I got ready like I would for any normal school day: brush the teeth, pull back the hair and check the bag for spare socks and neckerchief. I made sure the cat was ok, fought the uphill walk in the extreme humidity and descended the two flights of stairs into the 96th Street subway station. It hit me that something was wrong when my foot touched the platform from the stairs, and I noticed that there were so many people crammed onto the platform that there was barely any room to move. Normally, at that time of the afternoon when the system is preparing for the evening rush hour the trains run about every three minutes, clearing the platform to make room for a new surge of riders. By the look of the crowds, a train had not passed in about 15 minutes...and considering I was already running a little late (naturally) I started to get really nervous.
As I ascended the steps after making the executive decision to bail on the subway system and catch a cab, I heard an announcement that the downtown trains were not running, setting off a near riot of hundreds of people all clamoring up the stairs following in my footsteps. I jumped in the first taxi I saw, and we screeched away from the station as the hordes piled out behind us. Even though we got stuck on a side street behind a bus full of camp-goers, we were cruising right on schedule…until a few blocks away from school when the driver suddenly pulled over and said, "You'll have to get out here. The cops are up there." Great…seriously?? I paid him as quickly as possible and grabbed my stuff, lest I get smart-alecky and ask him to explain himself. Drugs? Illegal immigrant? Expired plates? Who knows…it's New York City.
I ran into class just as chef was gathering everyone to take attendance. Monday night was the start of my pastry rotation, so I knew I'd have a quiet-ish night in an air conditioned kitchen making beautiful desserts. The pastry kitchen is run by one of the school's world-class pastry chefs, who are surely tired of dealing with culinary students who would rather peel pounds of potatoes than measure out flour and sugar (me), but they are amazing artists and have created some delicious delicacies for the summer menu. My level is responsible for a Rice Pudding on a Blueberry Compote topped with Blackberry Sorbet and a Cheese Custard with a Dehydrated Orange Slice, Carrot Ice Cream and a Brandy Snap. YUM!
We were all standing around after completing our tasks for the night when chef looked my way and said, "Who's going to be the runner tonight?" I looked right back at her…and she stared back at me. "Anyone?" she said while still staring at me. I slowly raised my hand and said, "I'll do it." Gee, that was a no-brainer. I soon learned that being the runner means making sure the orders are put together appropriately, placed on a tray and carried to the front of the main kitchen for The Expediter. I'm not quite sure how I was strong-armed into this (no pun intended) because it also involves carrying really heavy trays while yelling, "Behind!" through crowds of cooks all moving sporadically about the kitchen.
We had a "VIP" order – one of the school's pastry chefs had brought her family in to dine for the night. They had ordered a ton of desserts, and we had also thrown in a beautiful cookie platter. We were extremely careful about keeping the sorbet and ice cream cold and plating the food perfectly, because if anyone knew how it should look and taste…it was this woman. I got all the orders together on the tray and carried is carefully up to the front. As I laid the tray on the table, ready to turn it all over to the waiters, the carrot ice cream slowly shimmied its way off the cheese custard, making an audible "Splat!" as it landed on the chocolate design below, smearing it across the plate. I had watched it happen in slow-motion, but was now faced in real-time with the dilemma that I hope to never be faced with again: do I grab it with my hands and put it back on…or run back to the pastry kitchen to request another? I'm not going to say which decision I was leaning towards when one of the head chefs approached me and said, "Your ice cream fell." No sh*t, you think I didn't realize that…CHEF? I grabbed the plate, ran back to my kitchen and had my teammates remake a plate as quickly as possible. No one made any comments are gave me any crap, but I sure felt pretty terrible.
My night took a turn for the best when we were all relaxing (ha!) in the air conditioning (ha!) when chef said, "Ok, why don't you guys take a dinner break?" "Um…excuse me chef, I know we're just starting to get to know each other but it's really not nice to joke like that when we're all used to gnawing on our forearms for sustenance through the dinner service." Turns out she was serious…we took a nice dinner break and resumed our pastry plating full and sated. A girl could get used to this lifestyle.
Overall, it was a great first night of pastry, although I did overhear our new chef saying, "I love to send people home." Hmm…I wonder what I would have to do to get sent home. Not that I would actually want that to happen, I'm just always looking for ways to increase my street cred.
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