Have Blade Will Travel: The adventures of a traveling chef (11 page)

I also found several recommended methods for sparing the lobster pain during preparation.  The two most common involved severing its external spinal cord, which all agreed would numb sensitivity.  One method was to make an incision at the back of the head, just below a spot directly between the eyes.  The other was severing the animal at the vulnerable spot directly between the main body, the carapace, and the top of the tail.  I was more taken with a gentler alternative, suggested by notable gourmand Samuel Chamberlain, who seemed as sensitive as I, to the plight of Homarus Americanus.  Chamberlain advocated placing the lobster in a pot of cold water, turning on the flame, and allowing the water come to a boil.  Subjected to a gradual rise of water temperature, the creature would be slowly lulled to sleep, and thus avoid the shock and pain of being plunged directly into rapidly boiling water.

At last, I had found someone with the lobster’s best interest at heart.  The next day, I tried his technique.  I lifted a pound-and-a-half lobster out of a crate, apologized to it, then placed it into a pot of cool water.  I turned on the fire, and observed the lobster’s movements as the temperature increased.  To my horror, the poor creature began squirming and twitching in obvious torment.  I quickly grabbed a pair of tongs, pulled him out of the water, and set him down on the counter.  Oh, my heart, my poor wretched soul.  The poor creature just sat there, looking kind of dazed and confused, resided somewhere between life in the beautiful deep blue sea, and death at the hands of a guilt-ridden cook.  I was more horrified than irritated at Chamberlain’s naive hypothesis, which he had obviously never tested.  All I could do now was put the poor creature out of its misery.  I picked up a large knife, apologized again, and then “whack!,” right between the carapace and the top of the tail.

Having worn out the resources of the library, my search for answers took me to the beach.  Within hours, I would be back in the slaughterhouse, dealing death to innocent lobsters.  I couldn’t walk away from the dilemma, no matter how traumatic it had become.  I had to find a solution, something to get me through the summer.  I strolled along the ocean’s edge, feeling the waves crash onto the beach – mellow, serene, confident.  Some lines from Walt Whitman rattled around the brain cells:

“The earth does not argue,

Is not pathetic,

Has no arguments,

Does not scream, haste, persuade, threaten, promise,

Makes no discriminations,

Has no conceivable failures.”

The ocean’s edge is a special place.  It’s circular ebb and flow never ceases, never stops to rest – a reflection of a higher power perhaps.  I snickered, reflecting that whatever higher power had manifested this magnificent planet and had sovereignty over it has more important matters to attend to than the dilemmas of a wet-behind-the-ears cook-philosopher pondering the tainted sea-blood dripping from his hands.  How had we arrived at this ungodly state, where hapless creatures were sacrificed to seasonal revenues, the “bottom line,” and nostalgic Cape Cod fare?  Yet there seemed no way to avoid it.  It was a law of nature, it seemed.  The big fish that swallows the smaller fish is then eaten by the bigger fish, and so on up the line.  Humans are hardly the ultimate predator in the chain of life on this planet.  What big fish will devour us?  Perhaps in our destructiveness, we will devour ourselves. 

But all that was avoiding the issue, allowing my peculiar Virgo-nature to dissect every detail to distraction.  I still needed to find a way to deal with my dreadful dilemma.  If God meant lobster to be boiled and served to the restaurant dining public in this place and in this time, then there must be a reason for it.  A Stevie Wonder lyric danced in my head:
Till I reach, till I reach my higher ground
.  A prayer, perhaps, a prayer for each creature as it moves to its higher ground.  A mantra, repeated at each execution, something to move its spirit on to the next plane.  I remembered a Buddhist prayer I had once shared with a close friend whose young son had died prematurely: “A thing that lives once, lives always,” I told him.  Being part of the food chain was a condition of our existence, but so was the continuity of life.  I breathed deeply, and headed back to the slaughter house.

That evening, the first lobster order came in.  Malcolm made a move towards the lobster crate.  I intercepted him, coolly: “I’ll get it.”  He starred at me for a few seconds, sensing something different in my eyes and voice.  “Sure man.  You get it.”  He stepped back, paused for a moment then went back to work.  I picked up a lobster.  The creature flapped its tail violently, and stretched out his claws in an effort to defend itself.  I carried it solemnly to my cutting board, curled its tail back underneath, and held it firmly down onto the board.  I paused, momentarily, with the point of the knife hanging directly above its carapace, near the head, below and directly between its two eyes, then I murmured softly, “A thing that lives once, lives always.”  The knife came down swiftly, piercing the hard shell, making a “squish” as it cut through the creature’s head and nervous system.  I could almost feel the life move out of it.  I picked it up, carried it over to the kettle and dropped it in.  Malcolm stared at me from the other side of the room.  The kitchen was unusually quiet that night.  But production ran smooth as silk.

Boiled Lobster

In a large pot, bring to boil 4 gallons (15 liters) water, with 1 tablespoon (15 mL) of salt.  While silently pronouncing the mantra “A thing that lives once lives always” – pierce each 1½-to-2 pound (¾-to-1 kg) lobster swiftly, using the point of the French knife, at the point exactly between the lobster’s two eyes.  Drop the lobsters into the boiling water then cover the pot.  When the water returns to a boil, turn off the heat and allow to sit 10 minutes.  Remove the lobster from the water, and allow to drain.  Crack the claws, using the heel of a knife, and split the tail.  Observe a moment of silence to thank the lobsters for donating themselves to your highest good.  Serve with melted butter, lemon wedges and sprigs of parsley.

 
Chapter 6

Paying Dues Pays Off

Undaunted in the aftermath of the Duck Galantine-cum-Meatloaf Ordeal, it wasn’t long before an inspiration possessed me for upgrading the hot offerings of the Sunday buffet.  I approached Manager Ricci.

“I’ve been thinking about the Sunday buffet,” I told him, “and I’ve thought of something that might attract more patronage.”

“Yeah what?,” he replied, in his usual compassionate, caring, and fully attentive style – with appropriate body language.

I ignored his tone.  “We could publicize an international series, and each Sunday we’d offer items from a different international region.  One week it might be Northern Italian, the next Swiss, then Indian, German, Scandinavian, and so on.  I think it could draw people who might not ordinarily come to our buffet, attracted by the regional and ethnic theme.  What do you think?”

“I’ll talk it over with the chef,” he replied, in his usual compassionate, caring, and fully attentive style.

That night after work, and in the days that followed, I researched possible ethnic menus during early morning trips to the library.  I soon compiled complete buffet menus representing Austria, China, Germany, Greece, India, Italy, Scandinavia, Spain, and Switzerland.  Most of the items were fairly well known standards – Aveglemeno and Moussaka from Greece, Stracciatella and Baked Ziti from Italy, Gazpacho and Paella from Spain.  But my favorite menu, and the one I believed would be most enthusiastically received, was the Chinese.

East Bay Lodge Proudly Presents: The Cuisine of China

Ten Vegetable Soup

Stir Fried Cabbage and Mushrooms

Roast Pork, Canton Style

Crispy Fried Duck

Sweet and Sour Wontons

Peas Fried Rice

Seven Vegetable Chop Suey

Pickled Root Vegetables

 
Toward the end of the week, Ricci came to me with the news I had hoped to hear. 
The chef would allow me to orchestrate the production of one of the menus and authorized me to order necessary food supplies. 
I compiled my requisition list and started planning the upcoming week’s schedule, so that all would flow smoothly. 
I talked the project up with the other members of the brigade, and while I didn’t encounter too much enthusiasm, I expected it would come. 
After all, this was not some solitary project like the galantine, but an opportunity for all staff to participate in the creation of something new and tantalizing, something that would attract more business and show the Cape Cod restaurant what a progressive bunch of hot-shot cooks we were.

Early the next week, I marinating the pork, pickled the vegetables, and began preparing the Crispy Fried Duck, an involved process that began with poaching the ducks, then pressing them into a sheet pan twenty-four hours in advance of frying.  I ran around like a maniac, trying to squeeze everything in between my normal duties, and looking forward to the glorious Chinese-style buffet that was to result.

On Sunday morning, I arrived early to start assembling the mise-en-place.  As the other members of the kitchen staff began wandering in, I grew uncomfortably aware that they were definitely not aboard.  As the realization of my predicament sank in, I picked up the pace, working furiously to get everything done on my own.  I had to scrap some of the lesser items, just to get the primary entrées out on time.  The rest of the crew just sort of hung around, nonchalantly going about their business.

It didn’t take long to identify my error in judgment.  I had forgotten that East Bay Lodge was not so much a restaurant as a food factory, designed to produce enormous volumes of New England-style food and sell it to as many people as possible during the four-month summer season that accounted for most of the year’s revenue.  The core of the kitchen staff were locals who lived the rest of the year mostly on what they earned working like maniacs during the short tourist season.  Merely providing the summer clientele with its usual feed was hard enough, without complicating the job with a weekly change of menu.  From the kitchen staff’s point of view, the only sensible approach was KISS – Keep it simple stupid. 

From the management’s point of view, the primary purpose of the Sunday buffet was to use up the leftovers from the previous week.  Some extra dishes were added, of course, such as the cold items Mal and I put together, but the hot foods consisted of odd creations like Beef à la Deutch – last week’s roast prime rib diced into chunks, simmered in reconstituted brown-gravy-powder, garnished with chunks of green bell pepper and onion.  The fresh fish fillets that hadn’t been used were lined up in hotel pans, topped with paprika, butter, sliced lemon, then broiled.  Other dishes were improvised out of shrimp, scallops, pork chops, or whatever else was around that would lend itself to a hot buffet item.  All that should have been obvious.  Any low-priced “all you can eat buffet” is a way of unloading foods that might not pass muster during regular production service.

So I took no offense at the way my co-workers had abandoned me, but wrote it off as another course in the school of hard knocks –
Industrial Kitchen Realities 301 – Remember the Bottom Line
.  I was pleased to have convinced the ownership and chef to let me try something new, although I now suspected they had known perfectly well what the outcome would be.  They had probably enjoyed the spectacle of watching me bounce off the walls, running back and forth between the cooking line and the reach-in refrigerators, frantically hustling to meet my deadline, while they stood back with arms folded – literally.  Their laughter indicated that once again, the status quo was the way to go.  To this day, I do not dine at buffets.

With the passing weeks, I slipped into a routine.  My hours in the kitchen stabilized around sixty per week.  The rest of my time was pleasantly spent playing guitar, exploring long stretches of beach, cycling around the Cape, and unwinding after work with my co-workers.  New friendships were formed, with varying degrees of intensity, function, and form.  I pursued a waitress, a long, tall redhead by the name of Virginia Elizabeth Clark, but she pined after an ex-boyfriend, whose lack of genuine romantic interest in her only fueled her desire.  My persistence paid off briefly, one night, when she yielded to my overtures and we spent a glorious night wrapped in each other’s arms.  The next day, however, she went back to hankering after he ex, while I spent the rest of the summer wondering if she would ever wake up.  I wrote her a poem straight from my heart, very Dylanesque as I recall – hand-rendered calligraphically, and gave it to her one night at work.  She read it to Gail, another waitress and compatriot, and they both wept effusively.  I was rather flattered, but still, it did not win me her affections.

Gail was gorgeous as well – brown-skinned, bright-eyed, sultry, and possessing a powerful peaceful presence.  Richard, the zany pantry man, and Malcolm, along with Gail and I, struck up a sort of Four Musketeers fellowship, based in part on our shared perception of Manager Ricci and owners Bob and Leah Keston.  All four of us saw them as incurably self-serving, usually at the expense of the dignity and sensitivities of the staff.

After work, the Musketeers often made a quick dash to The Fox Hole, a nearby pub owned and operated by a Vietnam War veteran.  There we would unwind over draft beer and Sombreros (Kahlua + vodka), and discuss the behavior of the restaurant management.  Smitty, the teenage-mutant-dishwasher and his team of youthful plongeurs (dishwashers) often joined us.  They were a lively and energetic bunch, a couple of years younger than us, a sort of lost generation.  I sensed in them a great starvation for basic love and affection – two qualities not easy to come by in New England culture.

Smitty was the undisputed leader among his peers, and despite his frequently stoned-out condition, he demonstrated considerable people skills.  As the summer wore on, we were surprised to discover that he was also quite the entrepreneur.  On busy nights at the restaurant, the chef or sous-chef would send him to the freezer – located outside and to the rear of the kitchen – for everything from back-up provisions to frozen items that required overnight thawing.  On his run back from the freezer, Smitty would periodically and covertly stash a couple of frozen prime ribs of beef under the wooden staircase that led back up into the kitchen.  Later, in the early morning hours, he would return and move the ribs to the trunk of his car, then wholesale them in the morning to the owner of another local restaurant.  (As the solo dishwasher, he was the last man to leave the restaurant, often at 2:30 AM.)  We were enormously amused to learn of this activity, and considering how the management treated us, Smitty's thievery seemed like a perfectly suitable form of rough justice – a bit of retribution for the Pork Parmagiano and Non-dairy-Whipped-Topping Chocolate Mousse.  We also cautioned him as to the legal consequences if he were to be found out.  But, well-liked as he was by everyone, including the chef and owners, he was the least likely staff member to be suspected of pilfering, as well as the most likely to be let off with a warning even if he did get caught.  As for me, it was yet another valuable lesson – this time about the perils of operating a restaurant.