Craft, Cooks, and Kitchen Culture

Michael Laiskonis

Cuisine or Death: A Story

The last decade has offered up much print to gritty, tell-all tales of the professional kitchen, whether from the perspective of a restaurant lifer like Anthony Bourdain, to Michael Ruhlman and Bill Buford, outsiders who felt compelled to jump into the fire, to any number of fly-on-the-wall accounts of heat, stress, sharp objects, and usually, a quest for elusive perfection. Add to that the phenomena of reality cooking shows, coffee-table cookbooks, and foodie blogs, and we find ourselves in a culture- or at least a sizable segment of it- obsessed with what we eat and how it gets onto the plate. Were barraged with the notion of food porn, and even if its reduced to sheer entertainment, the craft of cooking itself is portrayed as sexy, both an athletic endeavor and a high art.

You have to be so earnestly devoted that if you were any more devoted it would be perverse, and any less, it would not be enough. Charlie Trotter, Becoming a Chef We're all commis, we're all still learning. Marco Pierre White, White Heat

It must have been 1999 or 2000, early on in my first stint as a pastry chef. I had landed in the kitchen of a big fish restaurant, stuck in the little pond of the suburban Midwest. As cooks, we were conscious of the fact that we were basking in a culinary oasis within a relatively utilitarian food culture. We had each muscled our way into the kitchen brigade for the career-changing opportunity to work alongside its chef, and that alone inspired enthusiasm and, to be honest, no small measure of conceit. Most of us had little training or experience under our belts, but we all found ourselves thrust into a world where the ingredients and techniques we once only read about were a daily reality. Wed made it.

In my direct charge were two young and dedicated assistants. What novice cooks lack in skill and maturity, they often make up for with their passion, a willingness to learn, and, quite frankly, the energy and stamina of youth. While our civilian friends played, we worked, often exceeding 12 hours a day. The kitchen has a way of creating its own insular culture and social network- not surprising given the time cooks spend with their co-workers. And in our fleeting moments of downtime, our equivalent of water-cooler conversation rarely drifted into talk of last nights game or television or current events, but rather stayed on point with regard to food. We discussed our last meal at another restaurant or what we cooked at home; we debated and argued endlessly over techniques and ingredients, or which celebrity chef was more talented than the other. We swapped dog-eared magazines and cookbooks as if they were rare and precious manuscripts, or in reality, like vintage comics or baseball cards. In short, we were caffeine-fueled and adrenaline-charged geeks. I dont recall the exact moment, or the situation that spurred the idea, but it must have evolved after Anthony, one of my underlings, began complaining about a headache or an upset stomach. While the straight world honors the vague concept of sick leave and days off, the kitchen, at least in practice, demands a higher threshold of discomfort. Unless hospitalization is required or theres risk of making other people ill, you simply suck it up and endure the rest of the shift. As empathy and encouragement, I uttered to my assistant, You know, its not Cuisine or I Have a Headache, its Cuisine or Death. We, of course, erupted into laughter, and Anthony soldiered on through dinner service. But the concept of Cuisine or Death gained traction and became our personal rallying cry, or at least an inside joke. Over the following weeks, wed imagined and strategized a movement around the motto. To us, C.O.D. became a state of mind, but also a guerilla tactic, to combat bad cuisine and inferior technique, or lack of professional commitment. In our sillier moments, we theorized manifestoes, plotted culinary sabotage; we designed stickers for our knife cases and a line of uniforms emblazoned with tiny skull-and-crossbone patterns. We even debated the idea of tattoos to brand those worthy enough to gain entry to our secret society. One morning, my second assistant Aaron showed up with a poster-sized rendering of Cuisine or Death for our station, appropriately scripted in old English font, an homage to the dictionary definition of the word finesse that famously hangs above the kitchen door at Thomas Kellers French Laundry. But despite the tongue-in-cheek nature of our newfound ideology, we did indeed become all the more intense and passionate in our daily work. We were akin to the strictest order of monks, perpetually humbling ourselves by muttering a phrase borrowed from the maniacal British chef Marco Pierre White, Were all commis, referring to the lowliest rung of the traditional kitchen ladder. Perhaps we were channeling a yet-to-be published Kitchen Confidential, and had the persona of Gordon Ramsey been more than just gossip from across the pond at the time, he may just have been the patron saint of our self-styled guild.

Despite the aggressive elements of militarism and frat-boy antics, I still quietly adhere to the spirit of the Cuisine or Death code. Though it was fun, the bravado wasnt the point, but rather the realization and confirmation that we were a tribe of craftsmen, that we were part of something special and unique. A decade has passed since those nave days, yet there will always be young, fresh-faced cooks, and I now find myself a relative old sage in the restaurant world. To this day, Ill occasionally extract a knowing smile from a harried cook as I urge them on with a whispered, C.O.D.. I also have the satisfaction of a continuing legacy of sorts, as those first apprentices- and the several that have followed- continue to hone their skills, now as chefs in their own right. Recently reconnecting with Aaron, I was tickled that he, too, still carried the memory in the most permanent way- a small tattoo on his wrist: in the same old English lettering, the single word, commis.

Kitchen Culture: Structure But what is it that propels the fundamental act of cooking and eating from daily sustenance into the realm of the professional fanaticism that might inspire Cuisine or Death? For most, cooking at home is a necessary means to end, devoid of any art, let alone glamour. Celebrity chefs are revered, yet foodservice in general is still considered an entry level job, or transitional work- a side-step to endure while pursuing a more respectable career path. True, much of professional cooking lies within the large gulf between the corner deli and the temples of haute cuisine, with varying levels of requisite skill and passion; the respect and romanticism afforded to it are thus doled out proportionately. Yet as a culture, there are constants universally understood among its practitioners; though the delicious results are appreciated by outsiders, the underlying mechanics often remain foreign to them.

To understand the running of a professional kitchen is to visualize a complex culinary systems theory, to speculate how one good or bad decision can affect all of the other moving parts. The century-old kitchen structure codified by Auguste Escoffier, and still practiced today, evokes the blueprints for a battle scenario: a brigade, Chef (always referred to as Chef- rarely by his or her given name) as general at the helm, with captains, various specialists, and foot soldiers branching out beneath, stationed along the line, dug in for their shift as if occupying a heavily fortified trench. In many cases, uniforms still remain an indicator of rank. Well understood strategies are mapped out in advance; in heat of service, tactics become more fluid by necessity. Orders are called out, and followed in confidence, fear, and eagerness to please. There is a strict operational code, and teamwork is essential, but there is little room for niceties when under fire. In the inevitable rush of battle, where the seemingly disparate notions of speed and perfection count equally, the weak links are exposed bare, creating a culture of nightly survival. Interestingly, in a theater dependant on so many small victories and potential defeats, each day begins anew; previous blunders are learned from but never dwelled upon. The kitchen is often a noisy place. It takes a fair amount of experience and prolonged immersion in such an environment to truly hear whats happening, to parse the static of conversation, the hum of equipment and clanging of pots, the punctuated yells. A degree of sensory overload can overcome you; I find the less I add to the cacophony, the better I am at processing all that information. Being quiet allows one to feel the underlying rhythm of the kitchen. And, of course, the less energy the cook projects outward, the more he or she can harness that energy and focus it inward. Rather than release it into the air, we ultimately try to put that energy onto the plate. In the process, we become all the more connected to the work at hand. In seasoned veterans, the act of cooking is hardwired into our being, a second nature that links the mental and the physical, manifesting itself as form of meditation, perhaps even a shift into right brain mode, where time and space become fluid. Given the slightly militaristic mood of high-end restaurants, that there are frayed nerves and occasional verbal abuse probably comes as no great shock. Of course there are the tired, clichd conflicts between front and back of house, but also the discipline handed down the chain of command in the kitchen hierarchy, from the chef all the way to the lowliest commis. I didn't come up through the ranks of a particularly rough environment, but those who have often wear that experience like a badge, or sometimes, like a barely healed scar. With time and distance, the stories of temper tantrums become the thing of legend, and can even be entertaining, though I'm sure that at the time, the teller of said story was not laughing. That fierce style is often inherited by those chefs who endured it; for others, they may have felt enough humiliation to know that they would never care to inflict it on a new generation of cooks and waiters. Perhaps such ego comes with many skilled professions, resulting from the fruits of labor being pushed to center stage, as a representation of the craftsman himself. Restaurant work isnt brain surgery, but much depends on someones dinner. Chefs develop a thick skin as a defense mechanism, but the self-imposed pursuit of perfection is stronger than

that demanded by the diner. Id like to think that beneath the surface of all this apparent tension there lies a humility to compensate for the brash, outward Ramsey-esque bullishness. Its a conceit that tempers with maturity, as chefs realize that they are students for life, that their craft is bigger than the place they occupy within it. In those that can withstand the daily pressures, the passion deepens, or rather it becomes finely woven into the fabric of their being. Cooking is not so much a job as it is a lifestyle. The cooks that will persevere learn early on that their successes will rarely yield monetary wealth, but more spiritual rewards- the connection to their products, the deepened understanding of the processes of cooking, and ultimately, the satisfaction of those they cook for. Theres no way to quantify it, but happy cooks, those who are aware of this self-enlightenment beyond the fundamental skills, just might make better tasting food.

The Social Aspect of Cooking Of course, cooking is a very social act indeed. Though were ultimately tied to the material objects we create, were also engaging those who consume them. Beyond mere deliciousness, chefs are in a unique position, able to tap the emotions through all five senses. Perhaps the most powerful of those emotions is nostalgia. Each time we execute a particular dish, we calling upon our own history: when we first tasted it, from whom we learned it to make it, the memory of the proportions and processes. Its a sum total of experience that may appear intuitive on the surface, but in reality couldnt exist without all of those minute considerations. Whether performing a classic technique or creating something personal and inventive, one also feels a distinct connection to cooks past- the nostalgia of others- as well as the potential for new memories formed by the cooks around you.

At heart, all chefs harbor a genuine spirit of generosity; after all, its no fun to cook without someone there to share the results. Few professions offer the reward of instant feedback, let alone the implicit intimacy involved with consuming anothers handiwork. But just as the cook strives to infuse a dish with intention and personal experience, the diner also brings their own set of memories and preconceptions to the table. In essence, the act of cooking paired with the act of eating results in a dialog that transcends the mere verbal. In my own experience, on both sides of the kitchen door, there are few words that adequately convey the pleasures of gastronomy. Deep social bonds exist within the kitchen as well. Im certain that shared experience forms a collective memory perhaps more vivid than that which we commit individually. Theres a colloquial language that would mystify outsiders, but also physical marks that only cooks would know to recognize each other: the raised callous at the base of the index finger, the contact point of a well balanced chefs knife. The clean, linear burn scars on a cooks forearm- too close encounters with a hot pan or oven rack- are a dead giveaway of time in a professional kitchen. As I ride the subway out of midtown Manhattan late every night, I swear I can spot the hat-head of a cook among my fellow passengers, knowing that hundreds of others like me are pouring out of dozens of neighboring restaurants at that hour. The unconventional hours also create a kind of subsociety, identified with sleeping in late, and a weekend that consists of, well, a Monday. As a result, those in the industry tend to socialize with each other. Ever gone out drinking with a bunch of cooks? More often than not, the conversation never strays far from shoptalk, centered on chef worship, tool fetish, or particular tales of heroism or defeat, instant legends of events that happened just hours before. Introduce two cooks whove never met, and the commonality of their work would surely guarantee fodder for exchange.

Adapt, Improvise, Overcome

Success is the sum of a lot of small things correctly done. Fernand Point, Ma Gastronomie

Years after the birth of Cuisine or Death, I still hold the idea close; in fact the phrase continues to inform and justify my work, my goals, and, in the end, my choice of a career- a lifestyle dedicated to the craft of cooking. More recently, Ive added an addendum to that creed, one that adds another dimension to what I see as the evolution of a chefs skills. One evening during dinner service, Leo, one of Le Bernardins sous chefs, overheard my telling of the C.O.D. story. Ive have something similar, he said later, but I always used the saying, Adapt, Improvise, and Overcome. I immediately adopted it, like Leo had, as inspiration to confront an immediate challenge or hardship, finding solace in one of those three words. One can shift gears in response to a situation, work around it, or simply push through the obstacle at hand. Perhaps less poetic or emphatic as or Death, but its far more useful as a training tool. In thinking of the meaning and power behind craftsmanship, Ive come to realize how each of those words- adapt, improvise, overcome- symbolize distinct stages in development, marking key points in a cooks training. In my mind, one cant progress to the next level without successfully mastering the last. Knowledge, in any craft, is cumulative in nature, and exponential in its possible effects. Only through rote mastery of fundamentals, followed by repetitive practice, can a craftsman- a cook, musician, or architect- approach anything resembling inspired creativity, or in other words, art. Cooking, at least on a certain level and among the food-obsessed, often finds itself mired in the debate of art versus craft. Without a base of solid skills, creativity is meaningless, yet it's through experience and informed experimentation (and developments in science and technology) that we stumble upon new techniques. Good food is indeed the result of many tiny accomplishments, some we can see immediately, and others that take years to germinate.

Learning to Adapt
The surgeons judgment is simultaneously technical and deliberative, and that mix is the source of its power. Matthew B. Crawford, Shopclass as Soulcraft, The New Atlantis, Summer 2006

Despite the wisdom and efforts of countless recipe writers, there is no true cooking-bynumbers, and in the theater of the kitchen, the script serves merely as a guideline, subject to a perpetual series of re-writes. As problem-solvers, chefs work in a laboratory dictated by the variability of nature and its produce, yet also within the strict parameters of chemistry and physics. Such duality- the ever-changing and the constant- lead to a very practical, pragmatic view of the world. It is what it is, were fond of saying, but theres still a full dining room to be served, so we must make the best of it. The first lessons of an apprentice typically focus on identifying quality: that is a good carrot, this is how one holds a knife, this is what the sauce should taste like. Such crucial observation comprise a cooks initial years in the kitchen. Until such rules have been ingrained into common sense, cooks are rarely given much opportunity to think for themselves. These basics are further reinforced by the repetitive act; the anomaly is easier to identify with frequency. And the best students turn these tasks from mere chores into exploring a connection with the product or the method. The fish butcher will inevitably come to ponder the anatomy of the fish, and later, the effectiveness of his technique and how he may be able to do the job faster, better. The pastry cook will learn, through endless trial and error, and through constant tasting, just the right color of her caramel sauce, and by extension, the proper pan, the right level of heat. Eventually, shell better understand the process by investigating the chemical properties of sugar and how best to harness them.

Early training, then, is quite myopic, its scope limited to the detail rather than the big picture, the building blocks before the greater structure. Its with these basic skills of identification, of focus, that we are able to notice a problem or variation exists in the first place. Furthermore, through concentration and repetition, the cook learns discipline. Vigilance and attention to detail are the only barriers dividing success from failure. By doing one thing over and over, one becomes acutely aware of the ramifications one small mistake can have when allowed to pass onto the next step of a lengthy process. Adaptation, therefore, is the reward for good judgment skills; understanding what quality is and how to achieve it will inform the proper adjustment with regard to ingredient or technique.

Improvisation and Intuition

The discovery of a new dish does more for human happiness than the discovery of a new star. Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, La Physiologie du Gout

If the first stage of a cooks journey steers the student through those fixed, immovable tenants of the craft, perhaps the second allows for an intellectual connection between the head and the hands, and between one product or process and another. If we gain confidence through learning how to adapt, surely improvisation teaches us how to be intuitive cooks, able to predict an outcome without ever before tasting it. A strong grasp of fundamentals frees the cook of fear in the face of experimentation, or better yet, it arms him with the mystic ability to mold a dish into something that is greater than the sum of its parts. While cooking, as a practice, continues to preserve tradition and established methods and flavor combinations, chefs have a built-in curiosity of the new. They are students for life, constantly searching for new ingredients and new technology. Chefs seek not only to create new dishes with such techniques, but also to make the old dishes better and to do

so more efficiently. Rather than leave well enough alone, most chefs see opportunity in taking something that isnt broken, and breaking it just to see what happens. Though purists and culinary luddites exist, there is no small amount of pressure- from the dining public and from peers- to innovate. Modern professional cooking is not unlike the medieval guild system, whose structure was built upon the hierarchy of apprentice, journeyman, and master. Cooks in the second tier of development, learning the skills of improvisation and intuition, are indeed contemporary journeymen, working short stints under various chefs, who often represent different styles of cuisine. With some fundamental experience behind them, they move around from kitchen to kitchen to absorb the broadest range of skills possible, in pursuit of finding their own voice as a cook. Short-term commitments, or stages, in the form of unpaid positions lasting from a day to several months, are common among the most ambitious of them. Unlike most professions, a lengthy and colorful resume is an aspiring chefs golden ticket. Like artists in training, cooks often express their budding talents by copying the masters. Such mimicry is in part an homage to their culinary idols, but also an exercise the cook can use to get inside the masters head, to better understand the subtleties of seasoning and layering of flavors and textures. All cooks carry with them their collective experience, and it can be revealing to see how it that sum total manifests itself into their own personal style. There could never be a neat and tidy genealogy of the great chefs and their disciples; its branches would intertwine and abruptly break off into a confusing bramble of cross-pollinated styles and influence. But like evolutionary mutation, styles meld and the strongest survive to forge a cuisine that continues to develop with each generation of cooks.

To Overcome: Being a Good Chef is More Than Just Being a Great Cook
When you acknowledge, as you must, that there is no such thing as perfect food, only the idea of it, then the real reason of striving for perfection becomes clear: to make people happy. Thats what cooking is all about. But to give pleasure, you have to take pleasure yourself. For me, its the satisfaction of cooking everyday: tourning a carrot, or cutting salmon, or portioning foie gras- the mechanical jobs I do daily, year after year. This is the great challenge: to maintain passion for the everyday routine and the endlessly repeated act, to derive deep gratification from the mundane. Thomas Keller, The French Laundry Cookbook

A cook and a chef are different entities. Chef is a title. A chef can be good or bad or everything in between Chef denotes a job. But when you are a cook, that is who you are. Its your spine and your soul. It suffuses all that you touch. Eric Ripert, A Return to Cooking

The third phase of a cooks evolution is perhaps the least tangible, because its somewhat personal and spiritual in nature, based on qualities that exceed mere cooking skill. I often admit that each chef that I trained under taught me different aspects of the craft- from one I learned the fundamentals, another taught me the importance of discipline, and yet another instilled a precision and attention to detail- but from each I learned the one lesson that being a good chef is more than just being a great cook. The master, the good chef, recognizes the responsibility to give back to the craft, and the importance of fostering it by inspiring others, by maintaining its integrity both in and out of the kitchen. On the path toward becoming a master of the craft, many fall away, or remain in a career limbo. At any point in that trajectory, the ability to persevere drifts away. For many cooks, the passion fades and cooking becomes the job they punch into and out from. Some simply burn out from performing the long hours for little pay. Others tire of the isolation from friends and family and seek a normal schedule with less physical and

mental stress. There may be certain character traits that best match the demands of being a chef- those that thrive on the constant sense of urgency, the pleasures of manual monotony- that often result in the most humble of rewards. In my experience, Ive encountered few who are able to learn that discipline on the job. Most seem to be born waiting for it. For those who do overcome the obstacles, there is an inherent responsibility that comes with knowledge and experience: the duty to share. Chefs today are public authorities, media figures, fundraisers, and politicians, but their most important role remains locked in the traditional mentor-apprentice relationship, the one-on-one interaction and exchange of ideas and techniques. Cooks who keep secrets likely die with them, which is of little service to anyone. With the advent of the internet, the chefs community has become quite a small world. Where once we worked in isolation, there is now a flurry of exchange that continues to propel culinary progress exponentially, inspiring more to take part. And that can be the most rewarding aspect of being a chef- being able to help others, but also being humble enough to ask advice of them, too.

Over the years, Ive found that my professional life has greatly shaped my perspective of 'civilian' life as well. Cooking has given me a measure of self-confidence, not to mention skills with management (of both time and people) and being able to think quickly on my feet. But Ive also found an inner peace, a mellowness to my disposition that I credit to my job. Sure, the pace of restaurant work and the hectic nature of living in New York City certainly breed a distinct strain of impatience. I still get annoyed with crowded subway trains, and clogged sidewalks full of people who are far too slow and have no idea where they are going in the first place. But the stress I voluntarily sign up for, the rush that makes up most of my waking moments, has taught me not to sweat the small stuff. And as our short-attention-span society becomes ever more obsessed with instant gratification, I've learned to appreciate the random quiet moments, perhaps more than most.

I don't mean this in some sort of conceited way, but I find the problems and frustrations of the straight person's 9-to-5 world amusing. I can't imagine ever complaining about something so trivial as the weather. I can't remember the last time I was ever actually bored. I have no concept of what it's like to be a 'clockwatcher'. And when someone says they're too 'busy' to do this or that, I just smile and nod sympathetically, though I may be howling with maniacal laughter on the inside. The sight of a perfectly crusted loaf of bread, the smell of warm madeleines, or the creamy texture of freshly spun ice cream- these are all I truly need to realize that the lifelong dedication to hard work has been worth it. Perhaps I chose cuisine, or it somehow chose me; either way, everything else that falls just short of life-and-death, is indeed a piece of cake.

Recommended Reading
Bourdain, Anthony. Kitchen Confidential. New York: Harper Perennial, 2001. Brillat-Savarin, Jean-Anthelme. The Physiology of Taste. New York: Penguin Classics, 1994. Buford, Bill. Heat. New York: Knopf, 2006. Crawford, Matthew B. Shop Class as Soulcraft. New York: Penquin, 2009. Dornenburg, Andrew. Becoming a Chef. New York: Van Nostrand Reinhold, 1995. Escoffier The Complete Guide to the Art of Modern Cookery. New York: Wiley, 1983. Keller, Thomas. The French Laundry Cookbook. New York: Artisan, 1999. Point, Fernand. Ma Gastronomie. New York: Xs Books, 1989. Ripert, Eric, and Michael Ruhlman. A Return to Cooking. New York: Artisan, 2002. Ruhlman, Michael. Soul of a Chef. New York: Viking Adult, 2000. White, Marco Pierre. White Heat. Hockessin: Mitchell Beazley, 1999.