Under the Table (13 page)
Authors: Katherine Darling
“I can't,” I said. “I just can't. Look at him. He's so cute!” Tucker rolled his eyes and called Chef over. Chef plucked Fido from my grasp. “No! Don't kill him!” I shouted, fearing the fate Chef had just administered to Amanda's lobster. Chef sighed deeply, put Fido down on the cutting board, and reached for my just-sharpened paring knife. Instead of killing him, though, Chef merely sliced the rubber band off Fido's remaining claw. I swooped down and picked Fido up again, ready to bring him home and install him in the bathtub of my tiny apartment. Now that his claw was free, though, Fido had other plans. He clamped down on my thumb with all his might. I tried to drop him, but he was hanging on, literally, for dear life. I tried to shake him off to no avail. Blood was beginning to well, and rained down on my workstation from my now-mangled digit. Calmly, Chef grabbed Fido and yanked. Fido let go of my thumb at last, and without further bloodshed, Chef flipped him directly into the waiting pot, slammed the lid on, and turned up the gas. Fifteen minutes later, my thumb now cocooned in bandages, I was eating lobster tail with drawn butter. I discovered I love lobster.
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It was a good thing, too. That weekend, Michael took me on a surprise trip to Nantucket. As we sat on a picnic bench, munching on huge, deliciously sloppy lobster rolls from a tiny roadside shack, Michael suddenly dropped to one knee, whipped out the beautiful ring he had been hiding in his sock drawer, and, with a drip of mayo still clinging adorably to his chin, asked me to marry him. I said
yes!
and kissed him mightily, mayonnaise and all.
Preparing Shellfish
There really is no upside to cleaning bivalvesâit is a long, wet, chilly process. Even if you are eating them raw, as with oysters and some varieties of clam, there is a great deal of prep work involved. The bivalves are given a thorough going-overâthe shell should be tightly closed, or if it is a bit open, it should snap closed when you tap it gently with a knuckle. There should be no sign of foreign visitors, from small crabs to a vicious variety of sea worm that burrows right through the calciferous mantles and feasts on the plump flesh. Once you have established that all the bivalves are alive, give each a brief bath in very cold water and quick scrub with a wire brush if it has any undesirable bits clinging to it. These undesirable bits can be clumps of mud or stray pieces of shell, even the contributions from passing seagulls, so you want to make certain the shells are thoroughly cleaned.
Oysters and clams to be eaten raw are now ready to be opened. Remember to open just before servingâeven on ice, the creatures do not last long once they have been wrenched apart and exposed to the air. Using a towel or an oyster glove (a delightfully medieval kitchen gadget made from fine-gauge chain mail, to be worn on the hand holding the bivalve), hold the oyster securely. The towel (or oyster glove) provides purchase on the slippery surface of the shell, and also protects one's hand from the inevitable nicks and cuts accrued from exerting a great deal of force on a knife against a small, slippery object that does not wish to be opened. Make certain the flatter of the two shells is facing upâthe bulk of the oyster is nestled against the curved shell. I find it easiest to situate the oyster so that the hinge is facing me. I then insert the tip of the oyster knife slightly to the right of the hinge. Then I wiggle and pry a bit, edging the knife in deeper, before sliding the knife up to the hinge and twisting to pry it open. Some oysters give up more easily than others. Once the hinge is opened, slide the knife gently through
the oyster, as close to the top of the shell as possible, to detach any bits of muscle clinging to the flat shell. Remove the top shell, being careful not to spill any of the precious liquor. Use the slightly curved shape of the oyster knife to slide underneath the oyster, detaching the strong muscle from the bottom shell, but leaving the flesh intact and in place. Gently snuggle it into a bed of crushed ice, and it is ready to enjoy. Clams are treated in precisely the same manner, except that the knife should be inserted directly into the hinge and pried open that way.
Mussels, scallops, and clams that are not going to be eaten raw need some preparation. Mussels, in particular, are a pain in the ass. Not only do scads of them seem to die in between checking them for life the first time and giving them a bath, but they all must be debearded with a sharp paring knife to remove the furry, greenish brown ropes of fiber emerging from the shells. Don't pry too hard, or you will kill the things, but try to get as much of it off as possible. Once mussels have been cleaned and debearded, they are ready to go. In classic French cooking, unless one is making bistro fare, mussels are used only to make stock. They are sautéed in a deep covered pot with some shallots, chopped parsley, and a bit of white wine. Once they have opened their shells, they are strained out, and the cooking liquid is used as stock in other recipes. The mussels themselves are then usually used to feed the kitchen staffâa tasty, easy meal. While the mussels are still warm, add another healthy jigger of white wine and a generous dollop of crème fraîche. Toss lightly, and serve over big rustic pasta ribbons.
Clams do not have to be debearded, but they are often quite sandy and gritty. For this reason, they require a longer soak, and sometimes a bit of further coercion to ensure they give up their mouthfuls of sand before they are cooked. My mother has always sworn that sprinkling the clams with some cornmeal and then letting them soak for a half hour will cause them to release their sand and become plump and happy on the cornmeal. A last meal, as it were.
With clams you suspect of being particularly gritty, several baths may be in orderâclams seem to wax and wane with grittiness, being less so in the winter and more so in the summer.
Scallops, by comparison, are a total joy to clean. Yes, they must be rinsed and brushed and checked for signs of life, but that is pretty much it. The shells themselves were a revelation for meâa tiny replica of the shell in which Botticelli's Venus chose to rise from the sea, its perfect, arching fan shape pleasing both to the eye and to the hand. The shells remind me of an Old Master's deft brushwork, shading from fawn to caramel to tawny chestnut before repeating in endless waves. It is too bad that they make me sick to my stomach.
Oyster Stew
We always serve this stew on Christmas Eve in my family, and it is perfect for a festive winter meal.
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1 medium shallot, finely diced
6 tablespoons (¾ stick) unsalted butter
2 pints shucked select oysters, with their liquor
1 cup heavy cream
1 cup whole milk
Salt and freshly ground white pepper
Pinch of cayenne pepper
Dash of Worcestershire sauce
4 tablespoons crème fraîche
1 scallion, thinly sliced on the bias
Red and green hot sauce, for serving
- In a pot, gently sauté the shallot in the butter over low heat until the shallot is soft, about 5 minutes. Add the oysters and their liquor and cook just until the edges start to shrivel. Add the cream and milk and season with salt, pepper, cayenne, and the Worcestershire. Cook just until heated through.
- Divide the crème fraîche among four soup bowls. Fill with the oyster stew. Garnish with the scallion and a few dashes of hot sauce.
Serves 4
T
his was it, our very last day in Level 1. We would be making ice cream, sorbets, frozen soufflés, floating islands, and delicate tuilesâvanilla cookies rolled into tiny cigar shapes. In other words, dessert, dessert, and more dessert. In the late afternoon we would have a lecture from our new, Level 2 chef, Chef Pierre. Then we would say good-bye to Chef Jean. Monday morning we would report to the Level 2 kitchen downstairs.
This was also the last day of our one-on-one work with our partners. Tucker and I had become such a good team, working together so seamlessly, I was really worried about who I would end up with in Level 2. During this new, intermediate level, the class would be broken into actual brigades, like the military unit, with five students in each. In these brigades, every two days we would rotate through the four different stations in the kitchenâgarde-manger,
poissonnier, saucier, patissier,
and finally the dreaded family meal station. The work would be more challenging and the pressures more intense than ever. I just hoped I would survive.
There was a palpable current of nervousness running through our ranks that morning, and we twitched and whispered back and forth during Chef 's last lecture on the miracle of ice cream, and how, contrary to history books, ice cream was not invented in Turkey or other hot, dry places in the Middle East, or by the Italians transporting ice from the hills and flavoring it with fruit, but by the French (surprise, surprise). As a properly brought up Virginia native, I did know that Thomas Jefferson was famous for serving the confection at Monticello, his gorgeous homestead near Charlottesville,
in Virginia's Albemarle County. No doubt Jefferson brought back this enticingly cool, delicious novelty from his time spent as minister to France after the Revolutionary War. Whether or not the French truly did invent the concept of ice cream, they certainly refined it to glorious new heights. The French are credited with adding egg yolks to the cream base, creating a stable, superrich product with superior freezing capabilities and a more luxurious texture and excellent mouthfeelâcommercial production food-speak for that sinfully rich, slippery feel really good ice cream makes in the mouth. Cooking this egg-milk-cream mixture yields a creamy, very thick sauce, which is actually crème anglaise. The mixture could be made into
pots de crème
or crème brûlée, or used as a sweet soufflé base. Or it could be churned into ice cream, the perfect antidote to this sultry, sad August day.
Even as we listened to Chef 's last morning lecture, the whispers and note passing and general anxiety reached such a pitch that Chef paused, midsentence, to reprimand us one last time.
“
Bonjour, classe! Bonjour!
Focus on your Chef. I am still your teacher, for another few hours, at least. You will have plenty to talk about later, after Chef Pierre speaks to you.”
This sounded ominous, a threat akin to the “I'll give you something to cry about!” threats I dimly remembered from childhood. I loved Chef Jean. His occasional outbursts and sarcastic comments were well worth the twinkle in his eye and broad smile when he praised the results of three hours of hot, sweaty work at the stove. I felt like I had finally learned something in the past months, despite having to start from absolute scratch and relearn the very basics, from knife techniques to making stocks to pastry, all over again, the proper way. I could also understand some of Chef 's frustrations with us. At times, it seemed as if he had a classroom full of hyperactive schoolchildren, all armed with a plethora of very sharp metal objects. Was Chef Pierre going to put up with our antics? Or was he going to crack down, disciplining us harshly for every little mishap?
Despite Chef 's attempts to quell us, the unrest continued unabated. Alliances were quickly being cemented between partners, and many of us were cautiously putting out feelers to other partnershipsâtrying to decide if we could work well with someone else, and if so, what were the odds that we would actually end up together? I was hoping and praying that I would at least get to stay with Tucker, and maybe even Imogene and her partner, Amanda, would be a good fit. Ben and his partner, Junior, who shared our kitchen island, and whose friendship we had sealed the day I stabbed Ben in the ass with my carving fork, would be ideal, but the odds were heavily stacked against us. The four of us were all obviously very close, and I had heard that the chefs tried to break up friendships when creating brigades, hoping to curtail the amount of goofing off.
Throwing up his hands in despair at our flagrantly bad behavior, Chef Jean decided that we would work as a class today, with no individual projects. I wasn't sure whether this was because we were so unfocused we couldn't be trusted with a flame or because there was only one ice cream machine, and it would have taken all day for each person to make his or her very own batch. In any case, we would be making two flavors of ice cream: plain vanilla and chocolate with caramelized almonds. I hoped I would get picked for Team VanillaâI love the pure, rich flavor of cream, intensified with a subtle sweetness and heady hit of rich vanilla paste, peppered with tiny flecks of the bean. I had long been suspicious of ice cream with added flavors and textures. I remembered one long-ago Fourth of July when my mother made blueberry ice creamâthe blueberries froze into petrified projectiles, hard enough to chip one of my baby teeth. Nothing for me would do but plain old, straitlaced, straight-up vanilla. So of course I ended up on Team Chocolate.
“Ewww, chocolate,” I whined to Angelo, as all of us chocolate people clumped together at one end of the room like dregs at the bottom of a cold cup of coffee. Angelo stared at me.
“You are the only girl I know who would complain about
chocolate. It's perverted.” Since
perverted
was Angelo's favorite adjective, and he used it indiscriminately to describe everything from génoise cakes to carrots to classic kitchen techniques, I wasn't sure if he was insulting me or not.
He went on, “Vanilla is so blah. So boring. It's the color of my grandmother's cotton underpants. Chocolate is dark, mysterious, a little naughty. Vanilla is for good girls. Chocolate is for bad girls. Devil's food cake is chocolate. Hell, there's a naked lady on all the boxes of Godiva's chocolates. Hello? Naked hot chick equals chocolate. So then, chocolate equals naked hot chick. Duh.”
His logic was definitely perverted, but at the same time I found myself secretly wishing I was not at the moment wearing cotton underpants, and that I was that hot chick on the box of chocolates. I didn't dislike all things chocolate, just chocolate ice cream, really. It just seemed so, soâ¦brown. In general, brown is not a good food colorâfor instance, brown bananas: not good. While we all tried to cook everything to the elusive “golden brown” shade Chef always talked about, that was really more of a wildflower honey hue. Chocolate ice cream was just plain dirt brown, and it stained everything, from fingers and faces to shirts and dresses. Maybe I didn't like it because it was unforgiving and messy. Maybe I
was
a little too straitlacedâwho else in the world was worrying about whether the stain would come out in the wash when all thoughts should be occupied with the dark pleasures of chocolate?
As if reading my thoughts, Angelo looked deeply into my eyes and said, “You need to loosen up, Darling. Live more. Get that nice white chef 's jacket a little dirty once in a while.” Maybe he was right. Nice-girl vanilla is all well and good, but how could I appreciate it without dipping my toes in the chocolate fountain?
I quickly shelved these thoughts for closer inspection later, preferably over a glass of wine. The thought that I was as interesting as someone's grandmother's underwear was definitely too sobering to be considered while in a sober state. Chocolate was Michael's
favorite flavorâmaybe it was time I tried a hit of chocolate myself to spice things up. I squeezed my engagement ring, hanging from a chain around my neck to keep it safe. I still couldn't believe itâme, getting married! I couldn't spend time thinking about my relationship now, though. If I was going to have to take a walk on the dark (chocolate) side, then I would have to pay attention and learn how to do it properly.
Making chocolate ice cream is much like making regular vanilla ice cream, except for the addition of semisweet chocolate chips in the base. While the cream and milk are being heated, the chocolate is tipped in to melt. As this mixture is brought up to about 175°F, the egg yolks are whisked together with the sugar and vanilla, and beaten until the yolks are very pale in color and the mixture has almost doubled in volume. This process is known as
blanchir
(to whiten), for the yolks and sugar are properly mixed when the bright orangey color of good egg yolks has paled to a pastel yellow. Once the milk and cream have begun to steam on the stove, almost but not quite boiling, the yolk mixture is gently tempered with the hot milk. Tempering requires a steady hand and a quick whiskâthe purpose is to bring the temperature of the yolks up to the temperature of the milk so that they can be mixed together and cooked further without causing the yolks to cook and curdle. A dribble of the hot milk is added to the yolks and whisked in thoroughly. Then another dribble of milk is added and the process is repeated until the yolk mixture is almost as hot as the steaming hot milk. Once this happens, the yolks may be dumped in the pot with the rest of the milk and cooked until the mixture thickens and coats the back of a spoon.
Once the mixture has hit 180°F and coats the back of a spoon nicely, it is quickly taken off the flame and strained through a fine-mesh sieve, which will catch any lurking protein clumps that may have escaped even the most assiduous stirring. Ideally, it should be strained directly into a container waiting in an ice bath. The ice bath is crucial for this because the ice cream base must be perfectly
chilled before being spun in the ice cream machine, and even in an industrial freezer, it would take forever for this to happen without some help. While our chocolate base chilled in its ice bath, we began to make the caramelized almonds.
Making caramel is another process that seemed like alchemy to me before chef school. Like making ice cream, I didn't understand how necessary some steps are to ensuring the delicious taste and texture of the final product. While I had been making ice cream on my own for years, rarely would I go to the trouble of properly tempering my yolks before adding them to my milk. I also skipped chilling the base down thoroughly before churning, the result being that my ice cream was grainyâfilled with tiny ice crystals that crunched against the teeth and left a strangely empty taste on the tongue. Now I understood that some steps shouldn't be skipped, and some things in the kitchen couldn't be made to rush. Making caramel is very simple, but like making ice cream, attention must be paid, and all the steps must be followed. Chef school was teaching me these steps, but more important, it was teaching me patience. My old habit of rushing through recipes, taking shortcuts whenever possible, began to melt away as I understood that there was a reason for every single step, and that the final product would taste infinitely better if I spent the time to do everything properly, with care. My cooking in Level 1 had improved tremendously in spite of all my fears and uncertainties, and I even mastered caramel. Eventually.
According to Chef, making caramel was easy: Put sugar in a pot. Add enough water to make the sugar like damp sand. Heat. Use a pastry brush to swab down the sides of the pan occasionally with fresh water. Cook until golden brown. To stop the cooking, dip the bottom of the pan into an ice bath. Simple. As I stared down at my small simmering cauldron of sugar water, I felt the familiar urge to rush things bubbling up inside me. Nothing seemed to be happening. I was terrified to turn the flame up higher, but I was sure I was doing something wrong. Where was the golden color? Why wasn't it working?
“Chef!” I called, unable to hold myself back a moment longer. “Chef, something's wrong with my caramel!” Chef Jean dashed over, the thought of burnt caramel, the same temperature and smell of boiling road tar, uppermost in his mind. We regarded my pot of merrily boiling sugar water in silence for a moment.
“Why isn't it working?” I said, trying to keep the sharp edge of frustration, keener than a knife's blade, from my voice.
Chef Jean checked the flame, swabbed down the sides of the pan with cool water, and finally turned to me. His glasses flashed as he shook his head slowly from side to side. I started to squirm, wishing I hadn't called attention to myself, that this last day with Chef Jean would be full of praise, not remonstrations.
“You want everything to go well, to be perfect. Life isn't like that, you know. Fixing your mistakes is an important skill to learn. So is patience. There is nothing wrong with your caramel. Watch, and wait for it. Some things just can't be rushed. See?” Chef showed me the light brown color suddenly fanning out through the boiling sugar.
I rushed to grab the pot off the heat, but Chef slapped my hand away.
“Attends,”
he said. “Just wait.”
The sugar became browner and browner, and I was beginning to panic. It was going to burn! I was never going to learn to do this properly! Then, just when I was beginning to vibrate with impatience, Chef said, “Smell.”
I took a big whiff, and could smell the sugar just going from lily-sweet to being tinged ever so slightly with the pleasantly acrid scent of burning leaves. “Now!” shouted Chef, and I plunged the pot of caramel into the ice water bath, stopping the cooking instantly. The caramel was a gorgeous, mahogany brown, like a perfectly broken-in, vintage leather handbag. I added a big handful of slivered almonds, and poured it all out onto a greased sheet pan to cool.
We each added a bit of our almond toffee to the chilled chocolate base, and got ready to spin the whole thing in the big,
industrial-grade ice cream machine. This was nothing like the hand-crank model I remembered churning as a child. Instead of making ice cream in an hour, this stainless steel beauty would make it in less than ten minutes. There were no sore arm muscles from all that cranking, but there was no ice creamâcoated dasher to lick at the end of the process, either. Some part of me scorned the modern convenience of it, and my Catholic-tinged soul whispered, “It won't taste nearly as good if you didn't suffer for it.”
