Friday, September 3, 2010

Nooks and Crannies


On my externship, my summer was not just full of loud, hot kitchens. I was generously given plenty of time off to explore Charleston, South Carolina. I'm not sure if you've ever been, however Charleston is one of the most beautiful cities in the United States.

Charleston was the south's major port, even before the Revolutionary War, and the architecture shows that quite proudly. The residential area of town is full of tall, sea side homes with elaborate hanging gardens, giving Charleston that famous "Southern magnolia" scent all over the city. The city is young, being a college city, and accommodates their students with the various tea shoppes, coffee shops, parks, and snack bars. The streets are swarmed with tourists, business men, and skateboarding spring breakers, always alive with the energy its people provides.

Being a foodie and a college student myself, I fit right in to Charleston, and spent most of my days off roaming the streets discovering the little nooks and crannies about the city.

One of the few coffee houses I found in Charleston was City Lights in between Market and King. City Lights specializes in its coffee but has soda, beer, wines, and various sandwiches and pastries. The original interior of the late 1800s is perfectly persevered on the inside and adorned with large oil contemporary paintings. The floors, booths, walls, and bar are all beautiful, carved wood and the ceiling the familiar floral tiling. The coffee was not the attraction, it was the building.

To my surprise, the reason to the lack of coffee houses was the surplus of tea shoppes. One, that still remains my favorite to this day, is a chain. Teavana has seats, tea related merchandise, and a wall full of bins containing different teas. As you order you can smell these wonderful bins and the varieties. Teavana will make your tea hot, iced, or frozen with additions available like lemon, cream, sugar, and honey. The other tea shoppe did not sell the tea drinkable but had its own wall dedicated to loose leaf teas. The wall was in the very back and the tea kept in glass jars. These jars could be open and smelled. The decor of the building was meant to look like an ancient tea and spice trading port. The floors were scratched wood, the walls stone, and the ceiling high and criss cross with big wooden beams. The other walls were either dedicated to flavored sugars, flavored salts, dried spices, or spice blends. All were kept in the same glass jars that were easy to open for smelling. The salt and sugar jars also came with small wooden spoons to allow you to taste a small scoop of the black truffle salt or the rose hip sugar.

Chocolate shoppes were another primary source for my quickly depleted pay checks. A Belgian chocolate shoppe on Church and Market served homemade truffles (made with Belgian chocolate) and imported Belgian chocolates. Twice I went in to buy truffles and was pleased each time. Once I went in to buy the imported chocolates and before I made it to my car, the chocolates melted into a delicious but undistinguished block. My favorite chocolate shoppe was on King. The chocolates were hand painted and paired in ways that ranged from classic to funky. I had traditional espresso or raspberry but my favorites were passion fruit or blue cheese truffles. The passion fruit was beautifully vibrant and powerful in the truffle while the blue cheese was a hinted undertone that died as soon as you swallowed the chocolaty morsel.

However, my favorite location in Charleston, by far, was the olive oil shop. It was a small room that had a slim door facing King street. The sign blended into the wall and the window beautifully insignificant. As I was dragged in the lighting was low and all the shelves old and wooden. The shelves were laden with medium sized tin barrels with a small description of the olive oil inside. They were separated into groups. Some were classified by the location of the oil, some the traditional flavor (such as basil or garlic), and others were a bit more foreign (chipotle or lime). Another wall had the same tin barrels of balsamic vinegars. Some aged for twelve years, others peach flavored, some pomegranate. Each bin had small cups on the side to taste the oils and vinegars.

The Line


My extern is over and I am back in school and book classes. However, the memory of my extern is ever present. The end of June, The Sanctuary lent me to the Atlantic Room. The Atlantic Room is our sea food restaurant on the resort. At first I was only to help plate for the very hectic banquettes. Steadily I started to return for banquette prep. My responsibilities grew from asking for step by step directions; being drawn out a list; being handed the clip board; being completely in charge of banquette prep; being in charge of prep and appetizers; prep, appetizers, and soup and salad, prep, appetizers, soup and salad, plating; and finally prep, appetizers, soup and salad, plating, and dessert. However, nothing compares to the night I was put on the line.

Funny how memory works, I cannot remember the day for the life of me, but I can clearly remember being told I would be helping the Assistant to the Sous Chef on saute. Saute is a station normally manned by two full time employees, and interns are never allowed on the hot line. Tonight it would just be me and Ryan (Assistant to the Sous Chef). Service starts out slowly giving Ryan plenty of time to explain what dishes are produced by the station and what the dynamics of each plate. A bit overwhelmed, I memorize six dishes, determined to make every single one of these dishes as they came in. In the last forty five minutes of service we receive ninety five tickets (orders).

The speed hit me like lightening running through my veins, only concentrating on what I had been trained to do an hour ago. The entire kitchen was alive with the symphony of clanging pots, fires roaring, and the fryer spitting. I was spinning, ducking, reaching, and swerving, all within perfect choreography that matched the other dancers in the kitchen. No burns, no cuts, only the old fashioned sweat on my brow and smoke in my lungs.

Finally I give another elegant turn and yell "Risotto in the window!" only to be answered by the grill cook with "Nine-thirty! We're done! Service is over! We did it!". My heart sunk. What do you mean service is over? I was just getting started! The adrenaline carried me into cleaning and never met the same force that addicted me to the line the next two times I were to work the bake station.