I S S U E N 17: TA S T E 37

If the
Parsleys
Yellow Simple food needs perfect f#@king produce. Thats the first
thing I remember that she said to me. I had just started an
externship at the Spotted Pig, April Bloomfields Michelin-
starred gastropub in New York City, and I had no idea what
I was doing.
Id recently graduated culinary dark green sturdy leaves that add tex-
school, where I thought I learned to ture and drama to the plate. I started
cook. I knew about mis en place. I coming early to my unpaid shifts. I
could tell you the five mother sauces. I found space in the dank, crowded base-
knew the smoke point of grape seed oil. ment, to pick carefully through parsley
I thought I learned how to taste, from leaves, while the Mexican prep cooks
all the times we tasted burned beurre gawked and giggled at me.
blanc with plastic spoons. I thought I knew that I had to learn to cook
I knew how to compose a salad. But again. This was a different caliber. I
there I was on the salads station with was a disaster in the kitchen, a well-in-
my hands shaking, flailing around the tentioned, steadfast tornado, with my
kitchen trying to remember my own brain spinning almost as fast as my feet
name. I didnt know anything. April would. Every night was a race against
found a piece of yellow parsley on my the ticket board and a ruthless twelve
station and stopped dinner service be- hours of rookie mistakes. I grabbed a
cause of it. Did you just grab a hand- hot pan from the oven with my bare
ful of parsley from the walk-in and not hands. I burned toast and over-dressed
even look at it? she asked me. I felt like arugula, under-seasoned oranges, re-
KATY SEVERSON a blundering idiot that night. I studied sponded to plating calls when I wasnt
ILLUSTRATIONS BY ADRIANA GALLO her as she showed me what she called nearly ready, and I remember hearing
the cute pieces of parsley, the small constantly, from across the kitchen,
florets from the inside of the plant, the This is a Michelin-starred restaurant.
38
Stop putting sh$%ty f$%king food in
the window. I was learning to be a
line cookto act like one, live like one,
move in the kitchen like oneas much
as I was learning how to cook.
April wasnt there every night, but
when she was, I would cut four avo-
cados before the wedges were clean
enough to plate. She threw my salads
out, sometimes five or six times in a
row, until they were good enough to
send. She looked at me disconcertedly
and made comments like, its really
disappointing to see you like this. She
was a strong, stoic mother that I was
dutifully afraid of and constantly try-
ing to impress. But her tactics were
working. She was teaching me her pal-
ate and techniques, and I was learning
how to taste again, too. The details, I
figured, were crucial. The pigs ear had
to be rich and fatty, crispy, chewy, and
aggressively salty, so that the lemon
vinaigrette would cut through it; the
R E M E DY Q UA RT E R LY
parsley and the bitter greens had to be
bright and at their best; all of the com-
ponents must be lightly and rustically
plated. I was learning that palate, and
trying to imitate it.
It occurred to me that cooking pro-
fessionally is a sport, reliant on hand-
eye coordination, intense focus, and
practice. Learning to taste, in terms
of Aprils expectations, was a matter
of muscle memory. I tasted her food
until my tongue learned to identify it.
It needs a drop of lemon, she told
me, or a little more salt. It needs some
olive oil. Its too acidic and needs that
earthiness from the olive. I adjusted
what shed asked me to until I knew
how to emulate it. Try, taste, adjust,
taste, adjust, taste. I learned to nuance
the flavor of everything I tasted, to ana-
lyze the components of it, in order to
figure out what it needed. I stared at
my hands until they learned it too. Ev-
erything had a balance of salt and fat
I S S U E N 17: TA S T E
She threw my
salads out,
sometimes five
or six times
in a row, until
they were good
enough to send.
and acid. It was pungent and addictive,
rich but always delicate, too.
That was a long learning curve, one
that continued long into the two years
I worked for her. I never got used to
April being in the kitchen. I felt ner-
vous and antsy, retying my apron until
the loop was perfect. But eventually, as
I worked up the line, I learned to apply
her palate to everythingto balsam-
ic-roasted beets, polenta, and lamb
shanks. The rush of the line became
exhilarating to me too, exciting and ad-
dicting. I loved the sound of it, of metal
clanking metal, cheese bubbling, wa-
ter boiling, oven doors opening, spoons
hitting plates, and everyone in unison
yelling yeah. It was loud, energetic,
and cathartic.
April had taught me to be tactile and
personal with food; to experience the
taste, smell, feel, sound, and look of it.
She could listen to chicken livers tense
in the pan and know when it was time
39
to add garlic. She would massage the
lamb legs before braising them, grad-
ing them by size so theyd cook evenly.
When I first started on the grill station,
I asked her how often to flip a burger.
Just flip it when it needs to be flipped,
babe. And finally it made sense to me.
That is what really taught me how to
cook. Paying attention to it, listening to
it, and flipping it when it needs to be
flipped. To cook well, she taught me, is
to know food intimately. To treat it in-
dividually. The skirt on every steer will
be different. A radish will be spicy or
watery, depending on where and how
it grew. Know what it needs from you,
she would say. If the radish isnt spicy,
add chili. If the steak is thin, use high
heat. If the fish is fatty, dont add oil.
And if the parsleys yellow, feed it to
the pigs. R
40 R E M E DY Q UA RT E R LY

MOMS MAC & CHEESE

MAKES 4-6 SERVINGS (DOUBLE, TRIPLE, OR QUADRUPLE AS YOU PLEASE)

This recipe is one of my go-to family meals in the restaurant. Its

adapted from my mothers macaroni & cheese (we called it pony
macaroni as kids), which I still remember as one of the first foods
I truly tasted, and the first meal that made me want eat for more
than sustenance. The smell of the onions cooking in butter still 2 1/2 cups milk Preheat oven to 400 F.

intoxicates me. 1/2 small onion, finely 1. Gently warm milk until hot, avoiding scalding.
chopped 2. Meanwhile, lightly saut onions in butter until
2 Tbsp butter very soft (6-8 minutes), but not brown.
2 Tbsp flour 3. Add the flour and whisk into a roux. Cook for a
few minutes, stirring consistently, to remove the
healthy dash
rawness of the flour.
of nutmeg
4. Slowly add the hot milk into the roux, whisk-
1 fresh thyme sprig,
ing vigorously. Reduce heat to a simmer and
finely chopped
add nutmeg, thyme, bay leaf, & salt and pepper
(you can use dry if
to taste. Keep it at a simmer and stir often. It
necessary)
should be fairly thick and bubbly. Remove the
1 bay leaf bay leaf.
Salt & black pepper 5. Meanwhile, combine the three cheeses in a bowl.
to taste
6. In a baking dish, layer one third of the cooked
1 lb wheel-shaped pasta, one third of the cheese, and one third of
pasta (penne is the sauce (in that order) and repeat 2 more times.
okay too), cooked You should finish with sauce.
al dente
7. Top with breadcrumbs and bake for 20 min-
1 cup sharp cheddar utes or so, until its bubbly, fragrant, & the top is
cheese, shredded slightly brown.
1 cup Monterey Jack Its best to let it sit for 10 minutes, but good luck!
cheese, shredded
(mozzarella is good
too)
1 good handful
parmesan cheese,
grated
bread crumbs to
cover