Humbling Kitchen
-This piece was inspired by my time living in Japan
Housed in a dark unassuming building that one could easily have disregarded as just another shoddy apartment complex, and hidden in the shadow of another larger metropolitan tower. It was a quaint French style fine dining restaurant in Okayama, Japan. The city itself was neither small nor large, neither bustling nor quiet. On slow spring days you could hear the faint rattle of the grains of rice on the stock, elegantly knocking heads, suddenly interrupted by the futuristic hum of the 新幹線 zooming past.
I considered myself particularly bad at the language compared to my other foreign friends, most of whom were language and linguistic majors who happily buried themselves deep in their Japanese dictionaries. I was impatient, the only study I knew was trial by fire. While most planned lofty travels to big metropolitan centers, I chose to simply catch a bus or small train and just walk around until I felt that sense of self-discovery I’d always read about in books.
But no matter how far I travelled or how many intricate hand drawn 朱印 I collected; it was all beginning to just feel too familiar. The day to day was as comfortable as it was back home, and travel was losing its glimmer and I was finding it hard to get lost and adventure. It was then when I remembered one of my old passions. It seemed I had forgotten that I had once made a living inside hot kitchens listening to screaming chefs with aspirations to be much like them. I had set my sights on cooking professionally in Japan.
The modern internet made finding a plethora of fine dining restaurants in cuisines I was familiar with easy. And I had many Japanese friends who helped me polish a well written polite, emails that read, more or less, “please let me work with you, please…please….” Fortunately for me one Chef responded. His name was Kishida. I later found out he had trained under another Chef who had competed in the French competition “Bocuse d'Or” on the Japanese team. Now for most; even within the restaurant world, this wasn’t a well-publicized accomplishment, but to simplify it his Teacher was the Chef equivalent of an Olympic athlete.
Our first meeting was rough… my lack of studying had caught up to me, and my knowledge of “Kitchen French” was just as shaky. I had seemed to have sold him on my baking and pastry abilities and he seemed willing to let me show off my “skills” the next day. And I, being still very wide eyed by his credentials, was very eager to show off. However, my little notebook filled with pages of tried and true recipes was still in another country, and on the way home that day I was beginning to doubt if anything I could whip together could ever hope to impress him. I remembered when we spoke that morning, he emphasized he wasn’t a fan of complex flavors but instead appreciated subtle takes on traditional dishes.
It was ten in the morning the day of my tryout, I didn't exactly have a cooking uniform, so I decided on the next best thing...a suit. In a way I felt like I was going off to a job like everyone else in town. While riding my bike I was remembering how he had told me his restaurant opened for service at around six. And Chef began his preparation for service around two in the afternoon.
I arrived at around 11 and figured I had around three hours to make my dessert. I was nervous but figured I had little to lose. I was going to attempt to make a variation of strawberry shortcake. The plan I had devised was simple, it showed off skill while having a low chance of failure. I was going to make an almond shortbread cookie for the base, macerate some strawberries in some Cointreau and do something with yuzu zest, and top it off with vanilla bean infused whipped cream.
I set about gathering the ingredients that I had bought myself from the supermarket the night after our first meeting, I double checked that I had everything but, didn’t look too closely at what I had brought with me. I was only concerned with gathering the mise en place for the short bread. The short bread was simple enough, but I couldn't find any pastry related tools to smooth it out or shape it. In a short panic having failed to find anything I just used my hands to mold it into a poor attempt of a circle. I figured I'd simply cut it into a nicer shape after baking it. And while that baked, I went to grab the strawberries, “Fuck!” I’d discovered a horrible reality. The strawberries, the star of my show, had on the bike ride over from my apartment, been bruised. All but two strawberries looked awful. I looked toward Chef with worry on my face, but all I saw was him giggling presumably from hearing me swear at strawberries.
Chef had been watching me off and on the whole time while he was working on portioning out some sea bass for that night’s service. His pantry and fridge were full, and well stocked with the finest and freshest of items. I assumed the service that night was going to be heavy from how well prepared he was.
With my strawberries all but ruined I turned what I had into a puree. I placed my two remaining nice strawberries on the counter. They were wrapped up like new born babies waiting to be the star garnish of my dessert. Chef walked by the strawberries, paused, and took one and ate it. I was devastated but did my best to smile and nod at him. As he walked away, I quickly hid the last one in the far back corner of the fridge. My heart was now in pieces, but I knew I had to continue. I took some sugar melted it until molten hot, poured it in a Silicon pad, then using a spoon stretched it so that it was as thin as it would go, before it cooled, then zested the yuzu overtop the sugar to give it a nice citrus hint.
With the shortbread done I cut out two nice 1×1×4-inch logs which I proceeded to hide away from Chef. Right as my hand returned to my side, I noticed Chef had come over from cutting fish, yet again, to help himself to the cut off bits of shortbread, I was relived he liked it but I was also relived he didn’t eat the logs I had shaped. He ate a good amount but made no comment apart from, “mmm and mhmmm”. He was so calm and collective and had an extremely nice and gentle demeanor about him which was almost silly. And yet I felt so on edge, I felt like I could have done more but at the same time I couldn’t help but remember his comments about simple. My heart was on ice on what he might think.
The strawberry puree was thick enough to hold its shape leaving various sized red beads all over the plate and logs. The logs were stacked like two sticks in a fire pit. And shards of citrus infused sugar glass were placed artfully across the plate. And to finish, I took a small spoon and made a quenelle of whipped cream and placed it on top just barely balancing on the highest corner of the log. Chef looked at it, took a picture and quickly began ripping into it with a spoon. Each clash of spoon on plate was like a knife poking at a balloon filled with anticipation.
He finished eating and simply said, “I like it but it's not something we'd serve here.” Continuing to chew he then said, “It is too big, too much food.” It was a letdown, but he did seem pleased with my skills and my attempt. He asked if I wanted to do a short apprenticeship to learn what I could from him but wanted me to wait before I gave my answer. He told me to watch service to see what I thought and if I was still interested, to give him my answer then.
Before service started Chef showed me a four by four-foot spot that was a good place to observe while also staying out of the way. Service was only about an hour away, so I had only a little time to relax. I chose to sit on a milk crate in the back and surf my phone for a bit.
Service began and I quickly realized my spot was not only a great spot to observe but also a spot that trapped me on the kitchen line blocked in by Chef. I was stuck and unless he gave me a way out, I wasn’t leaving that restaurant. The head waitress arrived and quickly gave a rundown of the guests for that evening. I ended up being wrong, what I thought was going to be a packed night ended up being only two tables totaling little more than six customers.
I figured it wouldn’t be more then two or three hours then I could say my goodbyes and look forward to the following days of my apprenticeship. I had assumed he didn’t have much help from the size of the kitchen, but I had expected to see at least one other cook walking in when service started but I didn’t. The first order came in and it was read so fast that I, to be honest, missed the majority of the message. Since I was dressed in a suit, I was quickly drafted by the head waitress; who ended up being the only waitress, to fill water, serve the plates, and clear the table after courses. I was glad to be free of my little box, but somehow despite having had crossed by the chef every time I went to help. I somehow managed to always return to my spot without fully realizing it. This was fine until I noticed my feet, also in dress shoes, started to ache. I checked my watch and discovered it was now Ten at night and the last table was only now ordering their meal.
I was horrified to realize that I had been there for eleven hours. I realized I needed to start making my move toward the door. My attempts to flee were cut off by the head waitress with the last order in hand. In my four by four foot imaginary prison I awaited. Sweat on my brow, a towel still cleanly folded hung on my apron straps. I waited for those magic words that would free me. “Un menu Terroir; Amuse Amai, Viande Buta Kakuni. Un menu Chef; Entree foie gras Cuisine, Poisson Tai.” An order spoken swiftly without mistake in a chorus of broken French and finely mangled Japanese. This time I caught it all. And I knew that helping the Chef finish this order was my ticket out of there. Also, I knew if I didn’t walk out having impressed him, he wouldn’t be as willing to train me. These noble thoughts were all good in theory. But in practice I was exhausted. Everything from my toes to my lower back felt like they were being stabbed by hot glass, dress shoes were a surprisingly bad choice. The Chef wasn’t overly willing to except help, but I was able to bring him some ingredients from the fridge, finished a few of his sauces, and flip a few scallops here and there. By the time the last main dish was being plated he even had me put the finishing garnishes and sauces on the plate.
Service was done and it was practically midnight, but I was happy knowing I was at least free to rest the next day. However, Chef wasn’t done, he still had a restaurant to clean up and I am sure he was prepared for another two hours of work, but he seemed un-phased and almost pleased with the task at hand. Before I departed, he gave me a firm handshake, a smile, and thanked me very much for my help. He said he looked forward to the next time and I said I did too. It seemed by staying the entire night I had accepted his offer without having to exchange words. I had spent in all 13 hours in a restaurant working a job for which I expected no pay, no outside recognition, and all simply for the opportunity to learn more about food. As I walked outside past the moon shadow cast by the scaffolding the aches and pains seemed to just blow away in the midnight breeze. I felt like I had once again found that sense of myself, albeit I had also found a new form of foot pain.