Herb of Your Choice

All characters and interests are drawn to a culinary school. Today never proved to be more true. One of my out of kitchen classes is Interpersonal Communication and in such a class we were instructed to give public speeches on anything that sparks our interest as long as it has to do with food. Each student, whether full of confidence or terror, approaches the front of the room to immerse the class into all the different possibilities this field offers. I, myself, spoke on food writing. Other topics included fermentation, sustainability, economic commerce, environmentally concious design, coffee, and many more. My favorite, however, could not be topped.

A young man in his mid to late twenties swaggered up to the front of the class with a box clutched to his chest. He had an arrogant smile played on his face as he introduced his topic. It was interesting, I do admit. This "tool" could specialty bought for several hundred dollars, or you can make it yourself for about $300. He explained that by taking a common found power tool (I couldn't tell you if my life depended on it) and a few simple attachments you could make a vaporizer. In this vaporizer, he explained, you could put your "herb of choice" into the attachment- a beautiful ironic foreshadowing- and as the tool runs it is then vaporized into thin air and captured into a second attachment that included a plastic bag and a valve.

I had seen ideas of this done before to where a scent was captured into a plastic pillow under a heavy plate in molecular gastronomic restaurants and punctured by a waiter to waft up to the customer's nose, capturing his palate before he even touched his food. Beautiful idea, taken very, very wrong.

As this young man ground up cinnamon in his "vaporizer" and captured it in the bag, his audience-captured and stunned- asked to smell the "cinnamon air". His grin got broader, knowing his presentation was a hit, and informed that chef would get the first puff of "cinnamon air" With a pump to the valve, visible vapor dispersed into the air all around chef's head. He then proceeded to give the rest of the class the pleasure of the oh-so-awaited vaporized cinnamon.

The smell was not that of cinnamon. It was blatantly, without question, marijuana.

Chef ended the session with the closing statement: "When I was younger, we had bongs."

In the Weeds

Comming to the CIA, I've heard this "in the weeds" infamously whispered through its walls without the pleasure of experiencing such a place. Luckily this experience happened in several days through the course of my educational career.

The first day "in the weeds" was about my fourth day in skills 3. It was sauteed chicken with fines herbs sauce (a splendid dish that is very popular among the students in the culinary). We were doing a flawless job with prep, however...the a la minute (at the last moment) of firing the dish where we put the beautifully seared chicken in the over to finish we met disaster. Communication struggled and chicken was not put in the oven putting our plate's main protein on a standby. This is where I got my first addicting taste of the hot line. I was thrown on the hot line, away from plating, to finish the sauce (made from the fond of the pan, white wine, glace de volaille, and heavy cream). I, quite literally, had two saute pans (one in each hand) swirling on the stove top to deglaze the bottom. In the end, we got every single plate out the door- to some, not exactly happy, customers. However, the adrenaline rush was still fresh and exuberant in my blood stream.

Several more, not so wonderful, weedy experiences have happened since but today, today the weeds called for a casualty. This time I was in Cuisines of the Americas and where we once had 2 groups on 1 dish, we have 1 group working on one dish, and before we had 4 bodies to a group, we are lucky to have 3. Our dish today was shrimp etouffee, white rice, green beans, and stuffed mirliton. The amount of prep we had was enough to intimidate most. At demo, 30 minutes before service, chef tastes our etouffee to explain to us that the dish is inedible (too much white pepper, a seasoning I find revolting in taste and smell and think should never be used in a product that will be anywhere near humans) and the only way to correct this is to completely remake the etoufee. The shrimp etoufee takes 30 minutes to cook, without prep. As we dash to gather ingredients and cutting boards, my mind divides the work, and I grab the bell peppers to make the oh-so-loved holy trinity. To mince 2 pounds of bell peppers is something I find difficult but necessary and start-pardon my French- hauling ass like I've never hauled before. In this infestation of weeds I feel a all-to-familiar pressure on my left middle finger, swear quite loudly, and run to the paper towels. I wrap my finger, apply pressure, and inform the chef I need to go to the nurse all before the pain sets in (on the bright side, it was a good sign my knife was sharp). In the nurses' office I discovered several things. The CIA has toughened my skin so much that I did not cry (about passed out as I watched the mixture of blood and hydrogen peroxide foam over my hand). After I was wrapped up I returned to finish the hectic prep work and we open on time.

Today's shinning moment, however, was in the middle of lecture I looked down at my right hand and was proud to notice that a callus was forming on the palm of my hand in between my thumb and pointer finger. An accomplishment I have been waiting for ever since a chef I worked with back at home told me it was a mark of a serious chef.