I did the coolest thing EVER yesterday! Through an opportunity with the Forager Club at school, I got to go on a tour of Saveur magazine's test kitchen and offices! Oh glory day…it was very cool. While I love imagining that someday I'll be a chic, aloof culinary editor who wears only black dresses (with flats) and pearls and sits in her office turning down invitation after invitation for restaurant openings, Mario Batali's kids' birthday parties and offers to write another book but still has time to test recipes all day, I have to admit that it was incredibly humbling to see the actual hub of action. Everyone was really nice, and the test kitchen was unbelievably gorgeous: wall-to-wall views of midtown Manhattan, all the latest appliances and cookware, shining wood cabinets and stacks of plates and tableware from around the world used for their professional photo shoots. A group of busy interns were buzzing around, tasting a simmering pot on the stove with a wooden spoon, flipping over a dessert mold onto a ceramic platter and organizing an entire display of jars and jars of pickled items for an upcoming story. After the tour we were given a few minutes to ask some questions and probe into daily life at a culinary magazine, and I had to hold my tongue to keep from asking our guide, in front of ten fellow FCI students, if he would hire me on-the-spot. I kept asking him with my eyes: wide-open and welcoming when he mentioned he was hiring interns, slanted and knowing when he revealed how stressful the past few months had been and tilted and experienced when he discussed the multitude of responsibilities for his many seasonal interns. I'm not sure it worked; I guess I'll have to convince him with my killer work ethic, yearnin' for learnin' and something called a resume…better get on that. As the tour came to an end, I suddenly felt a temper tantrum coming up from my lungs and through my esophagus…I wanted to scream and grab onto the cubicles, "You can't make me leave! YOU CAN'T MAKE ME LEAVE!" Alas, the elevator arrived and I had a date with an apple tart; goodbye for now Saveur, goodbye for now.
I had made the cycle back around to pastry again; I was actually excited for the apple tart because it's a little easier than the lemon tart and equally as delicious. Its lack of anything overtly sweet or strong makes it easy to justify for breakfast, lunch and dinner too (I've done all three). The dough recipe is pretty standard, the apple compote is straight-forward and the cook has creative freedom to arrange the apple slices atop the tart however he/she prefers. Imagine my surprise when I walked into the kitchen and saw…none other than Chef Marc, my tall, French small-time-TV-celeb ("Chopped") Chef. Now, this wouldn't usually be a problem; I'm getting more advanced at interpreting French accents and since my cooking is getting better I am earning better reviews. However, every single time I have ever made an apple tart, beginning in Level 2's pastry portion, I have had Chef Marc. Every. Single. Time. This means that I can usually expect the standard "Zee apples are lezary (leathery)," "Ah, a beet too crumbly," or my favorite, "Eh."
We were assigned the canapé and told that we could use anything we find in the kitchen. Chef Marc decided to throw in a non-alcoholic digestif as well, to be served at the very end of the meal as a palate cleanser. Considering my experience with digestifs is about as much as my experience with cattle herding, I looked to my teammates to come up with that one. For our canapé, we decided to use a small amount of my Pate Brisee dough to make a mini quiche with caramelized onions, bacon and eggs. We made a white wine/veal stock reduction cream sauce, cut the little quiche into bite-size wedges and gave each a nice pour of the sauce. A sprinkle of parsley went on top, and it was…delicious. I walked the plate up to chef to present as one of my other teammates was coming up behind me. "How are they?" she asked. "Oh man, they're delicious…I could eat these all day," I responded. I looked to Chef for validation, and his only reaction was, "Zis OK…ez overcooked." (The French like their quiches and eggs runny…which was purposely not what we were going for with this.)
Ok, fair enough. I got started on my tart, making a beautiful rosette on the top, satisfying my OCD and aesthetic standards. My oven was nice and hot, and I prepared to pop it in and brown the top before turning down the temperature. All of a sudden, the lights flickered ever so slightly and every single stovetop in the entire kitchen went out. We all stood, dumbfounded, for a few seconds, looking around at each other expecting someone to do something. Chef realized what had happened, and immediately started yelling, "Turn off your ovens and flattops!! Everything needs to be OFF right now unless you all want to blow up!!" Oh crap. We all scrambled to turn off the gas in our ovens, flattops and stovetops; my imagination took over and I kept getting visions of the whole building disappearing in under five seconds…I grew up with electric stoves, and ever since hearing a story as a child of a whole neighborhood blowing up in a fiery rage after a gas leak I have held an irrational fear of all things natural gas. Apparently, the gas in the entire building had gone out, yet quickly returned, so we just had to re-light our pilot lights and all was fine. Or so one would think – in the meantime I had placed my apple tart in the convection oven to get started. In all of the hubbub, and partly due to the fact that convention ovens are tricky, the temperature had magically increased and the top of my tart was getting a little too brown.
This is much like the process of a sun burn, something with which I am all too familiar. You are enjoying a nice day by the beach, reading the new Jen Lancaster novel and sipping on a warm can of Diet Coke. You look down, and see slight pink shapes forming on the top of your leg. Oh crap, I'm burning, you think to yourself. You apply an inch-thick layer of SPF 254, but the shapes keep forming and you're starting to get overheated. You decide it's time to call it a day and pack your things to catch the train back to Manhattan. On the train, you start feeling lightheaded and ill, and are getting some pretty weird looks from the other passengers. By the time you reach Manhattan, you look like a lobster that has been dipped in red paint, and you're so dehydrated from the heat radiating from your crispy epidermis you can barely make it up the ten steps out of the station. Once home, you peel your bathing suit off, and the sight of the un-exposed pale skin next to the burnt, fried red skin makes you nauseous…
The point I'm trying to make is that the fragile little apple slices, so beautifully arranged on top of my perfect little tart, continued to burn. Nay – they continued to fry. By the time my tart was done I had a rosette of crispy brown apples surrounded by apple slices with black edges. The dough was perfect, though…but I didn't think chef would overlook the obvious defects. I looked up and guess who was watching me – none other than Chef Marc. As I braced for what would surely be some sort of disappointed comment, he made a small motion with his first two fingers…a scissor! He was telling me to just cut them off! Of course, it's genius! I had about 15 minutes until presentation time, so I got right on it; I took my kitchen shears and carefully worked around the outer edge of each of the million little apple slices, cutting off the burnt edge and leaving the nice light-brown center. By the time I was done and preparing to present, it looked so much better. Assistant chef's first reaction was, "Wow! And the biggest save of the night award goes to Jackie!" while Chef Marc said, "Ah…a leetle too much time under ze sun, eh?" Not the first time I've heard that.
With the hot spring day outside and the steaming ovens inside, the kitchen was beginning to become unbearable. One of the dishwashers, dripping with sweat, stumbled over to the back door to open it and prop a fan in the door to bring some air movement into the kitchen. "No, keep it closed!" yelled Chef Marc. "Es better zat way." He cackled and rested his elbows on the cool marble counter at the front of the room. Touché, Chef Marc, touché.
My teammates ended up serving a lemon/lime/mint slushie cup drizzled with coconut milk and shredded mint for the digestif, which I thought was pretty clever. After the kitchen was clean and our tools were put away, we all piled down the steps to run outside for some fresh air and a nice breeze. As we pushed through the double doors, gasping for some reprieve, we were met with a wall of hot, sticky mess that seemed to be hotter than inside the kitchen we had just escaped. Summer is just around the corner, so it looks like I'll be sticking my head in the freezer more than usual. Hopefully the Level 4 kitchens are a little cooler…the nice ladies at the Laundromat already know me by first name and underwear size.
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