Comfortable

I'm not saying this to shake you up
I'm just saying this to wake you up
Its all good when we making love
All I ask is dont take our love
for granted, its granted
My love for you is real
Baby if you don't love me somebody else will
So baby girl don't you ever get too comfortable

So sayeth the all-too-wise Lil' Wayne in his track, "Comfortable".

(Yes, I just quoted Lil' Wayne. Stay with me here.)

Anyone who knows me reasonably well knows I have a place in my heart (and on my iPod) for so-bad-it's-good pop rap, and Lil' Wayne made it into the rotation about a month ago. I'll be sitting on the bus listening to this track, and every time I hear those lyrics I can't help but think that it's the restaurant kitchen singing me these words.

Crazy? Maybe a little. A kitchen will nurture you, but you're in danger the moment you become too comfortable. If you don't want it, "baby, if you don't love me somebody else will": there are hundreds of cooks ready and willing with deep resumes and sharp knives waiting to take your coveted spot. This is something I've constantly reminded myself of when I get down, when things get tough, when the everyday grind starts to feel monotonous.

A few weeks ago, I passed the one year mark of being at my current restaurant. I've loved and been loved, I've hurt and been hurt, and something keeps driving me. It's been an amazing journey, and one only needs to look about a year back on this silly blog to see how far I've come. I can't help but be a little proud of what I've achieved; moving from pantry to grill station within months of being in my first professional kitchen, being part of the team that garnered Restaurant of the Year from an influential Portland food writer, even the everyday stuff--putting up a perfect medium-rare and sending it off with the feeling in your gut that it's gonna make someone really fucking happy.

I'm still incredibly green, however, and I'll be the first to tell you that there is an untold amount of talented cooks out there who could do my job better, cleaner, faster. I'm working on becoming one of those better, cleaner, faster cooks. I'm eager to keep learning, progressing, moving forward, and though I've been through a lot in the past year, I know I've still barely scratched the surface.

Why all the waxing poetic? Well, I've been incredibly blessed by opportunity in the last few years, and a new one came to me recently to take a position that's opening up in another great Portland restaurant. It's a kitchen that I admire and frequent and whose food feels familiar yet exciting. Best of all, I'll be shaking up the comfort zone and trying something new. I'll be working at my current place for the next month and making my transition to the new spot in August.

Even more exciting news: I plan on taking a little sabbatical between jobs, wherein I plan on traveling to San Francisco and Los Angeles for a couple of weeks to eat a lot, visit friends, and stage in various restaurants. It occurred to me not too long ago that I've only ever staged in two restaurants, both of which I staged for employment rather than just for my own curiosity. I'm looking forward to seeing how other kitchens run, what the rest of the culinary world has to offer outside of Portland, and what the big deal is with the San Francisco culinary scene. Hopefully visit my internet buddy at Nopa. I've never actually visited San Francisco properly as an adult, and it seems highly overdue.

I'd love to hear some suggestions for dining and/or staging in SF and LA! Send 'em on, kids.

This summer is turning out to be an equally awesome, scary and exciting time in my life. I hope it stays this way.

A Trip Down Memory Back Alley

Before The Hungry Cupboard, there was my Myspace blog. I haven't peeked at that blog in quite some time, so I decided to take a trip down memory lane today. I found one blog entry in particular quite interesting, if not highly embarrassing and extremely naive. Oh the things I thought I knew... engage tongue-clucking. A small part of Now Me wants to punch Then Me. Truly shameful, kids.

I'm reproducing it here in all its poor grammar and bad writing glory for your reading pleasure. I was living in Los Angeles at the time, for reference. Personally, I think it gets good around the Kitchen Confidential part. Funny how things turn out. Coincidentally, I'm currently revisiting Tony Bourdain's inaugural autobiography and it's a whole different ride this time around.

Please to enjoy... *cringe*. And I hope you all had a lovely Independence Day. I know I did; best July 4th yet.

October 12, 2005

So last night I was munching away on a plate of crackers and rosemary chevre, typing one-handed and trying to keep cracker crumbs from lodging in the keyboard. At some point in my computer fun, I ran across an ad for the new Kitchen Academy, which is in the same complex/building/block-thingy as the Arclight on Sunset. I've been watching the construction with some curiosity, hoping it isn't some gimmicky thing. It may be legitimate though... they're a branch of the CSCA in Pasadena, which is a Le Cordon Bleu-associated school. Blah, blah, blah.

What I'm trying to say is that it started me thinking again (for like the 50 billionth time) about whether I really want to attend culinary school. This is a thought that has seriously lingered in my head for about a year and something now. I'd say that my interest in all things culinary goes way beyond eating for sustenance, but not quite a real foodie-foodie. I'm somewhere between "enjoys a great meal" and "blows a load over gorgeous tomatoes," both of which I've been known to do. I went as far as to injure myself for the sake of growing my first veggie garden at my old house in Portland (but ohhh was it worth it...).

Ryan put it this way: "I have friends who are music nerds, movie nerds, book nerds... but I've never known a food nerd until I met you." I've long felt that somehow I missed the boat on the artistic talent part of the Chen kids, particularly in music; Ted and Sylvia both are pursuing careers in music, and rightly so, as they are ridiculously skilled and smart and make a party shake-a-ass as far as I'm concerned. I, however, was still constantly worried about myself.

A few years ago, while in the midst of one of my many "what the fuck am i doing?" crises, I had a (very belated) epiphany over dinner with my family: I love food. Maybe I should pursue a career in it. I finally felt a focus, and it was so good to have my family's encouragement and trust in my skills. The more I talked about it, the more it made sense. I've been making dirt pies and holly berry "stews" since I was 9, and when I was 13 I somehow pulled off a chicken fricassee after discovering a melting/flaming Tupperware in the pre-heating oven. I managed to work around the fire extinguisher dust and had dinner ready by the time mom and dad came home. Heh.

The point is food is something I "get." The seriousness in culinary school resulted in two trips to NYC last winter to visit several schools there. It took me two planes, two trains, and three automobiles just to make it to the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, NY. (Which, by the way, blew my fucking mind.) The CIA was the first school I visited, and minutes after stepping onto campus I decided then and there that in one way or another food was going to be in my working future. Every building smelled like baking bread or sauteeing butter. Students stepped through the snow from one class to the next, clad in their chef's jackets, checkered pants and caps. For the first time in years, even before/during undergrad, I thought 'Shit, man, this is where it's fucking at.'

More school visits followed, each one a mix of delight and nervousness. I toured the buildings, peeked into classes, noshed on "class practice" goodies and even got a few good (free) meals here and there. Though I gotta say that the bahn mi that ben and I had in downtown San Francisco after our visit to CCA simply killed.

That was nearly a year ago. My fervor for culinary school has since mellowed, wavered, even been shunned a couple of times as I looked at the reality of the situation. A majority of culinary students come out of school, hired on to be prep or line cooks at decent to good restaurants. At first I thought that might be ok... then two things happened: 1. I made friends with line cooks (and even briefly dated one, if you could call it that) 2. I read Tony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential.

You know that phrase, "if you can't stand the heat..." ? I didn't understand that until I really got to take a glimpse into that world, through other cooks and chefs. It's not even a job; it's a lifestyle, and most people don't do well in that lifestyle. Plus dating sucks if you're a cook. Regardless, if number 1 doesn't scare you out of the kitchen, then number 2 will kick your sorry ass out. I looked at myself: kind, caring, giving, tolerable, creative, patient, too forgiving sometimes... those things don't go well in the kitchen. It's like the army: Do what you're told or you're in for an ass-beating (or simply being fired). I knew I couldn't be just a cook. Part of me, my stubborn part, wants to simply say "Fuck you! I do what I want!" I feel if I really, really tried, I could do it. But honestly, it's just too much for me.

So what now? That's where the waffling and waving came in. Shit, if I wasn't going to be a chef, then why go to culinary school? What good will it do me? After being sad for another little while, I began to realize (admit?) that there were other avenues to take. Food writing? Food styling? Food consulting? Catering? Private cheffing? All much "nicer" ways to get myself working in the culinary world.

So that's where I am now, essentially. I read Saveur and Gourmet and Food & Wine and whatever else comes my way, and I lose myself in the articles. Market-fresh mangoes in India? clay-oven pizza in Tuscany? heirloom tomatoes in Oregon? Fuck yeah! I like food. I like writing. Food... writing? I like the sound of it. I just don't know if a year-long, $18,000 course is worth it. Gimme a minute, I'm still thinking... (mmm... crackers and chevre... be back in a minute...)

Lazy Sundays

What happens when you get a few cooks together for a gorgeous Portland Sunday grill-fest-slash-cocktail party:


Nomnomnom. Yes please.

I'm fairly convinced that on the scale of badass-result to ease-of-method ratio, grilled whole fish rates quite high.

Method: Stuff fish with good shit. Grill.

Doesn't get much easier, kids, and it makes for a nicely dramatic presentation. Not to mention it tastes awesome as hell. Luckily for me, the only choice of whole fish at New Seasons, rainbow trout, happens to be a fish that doesn't need descaling to be perfectly palatable. I seasoned the fish cavity with salt, stuffed the fish with sliced fennel, fennel fronds, parsley and thyme, and oiled and salted the skin before plopping them on the grill for a few minutes each side. In my excitement I forgot to add the slices of lemon I intended; next time. The grill needs to be really hot for the fish skin not to stick, but ain't no thang.

Note the grilled corn in the backgroud; Mike made an awesome cilantro-lime-serrano mayo dip to go with it. Mayo-slathered beards abounded, Jeff and Jaybill's in particular.



Tell me that doesn't look a little hott...

Mike adopted a pasta maker and we were eager to try it out. I've made fresh pasta this way a handful of times, but it's still surprising how lovely the pasta comes out. We used a basic pasta dough recipe from Marco Pierre White's White Heat. It took a little tweaking (the first batch was a dry flop before it even got rolled) but I think it turned out pretty sexy.



What's a backyard barbecue without proper beverages?

I'm in love with this cooler. Along with the typical Portland mix of ever-present Pabst and local brewery choice, in this instance Bridgeport Brewing Company's Haymaker Extra Pale Ale, I picked up some Vernor's Ginger Ale, a non-alky classic, and a case of Capri Suns in reverence to my childhood. What's more badass than grill tongs and a side towel in one hand and a Capri Sun in the other?


Me giving Jeff attitude whilst double-fisting beverages

I failed to get managed to procure a photo of the melon-infused vodka and fresh watermelon concoction that got the party started (in Jeff's hand, above). I do, however, wish I had photos of all the rambunctiousness that occurred, from Pop-Its and whizzing fireworks, Jeff jumping over the fire pit, and Butters versus Butters: The battle for a Nerf football between a high energy twenty-something and a hyper Labrador Retriever. Surprisingly sustaining entertainment.

I love my coworkers, for all their insanity and silliness, but most of all for their heart and soul. This past Sunday was pretty perfect, and if summer keeps up like this Portland will have me in its grips for good.

Killin' it in a cocktail dress

Ladies (and gentlemen?), don't wear four-inch heels when you're catering a party. I only rocked the heels for about 20 minutes before changing into more sensible shoes, but two days later, my calves are killing me!


Click to embiggen. Awfully blurry, I know. My camera batteries were dead and my little cell phone was the best I could do.

(Good dress though.)

This past Sunday, I was fortunate enough to cater a fundraiser for a film my good friend Jim is writing and directing called Widow's Walk Lake. The fundraiser was an Edward Gorey-themed garden party, as the look of the film itself is based on Gorey's artwork and is set in the 1930's.


Photo taken at the fundraiser by Circle23, who set up a room at the event for fabulously "gorey" poses. See the entire awesome set here.

When Jim asked me several months ago to cater the party, I said yes with no hesitation. Cater a friend's costume party for about 100 attendees on my day off? Perfect! Ever since I worked as a catering server in Los Angeles, catering is something I've kept in the back of my mind as a career path. I love working in a restaurant kitchen, but I enjoy the change in scenery that catering provides too. I didn't let the fact that up to this point I'd never planned a meal for more than 12 people on my own deter me at all. I happily trotted along, recruiting a few awesome and eager friends from OCI to help me with my little project.

Two weeks before the party, I woke up with the worst, most panicky feeling in my gut--though I've prepped for and plated plenty of large parties at work before, I was two weeks away from my first "solo" event, with insanely scattered ideas for what to do about sourcing the product, budgeting the event, and actually prepping and transporting everything. I had no idea how far in advanced I wanted everything to be done, or how much of anything to get. I immediately thought of my Term 3 Pro Skills instructor, Maxine Borcherding, who besides teaching management at OCI (and WCI previously), ran a catering company in Portland for 20 plus years and still caters parties from time to time.

As soon as I reached out to her, the sinking ship could not have righted itself any faster. We sat down over lunch and talked everything out. The original menu I came up with, an OLCC-friendly menu with several options--soups, focaccias, tea sandwiches, crostinis--were all very Victorian-era finger-food-type things that I thought would look and taste fresh and amazing for an indoor-outdoor garden party. It quickly became evident that with the budget constraints under which we were working, I had to simplify the menu while making it hearty enough for the fact that the party was being held during dinner hours.

Chef Max suggested I revamp the menu, and we decided upon an easy, inexpensive but still delicious menu:
- Tuscan white bean salad
- Penne salad with roasted bell peppers
- Summer melon, grape and pickled fennel salad
- Three types of focaccias: Roasted shaved asparagus and caramelized fennel; Yukon Gold potato, crimini mushroom and truffle oil; and caramelized onion, toasted walnut and Gorgonzola cheese.

With the help of my amazing friends Jess, Nate and Pablo, all of whom I attended school with, not to mention the endless support and resources from Chef Maxine, it took us two days to prep out the final menu. While planning amounts and recipes, I couldn't help but be grateful for all the number crunching we did during school.

I contracted a killer head and chest cold a week before the event, so Maxine in all her awesomeness made a comprehensive (think Excel spreadsheet) shopping list for me. She also secured us kitchen time in a local catering kitchen. I made my first will-call pickup order at Sheridan Fruit Company, which took up five big veggie boxes. We slowly but surely got through the boxes, and with a little baking guidance I pulled off some awesome handmade focaccias (I say they're awesome because I'm massively impressed I managed to not screw it up... though I'm pretty confident they actually tasted good).

The morning of game day, running on five hours of sleep and adrenaline, we knocked off one by one the items on the prep list I'd written and re-written the night before. I kept having moments where I thought I should be freaking out but wasn't at all--things were going so smoothly, it was eerie. There was definitely a little bit of a race to the end, but we finished it all on time. We packed everything up in the Zipcar'd Honda Element and carted it over to the truly gorgeous Overlook House in North Portland. They couldn't have picked a more picturesque spot for a Victorian garden party, and once the attendees started arriving, I felt like I was in another era altogether.


Photo by my good friend John. See the rest of his set here.

How could I not cater this party in a cocktail dress? I mean, really.

Once we set up the buffet table, it was smooth sailing. Jess and Pablo were great about keeping the table refreshed and clean. The crowd favorite was the Gorgonzola focaccia though the dapperly-dressed ladies and gents were helping themselves to seconds, thirds and fourths of everything. At several points in the evening there were small crowds of people around the table, munching and chatting, and I could not have been happier.

Thanks to a dead battery in my camera, the best photo I managed of the table I took with my pitiful camera phone. Still, you get the general idea:


Click to embiggen. From front to back: Roasted bell pepper penne salad, Tuscan bean salad, melon and pickled fennel salad, lotsa focaccia.

We overshot the estimated amount needed by quite a bit and ended up offering leftovers to guests to take home. Everything was snatched up in a matter of minutes.

All in all, a smashing success in my book. Though the event was small fry, logistically speaking, in the vast world of catering, I loved the challenge and the gears are starting to spin for side projects I'm envisioning. I'm thinking of catering events every now and then for friends and friends of friends, charging only food and supply cost to get my chops up. Thoughts?

Open Letter

Addendum #2: I've received some concerning feedback about the original blog post, so I truncated it. Like I said earlier, I'm beyond grateful for our customers, as they're the ones keeping us going through this tough economic time. Consider this a small rant against the rare badly-behaved.

Dear Maserati Douchebag,

We should have known better than to seat you and your three equally demanding friends on Saturday night after the scene you threw the previous week for not getting a table outside like you wanted, then calling the manager an asshole and saving some choice words for the hostess. Fortunately for you, there was a different manager on Saturday night, and though you were seated promptly, you still demanded to be seated in an area we stopped seating for the night. You won the manager over by promising to take really good care of your server, who got to spend the rest of the evening running her ass off between her given section and your totally out-of-the-way table.

Maybe in your hometown of Douchebaggerton, a $35 tip on a $335 check equates to "taking really good care of your server". Here in your chosen city and country, a 10 percent tip, on top of being demanding and calling people names, immediately qualifies you as blacklisted. The cherry on top was not tipping the valet when he pulled up your precious Maserati. Hate to break it to you, but showing everyone how wealthy you are without sharing the wealth with the people who take care of you will never make your man parts any bigger.

Please, please, PLEASE come back into the restaurant; it would make my day to watch you get kicked out.

Graduating, and the importance of family

I'm not sure what to make of the fact that I forgot about my culinary school graduation ceremony until a week before it occurred, except I think I've been so immersed in work that my time at Oregon Culinary Institute seems so far behind me. Yet it wasn't that long ago that I was going to class every day and being pushed by my dear chef instructors to work faster, work cleaner, do better.

For a nearly-forgotten incident, my graduation this past weekend turned into one of the best weekends I've had in a long, long time.

A last-minute invite to my brother and sister worked out, and by Friday night they were on their way from Seattle with their significant others and my brother's ridiculously cute dog, Ollie. I walked home from work that night, and they had made themselves at home thanks to my brother's copies of my keys. Excited as I was to see them, I was weary and beat from work, but mustered the strength to give them the full tour of the new place. I got this painted here, I changed that there, I think I'm gonna try and install this here... I walked them toward the bedrooms, and wondered why my bedroom door was closed.

I opened it... and found my mom standing there. My mom, who lives in North Carolina, who I assumed wouldn't be able to make the cross country trip, especially not so last minute.

I shrieked, stunned, then started crying.

It's been a tremendously hard past few months, between buying a new place, working six days a week, maneuvering major transitions at work, trying to get settled into my new place essentially on my own, and just not having had a real break since Christmas. It's the life we lead, I know, but knowing that doesn't really make it any easier. I've spent a lot of time recently feeling overwhelmed, yet we all just keep plugging on, knowing it's leading up to something better. Upon seeing my mom, such a sight for sore eyes, the tears of joy came immediately.

Saturday morning, I put on my OCI chef's whites for the first time in over six months, and joined about 65 of my fellow graduates in a giant ballroom at the Governor Hotel.


Graduating. Photo by Woody Bailey. See the rest of his set here.

As expected, the ceremony itself was a practice in self-deprecation and not taking oneself too seriously. Lots of jokes, lots of silly speeches, some meaningful and serious ones too, but the morning was dominated by a general light-heartedness.

That's what I've loved about OCI and its instructors and founders since I first visited--you get the feeling that events such as graduation, as meaningful as they can be, are not, ultimately, why you attend school in the first place. I'm proud that made my way through the entire program, as it's not an easy accomplishment, but I had to go to work right after the ceremony, and I honestly think that's what they're after: Students who work hard, have goals, and find themselves in positions where they barely have time to squeeze in a graduation ceremony on a Saturday morning, knowing they'll have to be deep in prep for Saturday service in a few hours.

Not to say we still can't enjoy ourselves and pat ourselves on the back for a job well-done. My classmates and I cheered happily for each other, knowing how much we'd been through to get to that point. My family cheered loudly for me when my name was called, and despite the initial unseriousness I felt about graduation, I have to admit it was pretty awesome to hear their whooping and yelling.

So here's where I'll tell you why my family is, in my opinion, the most amazing family one could ever ask for. Besides surprising me with my mom's visit, besides being a personal cheerleading section at my graduation that I nearly forgot, I came home Saturday night after 10 plus hours at work to find that they cleaned my entire apartment top to bottom. They washed the windows, unpacked all the leftover boxes, constructed a bookshelf and bed frame I hadn't yet gotten around to, and purchased new sheets, towels and a bunch of organizational gadgets for my use. They even bought me a lavender plant and a huge bouquet of lilacs and pansies that made my dining room look like a spread in Martha Stewart Living.


At the dining room table: Rob, me, Ollie, Sylvia, Ted, Christy, Mom and Josh. Taken with Sylvia's trusty camera and Josh's helpful tripod.

I mean, come on. Seriously? How much luckier does a person get?

What else could I do but make them Sunday brunch?




Taken by Sylvia, see the rest of the awesome set here

Blueberry pancakes with caramelized bananas (they worked so well the first time around!), roasted asparagus and spinach omelet with Mt. Tam triple creme, rounded out with a pork trio of country sausage, maple bacon and pepper bacon. Many happy bellies.

The Seattle crew departed soon after the crazy carbo-load, and my mom stayed in town for a few more days. I miraculously got Monday off from work and was thus able to spend some much-needed quality time with the momma.


Getting some sun at Laurelhurst Park

Any part of my personality that is even-keeled and laid-back, I give credit to my mom. She's the most understanding, compassionate and zen-like person I know. She's been through more hardship than any person should ever have to withstand, and has conquered it all with a force that none of us knew she had. And she's been nothing but humble and unassuming about it all, never demanding credit for her hard work, never complaining about putting in insanely long workdays. I know a lot of people (myself included) who could benefit from borrowing a page from her book.


Who else takes the time to listen to the trees?

This weekend was about remembering my fortune, despite all the hardships: A line cook job at a top-notch kitchen, a home I can legitimately call my own, and a family I wouldn't trade for the world. Not bad, ya'll. Not bad at all.