composing a dinner
a wild haired conductor, long suit vents drafting towards the back of his knees, raises his posed hands, asserts his posture, and swoops them downwards in an arch, enlisting the sudden BOOM of the timpani. with ever more dramatic gestures he signals the horns, and the strings, and the winds to bob and weave, crescendo and back, accent and muffle—the sum becomes greater, and the mechanics of each part melts away into harmonious unison. and here, in the front row, you see the conductor, and are aware of his calls and signals, yet the swiftness and precision of the players fills you with an overwhelming sense of awe.
these are the thoughts of my first week running food in the culinary barn, blackberry farm’s formal evening dinner venue.
what’s amazing about this week, in so far as it relates to my personal career timeline, is that twice in one week I found myself thrust into quite formidable culinary and service performances for the first day on the job. first, in napa, I found my first day ever setting foot to work in a professional kitchen taking place at a fantastically high quality dinner in honor of the james beard house despite even a minute of formal culinary training.
and now secondly, as I returned for my first week of work in the culinary barn, I find myself serving food to upper crust clients, with extremely high expectations, in one of the most polished and highest caliber restaurants in the world, depsite never setting foot to work in a single other restaurant--ever.
while somewhat surprising, as it reads on the page, the experience of living it has felt rather plain. despite the foreign context, and the added pressure of a watchful audience, the tools required to execute in the barn feel quite similar to those required just three years prior on the floor of the new york stock exchange.
first, and most superficially, it requires the ability to stand at attention in dress shoes and dress suit on hardwood floors for eight to ten hours. not a simple task in itself. it requires heightened awareness, sharp focus, quick wits, and decisive problem solving. it requires creativity, extreme attention to detail, and the ability to service customers at the highest level.
I recall on my first day on the floor, fresh out of college, a particularly unhandsome and foul-mouthed coworker of mine gave me the following insight: “basically I have the skills of a waitress. I have to multi task, at a fast pace, on a lot of tables, without fucking up.” at the time, with no other work experience to compare it to, I couldn’t imagine that the chaotic and ethereal world of financial markets would feel anything like food service.
but he was right; the tools in the box are the same, only the setting has shifted. if “food running” does not sound like a difficult task, I should clarify what I mean.
this isn’t the local diner. a disheveled and disgruntled server doesn’t lean on your table to take your order in between snapping her gum. a tray of food doesn’t get carried on a shoulder to your table, to be dropped with a “uuuuh, who got the chicken?”
my uniform, as a food runner, is a dark suit—black belt, and polished black shoes. white shirt and an appropriate tie. shaved face, conservatively groomed hair, and sideburns that don’t extend below my ear lobe. a gold plated nametag, and lapel pin to match.
teams of two lead the charge on individual tables. between five and ten courses, each with different plates, and silverwares, and often with different wines selected to perfectly accompany the foods, are served by full teams of food runner. food is prepared by the chef and his team, and arranged in seat order at the pass. each server can carry three plates, and three plates only. a table of twelve, therefore, requires four sets of hands to deliver each and every course. plates are picked up in reverse order, so that as they unstack from my grasp they will be delivered in a proper sequence. servers, locking eyes, deliver the dishes in unison with each others’ coordinated descents. each dish is presented with a full description of its’ components, from a rolodex of dishes that shift every single night. all allergies and dietary preferences are recorded well in advance of the guest’s arrival, and the necessary changes are accounted for with little to no mention to the customer.
each night before service I spend about an hour memorizing the night’s menu. in between ironing table cloths, polishing silver, cleaning glass lanterns, or arranging dishes and silvers on the tables—all a thumbnail from the edge, all in specific places and orientations—servers make themselves familiar with fifteen or twenty unique dishes and desserts to be presented over multi hour dinners.
m’am, for you, the sumac dusted painted hills hangar steak and short rib with roasted beets, chanterelle mushrooms, and spinach puree. sir, for you, the west wind farms mushroom stuffed chicken breast with grit and trefoil custard, hen of the woods mushrooms, and pole beans.
for the table, a gift from the chef to begin tonight’s service, a fried oyster mushroom with caviar dressing.
each dish has a handful of accompanying adjectives and descriptors, often with off-menu substitutions. each dish is delivered with elegant precision, straight from the chef to the recipient, always from the right, and always clockwise around the table—even if it involves circling the entire length before making a drop.
working nights—a necessity of the industry—is also new to me. I’ve had a long standing rule: if it’s pm, and there’s four numbers on the clock—I’m asleep. and as as a farmer, where the work is so pinned to daylight and temperature, it is only natural to sleep when it’s dark and work when it’s light. with shifts ending close to midnight on most night’s of the week, a feeling of jet lag and tiredness has been marking my days.
as my first six days on the floor come to an end, and a much ready two days’ rest awaits me, I find myself enlightened and sore footed after my first week in the barn. it leaves me with all sorts of unanswered questions for the future as we discover how to provide a similar level of service in a much different setting and scale.
I'm High On Cooking
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