The last three days on the job, I have been working as the relief saute man on the line, and many a times, I have had to step in and take over the whole line with seven pans spitting and bubbling at the same time. It's an organizational nightmare, trying to keep track of the state of each pan on the flame, and correctly judging when it's ready to get the next ingredient, and periodically glancing at the POS terminal screen to see what's coming my way, and getting the pans ready for the next wave of orders.
Of course, such matters leave little room in your mind for things like your appearance, language, physical comfort and stress. It also keeps your mind diverted from the fact that little by little, you are also cooking your own body, as well as whatever is frying away in the saute pan. The bursts of fire that result from an ounce of wine or a few droplets of oil burning on direct contact with the plasma of gas coming from below continually sear your face, sometimes touching the brim of your baseball cap, an event that puts common sense to work, and makes you wisely wear your cap backwards. As your reach across the burners to ladle some sauce into your searing-hot pan, a pillar of intense heat cuts across your bare forearms, instantly wilting each strand of hair. Stay in that position long enough, pondering if you put in enough sauce, and the heat will give your entire arm a nice waxed appearance, with an extra dollop of agony thrown in just for fun.
A grill and an oven give off this invisible, intense heat that makes their presence felt at a distance. You try to avoid any contact between your flesh and the radiant surfaces, because you can still see the marks from the last time the two of you met. A deep-fat fryer is like a mirage of apparent calm, the illusion dissipating with the immersion of a cold, wet item into the pool, which results in a display of arrogant rage, the liquid spitting and sputtering in a fit of fury. With a gas range, the heat comes at you like the thrusts from a skilled fencer, hitting a tender spot each time, until you learn all its tricks, or just become impervious to the dance of the flames below. With my arms extending over the gas burners for a few seconds every now and then, I have estimated that over the course of a regular working day, I voluntarily roast my appendages for a combined period of about a minute everyday. In about a week's time, I should be cooked to a nice Roti au bleu (rare) degree. Just the way Dr. H.Lecter prefers it.
Gravy, anyone?
Music- Gioachino Rossini-The barber of Seville-Ouverture (1989 Zagreb music festival, Croatia)
Igor Stravinsky- The Firebird-finale (BRT Philharmonic, Brussels, 1990)
Of course, such matters leave little room in your mind for things like your appearance, language, physical comfort and stress. It also keeps your mind diverted from the fact that little by little, you are also cooking your own body, as well as whatever is frying away in the saute pan. The bursts of fire that result from an ounce of wine or a few droplets of oil burning on direct contact with the plasma of gas coming from below continually sear your face, sometimes touching the brim of your baseball cap, an event that puts common sense to work, and makes you wisely wear your cap backwards. As your reach across the burners to ladle some sauce into your searing-hot pan, a pillar of intense heat cuts across your bare forearms, instantly wilting each strand of hair. Stay in that position long enough, pondering if you put in enough sauce, and the heat will give your entire arm a nice waxed appearance, with an extra dollop of agony thrown in just for fun.
A grill and an oven give off this invisible, intense heat that makes their presence felt at a distance. You try to avoid any contact between your flesh and the radiant surfaces, because you can still see the marks from the last time the two of you met. A deep-fat fryer is like a mirage of apparent calm, the illusion dissipating with the immersion of a cold, wet item into the pool, which results in a display of arrogant rage, the liquid spitting and sputtering in a fit of fury. With a gas range, the heat comes at you like the thrusts from a skilled fencer, hitting a tender spot each time, until you learn all its tricks, or just become impervious to the dance of the flames below. With my arms extending over the gas burners for a few seconds every now and then, I have estimated that over the course of a regular working day, I voluntarily roast my appendages for a combined period of about a minute everyday. In about a week's time, I should be cooked to a nice Roti au bleu (rare) degree. Just the way Dr. H.Lecter prefers it.
Gravy, anyone?
Music- Gioachino Rossini-The barber of Seville-Ouverture (1989 Zagreb music festival, Croatia)
Igor Stravinsky- The Firebird-finale (BRT Philharmonic, Brussels, 1990)
2 comments:
Saignant is the way i prefer my meat, so tell me when you're done..
Bon apetit!
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