to taste that saturday evening, which i spent watching culinary students prepare and serve dinner for Kendall’s gourmet dining room under the watchful eye of Head Chef and Instructor Ben. in the back of the house the chefs de partie, or line cooks, each have a specific role in dinner prep, be it salads and cold appetizers, stocks and sauces, meat, fried food items, breads, starches or fish. they work at crowded little stations on two lines behind the hot food window.

customers coming to dine could expect an amuse-bouche (palate teaser), a first course of their choice, salad of their choice, intermezzo (palate cleanser) and main course of their choice. i looked on from the head chef’s table for nearly three hours, scribbling notes and watching in awe.

Chef Ben called out each order to the chefs de partie, and they obediently repeated the exact order back according to their specific role. Chef also tasted every sauce and dressing and checked the texture and temperature of every meat, poultry, fish and side dish that came to the hot window, offering his criticism and approval in a voice that never once reached shouting volume.

“the skin could be a little crispier on this fish,” he said as the poissonnier (in charge of fish) slid a plate of charred cobia (delicate, white-flesh fish) in front of him. “how are you going to do that?”

“make the pan hotter, Chef!” the poissonnier shouted back as she quickly returned to her station.

but Chef Ben had long since moved on, calling out a slew of new orders as they arrived at the window: “order in: two skirt [steak]s, one mid-rare, one mid-well; three short rib; one risotto; two pork belly; two rabbit; two [arctic] char; two chicken; three cobia.” each order echoed back from the kitchen, now humming with clanging pans, sizzling meat and the chefs’ voices. i peered through the hot window at all the sets of hands deftly flipping meat, stirring sauces and risotto, yet delicately plating each dish with just enough sauce and garnish. every chef had scars on his or her arms from the inevitable burns and cuts that likely come from working long nights elbow to elbow in a hot kitchen.

“these potatoes are a little stiff–they need to be a little creamier,” Chef said a few minutes later, examining the the truffle-duck fat whipped potatoes on which a 3-ounce portion of pan-seared arctic char sat.

an hour passed quickly as orders poured in and plate after plate slid onto the hot window, each undergoing Chef Ben’s careful inspection. all the while, the waitstaff (also culinary students) swept in and out of the back of the house, scooping up finished dishes, bearing new orders or reporting news from the dining room. their restaurant vernacular totally changed my perception of the customer: “female four, table 16 has an onion allergy–we need to switch out that amuse [bouche],” which happened to be a lovely french onion soup served in a shot glass. from the restaurant’s vantage point, the customer–who may have come to dinner dressed to the nines to celebrate a birthday, promotion, anniversary or to impress a first date–is simply a number and a sex waiting for a plate. sometimes that number has an allergy or is vegan or vegetarian or its fish is undercooked or its meat is overdone. but all the same, it must be pleased.

“how are those steaks?” Chef asked the grillardin.

“perfect, Chef.”

“there’s no such thing as perfection. rare? rare-plus?”

“mid-rare, Chef.”

“feel ‘em; they may be verging on medium now.”

meanwhile, the glacier snaked through the bustling line cooks balancing a plate bearing nine long spoons filled with a lemongrass-flavored sorbet–the intermezzo. his toque slipped down over his eyes a bit as he dropped it off at the window.

i glanced at the garde manger (“mahn-zay”), in charge of cold food and right in my line of vision, who was plating several salads. on a white retangular plate, he carefully laid out an assortment of quartered roasted market beets of all different colors, along with delicate wisps of wild arugula, feta cheese and lady finger popcorn with argon oil (an oil from a moroccan nut). “make sure you don’t mix the popcorn with the oil beforehand, or it will get soggy,” Chef instructed the garde manger. “put a little on right before it goes out, see?”

“yes, Chef!”

suddenly, a waiter approached me with a a small silver carafe and a deep, white tureen. the sides of the bowl were carefully lined with a smear of perfumey toasted coriander seeds and sea salt with a puddle of honey sitting in the bottom. he emptied the contents of the carafe into my bowl: a velvety, pureed roasted carrot soup. balancing atop the tureen was a plank of paper-thin thyme cracker sprinkled with hawaiian red salt. i tasted the soup as the waiter had instructed: “scrape your spoon along the whole length of the bowl, making sure to get a bit of coriander seed, sea salt and honey in every bite of the sweet, root vegetable soup.”

i noticed Chef was peeking at me through the hot window: “how’s that soup taste?” he asked, smiling despite the fact that a table of 14 had just sat down in the dining room, with more guests expected to join their party.

“delicious Chef,” i replied.

“it’s a fun little sense right there with the bits of sea salt and sweet carrots and honey, isn’t it?” Chef observed as though we were enjoying a meal together in a quiet restaurant. “it’s really something,” i replied.

but it was now 8 pm, there were only three cobia left and a waiter had just come in with an order for 20 amuse and 16 gnudi (an italian ricotta, egg and flour dumpling), ending Chef’s brief reprieve of discussing soup. “here we go!” he said, taking a large swig of Perrier. soon after, the kitchen was overwhelmed by the aroma of brown butter and sage as one by one, 16 gnudi arrived at the window. Chef and the garde manger carefully nestled a few pan-fried sage leaves upright between three browned gnudi bathed in brown butter and truffle. “check the salt on that butter and send ‘em out,” Chef said.

“Chef!” called the head waiter. “it looks like that party’s up to 24 now. up that amuse!”

“Tell ‘em to stop calling people!” Chef laughed. three hours into dinner service, and the kitchen already faced parties of 14, 16 and 24; two onion allergies; a shortage of cobia; one severe burn on the saucier‘s hand; and four vegans. it was going to be a long night.

back in the class kitchen on day ten, we finished tasting our simple concoctions of flavored water. Chef Pierre then offered us several confited, broiled ducks parts to try, including the loathed gizzard from day six. “we all know mar-gar-et doesn’t like the gizzard after reading about that on the blog,” Chef prodded, pushing the roasting pan full of gizzards in my direction. “oh, Chef!” i cried, knowing i had no choice but to try it again. i selected a much smaller piece this time and popped it in my mouth, instantly surprised at how different the texture was since the gizzard had been broiled instead of just confited. it was delicious. “ok, ok, i like it. i take it all back: i like the gizzard,” i conceded.

“you realize you are now going to have to mention this on the blog,” said my classmate joel.

i was beginning to understand how important it is to taste–how a simple change in the preparation of the duck gizzard had totally altered its flavor and mouthfeel. i now appreciated the contrast of the soft organ meat to the slightly crisp skin on the outside from placing it under intense, direct heat. i explained my discovery to Chef, and he beamed. i’m sure i was stating the obvious, but it was the proudest i’ve ever been to eat my words.