In Denmark, when someone sneezes no one cares. At least, it’s not cause for any sort of acknowledgement and I, for one, am a fan of their system. It is just a sneeze, after all. In the U.S., of course, the polite response to someone else’s sneeze is “bless you,” “gazundheit,” or even, “santé,” but until I started working in restaurant kitchens,  I’d never heard the Mexican response.

One sous chef I worked with was convinced that her Spanish-speaking coworkers, most of them Mexican, were yelling out “sunchoke!” after a sneeze, and particularly after a trio of sneezes. “Sunchoke!” she would cheerfully call out after hearing someone sneeze, joining what she thought was maybe their own little joke (they did peal a lot of sunchokes) or maybe their cultural norm.  That her coworkers often snickered among each other at this participation was insignificant–they must simply have been amused at her attempts to join in.

It wasn’t until a year or two later, when I did some consulting work for a Spanish-speaking chef that I learned that “sunchoke” was actually “Sancho!” a man’s name. But not just any man’s name, this chef explained. If a man sneezes three times in a row, it means his wife is cheating on him with a man named, yes, you guessed it, Sancho. When you sneeze, you deserved to be teased, it seems. One chef took the explanation one step further. Not only is Sancho the “other man,” but if someone sneezes three times it signifies that his wife is cheating with Sancho at that very moment and by yelling his name Sancho will be compelled to pull out and therefore, will not impregnate the woman, saving the sneezer supreme humiliation. I can’t confirm that this extensive explanation is widely accepted as completely true, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was a version of the story limited to use among–or invented by–restaurant employees. Either way, the image is burned into my brain every time someone yells out “Sancho!” following a sneeze.

I wasn’t always a pastry chef. Before jumping into life as a restaurant kitchen slave, I worked as a sales and marketing coordinator for a large publishing company. Little remains of those years spent setting up the company booth at trade shows around the country, walking down the hallway to use computer that I shared with the rest of the sales assistants and coordinators, and staring out my window. There is one thing, though, garnered from those early years that I hold quite dear: two friends with whom I commiserated about work through those post-college years.

We didn’t know we were starting a tradition 15 years ago, when we spent the latter day of half-day-Fridays at the Molly Wee Pub. And I’m not sure any of us know why it was the Molly Wee we gravitated to, a generic sort-of Irish pub on a grungy block close to Penn Station–none of us took those trains home. (FYI, the Molly Wee has since been refurnished and now looks like a brand new, sort-of Irish pub and has absolutely no charm at all). Still, somewhere in those lazy afternoons of beer and burgers and kvetching about the office are some of my finest memories of being young and in New York City. We finally left the Molly Wee and the publishing house, one by one, for bigger and brighter things, but we kept meeting–always for burgers and beer and almost only at that burger joint so worshipped by the New York free press: Corner Bistro. And I was happy at the Bistro for many years. Fantastic jukebox, good burgers, cheap McSorley’s Ale. But as with so many things this past year, I, for one, was ready for a change.

We’ve been to Black Iron Burger (540 East 5th Street) three times now and sadly, maybe, for the member of our trio who comes in from New Jersey, it looks like we’ll be staying East–at least for a while. Black Iron is small, a nook, really, but that’s all it needs to be.  A small bar with a well-appointed and rotating number of draft beer (I was all about the Blue Point toasted lager–but then, I like almost anything toasted) lines one side of the room, with the “kitchen,” a few feet of fryer, grill and refrigeration, at its end. The rest of the dimly lit room is filled with a handful of high stools and tables with a single booth in the back. The menu is small but has everything a burger place needs : shakes and malts in three flavors (van/choc/straw), fries & onion rings, cole slaw & baked beans, two salads (yes! salads!) a wedge and a green, and of course, the “sandwiches” as they are called. A straight burger will set you back a very fair $7, while the mouthwatering Iron Horse (a double with horseradish cheddar and grilled onions) costs $10. Me, I go for the Patty Melt at $8. Who needs a bun? I’ll take crispy grilled bread with my burger any day and that burger, by the way, did arrive medium–the way I ordered it–every time. And for any friends who might not eat cow, or meat at all, there’s a turkey burger, falafel burger, grilled cheese and a b.l.t. We haven’t tried any of these but I just might one of these days. My friends might gasp and roll their eyes, but even they will have to admit, it’s not really the burgers that bring us together after all.

As I’ve said before, one of the real bonuses for me about working in a kitchen is that I don’t have to worry about how I look before going to work. There’s no need for make-up, hair style, fashionable outfits, high heels or nail polish. In fact nail polish is forbidden and a health hazard: it could flake off into the food. But this doesn’t mean I’ve been free from comments on my appearance, no matter how bland I try to appear at work. One time, a cook looked at me as I melted some butter on his station and casually announced that I had a long whisker growing out of my chin. When I came into work with a new haircut, one that revealed an inch of close-shaved hair on the back of my neck, the smarmy wine director’s only words were, ooh…can I touch it? When I cut my hair boy-short, a waiter asked the rest of the kitchen, who’s the new guy? Ha ha. But the cooks had been thinking about my “look” all along while playing the game in which they debate which celebrities would play them in the movie version of the restaurant (one cook was a dead ringer for Paul Giamatti). First, I was told, we thought you were definitely Anne Heche. I was okay, with that. I’d actually gotten the Anne Heche thing a lot. Then, the last time you cut your hair, we switched you to Ellen Degeneres. I guess I could deal with Ellen, even if she was 13 years my senior. At least she’s funny. Now, he went on, you’re Gary Oldman. Gary Oldman? Yeah, the cook answered, cause he can play anything.

Not long ago I passed by the Bedford Cheese Shop in Williamsburg and saw a sign posted in the window: Recession Special! 20 cheeses under $20 a pound! I know Williamsburg has been gentrifying for some time now, and I’m more than happy to pay top dollar for quality, artisanal, organic foods, but since when is it a deal to get cheese that costs less than $20 a pound? I can buy organic meat at Whole Foods for less than that. So, I thought I’d note some places that truly are deals.

You’d miss the Vegetarian Dim Sum House (24 Pell Street, near Mott) for sure unless you were told to stop by as it looks like nothing special—just another grub hub on another sidestreet of Chinatown. And after peeking through the window and seeing the run-down, generic decor, you’d probably keep on walking and miss a fantastically delicious (and very cheap) meal. Though Vegetarian Dim Sum House has a full, many-paged menu of everything from noodles to “duck” to “seafood,” I always opt for the dim sum, listed on a separate, small sheet of paper.  The rice flour rolls with Chines kale are thick, sticky rolls of white rice flour dough filled with green, leavy veg and topped tableside with a light, soy-based sauce. Buddha’s bean curd rolls are tofu skin filled with shredded vegetables and arrive piping hot doused in a savory brown sauce. I also love the half moon pockets, fried crescents, pea shoot dumplings and shrimp dumplings. A selection of 5 plus two fresh juices (watermelon, honeydew, kiwi) is barely over $20 and plenty of food for 2 people to leave full and very happy. I go there even when I’m feeling financially flush just because it’s that good.

In my neck of Williamsburg, good restaurants do not yet abound, and aside from Dumont and La Locanda, there have been few other reliable spots to which I can quickly walk for an above average meal–until Motorino opened one block away. This corner spot had been struggling or shuttered for most of the 13 years I’ve lived here so I was thrilled when this Neopolitan oven pizza joint opened and beside myself when I had their delicious pizza–after my first visit I had to return 2 more times in the same week! The pizzas arrive hot, the sauce is tangy and flavorful, the cheese creamy and not overpowering and the crust (which, on lesser pizzas, is the bit I leave uneaten) is chewy and soft–I often find myself noshing on the slightly burned crusts well after my stomach is full. Most of the personal-sized pizzas on their menu are under $13, and aside from the oysters, all the appetizers are $8 and under. The real deal, though, is Motorino’s lunch special: $10 gets you a pizza with your choice of soup or salad, without the crowds that routinely fill the dining room during dinner.

I hate walking on Broadway. The blocks between Houston and Canal Streets are torturous on account of all the tourists slowly making their way in and out of what seems like one of every chain retail shop in the country. Is is me or do the sidewalks just seem smaller there? But, sometimes, if I want to check out the rotating wares at the fantastic Salvor Kiosk on Spring or pick up almost anything at the time-sucking Pearl River Mart, I suck it up and brave the crowds. And when I do, I always reward myself with a trip to Hampton Chutney Co. on Prince Street for a dosa. It’s a small place, without table service and only a handful of stools and tall tables/counters, so scoping out a spot to sit can sometimes be tricky, but well worth it as the dosas (large, crispy, sourdough crepes stuffed with a variety of fillings) are outrageously delicious. Okay, I cannot attest to all the food (they have soup and sandwiches, too) because I fell so in love with my first dosa here, a breakfast dosa with 2 eggs, spinach, roasted tomato, jack cheese and avocado for $10.45 (all dosas come with a choice of chutneys and I always go for the cilantro), that I’ve never even tried another. It is so delicious that it is all I crave and all I want.   And if you like lemonade, try theirs, which has the addition of orange blossom water and was good enough to inspire me to make a sorbet with the same flavors.

I was working at a new job in a restaurant that was suspiciously normal.  Not only was the restaurant was highly rated according to Zagat and Michelin, it was well staffed (lots of restaurants keep their kitchen staffs to the bare minimum, in order to keep payroll down and the work load high), kept its walk-ins and dry goods areas impeccably organized and clean, had as many female line cooks as male (the chef even told me that he wished he could hire exclusively female cooks because they usually caused fewer problems), but the nightly family meal was well planned, thought out, often included a vegetable other than potatoes, and was actually tasty. Even more unbelievably, every day at one or two o’clock, the three prep cooks–the only employees who worked with me in the mornings and afternoons–included me in the lunch they made themselves. I was shocked the first time one of them handed me a plate of roast chicken, salad and roasted butternut squash. This place was too good to be true–and didn’t seem to live up to all the wacky restaurant norms I’d come to expect after years in the business. Where were the lewd comments? The drunken and hungover line cooks? The overflowing drains? The screaming and name-calling? The cast of freakish characters that I’d come to expect? Turns out, it was all just a matter of time.

I was suspicious of Joe, the sous chef who right off the bat took the liberty of bad-mouthing some of the other employees we worked with. But no one else seemed bothered by him so I let it go–maybe I was being too hard on him. But as time went on, Joe turned weirder and weirder. He nonchalantly showed up late. Joe bragged about how little he’d slept the night before. He pathetically gathered the old flowers from the dining room arrangements when they were changed only to re-package them for whatever girl he’d be seing that night. He mumbled about how unfairly he was being treated and how insufficiently he was being paid. He would randomly work without his chef coat on for a few hours in the middle of his shift. Seeing him hunched over a cutting board in just a short-sleeved t-shirt and wool cap skeeved me out in a very primal way. There’s a reason we wear chef coats–not just for the protection, and tradition, but to make us anonymous. I did not want to see Joe the hungover, un-showered, just-had-sex-the-night-before guy, I only wanted to see Joe the Sous Chef.  And as far as sous chef jobs went, his was cake. His work load was completely do-able, his chef was mild mannered and fair, the problems few and the pay good. All of this seemed lost on him as he slipped further and further into a victim’s cloud of false entitlement. His grumbling increased, he disappeared more often for cigarette breaks and who knows what else, and often in the middle of service, forcing the runners or bus boys to search him out in vain and leaving the rest of the cooks–those coworkers he was supposed to be leading and who needed food off his station to finish off a table–helpless.

I watched the downward spiral afar from my pastry station. Remember, I was the new guy in town and didn’t feel comfortable telling the chef how to run his kitchen or his staff. And why didn’t anyone else seem to notice? Why didn’t the cooks bitch about him? Were they all just too nice? Were they blind to this black mark on their Valhalla?  As expected, Joe quickly hit bottom when finally, on the chef’s night off, he pulled his disappearing act, this time using his time off the line to consume multiple alcoholic beverages, which resulted in a dining room of messed up tables, frantic waiters and unhappy diners, two of which just happened to be the owners. Joe, who finally admitted (sincerely or not) to having a problem with prescription drugs, was finally cut loose.

The day after he left, I was relieved to learn that the three Spanish-speaking prep cooks with whom I shared the basement, had given him a nickname: El Sonambulo or, The Sleepwalker. Around the same time, I noticed that a handfull of the cooks started playing a weird voice game. For a few minutes each day a bunch of them randomly carried on a conversation in a high pitched, squeely voice not unlike the Schmoo (for those of you who remember the cartoon) in Spanish. Maybe this place would live up to my expectations after all.

All of this leads me to a nasty smell I forgot to include in my last post, The Nose Knows.

Related to man fog is the hungover line cook. These cooks roll into work in the same clothes they left in the night before (hell, sometimes they spend the night inside the restaurant) still drunk, unbathed, probably-had-sex-last-night (maybe with more than one person) and also smoke cigarettes (yes, a surprising number of cooks kill their blessed taste buds with cigarettes). The resulting scent that comes out of their pores and gets trapped in small places like offices, changing rooms and storage closets makes you think twice about getting close to any man ever again, at least for the moments you are swimming in it.

Having been back working in a restaurant for just over a month now (is it any wonder there’s been a slight lapse in my posts?) I am reminded of how many things remain a constant in all restaurants, no matter the size, type or Michelin rating.  Spanish is the predominant language, cooks hate waiters, and inappropriate behavior and sexual comments abound (in my current workplace, this mostly involves the gay manager telling the not-gay diminutive Mexican prep cook how sexy he is day after day after day).

And then there are the smells.

Outsiders (as I refer to anyone who doesn’t work in a restaurant) often have dreamy images of me working with the fruity and sugary smells that lately have been showing up in all kinds of personal care products. Creme Brulee hand cream? Brown sugar sloughing wash? Vanilla-flavored toothpaste? After a long day in the kitchen, the last thing I want to smell like is dessert. But don’t get me wrong, I have loads of positive sense memories related to kitchen smells and some give me instant memories of exact moments in time. The scent of sesame oil and onions instantly brings me back to Nobu, reminding me of my early, inexperienced days.  Rose water takes me to my line cook days at a Mediterranean/Middle Eastern place in Tribeca. Everytime I open a package of kalalmansi juice (a Southeast Asian Lime) I return to my weeks spent in The Philippines where I “discovered” the fruit juice, mixed into iced tea.

But these are the good smells.  Below are seven more–bad ones this time–that pop up repeatedly in every workplace and always turn my stomach.

1. Roasting Lamb Bones - The stench of roasting bone and flesh of the already mutton-y animal (along with the sight of a tangled heap of the charred bones) is nothing like the delicious flavor of the meat and instantly reminds me that we are carnivores in the most primal way. I imagine our early ancestors roasting fresh kill over an open fire and then tearing the flesh from the bone with their bare teeth. I know, it sounds a tad melodramatic but that’s what pops into my head.
2. Garbage - Ok, this sounds like an obvious one, but the garbage areas in restaurants are like none other and somehow always seem to turn the same combination of smells (rotting dairy, fish guts and bones, bloody meat juices, leftovers, and general, well, garbage) into a hideous stench that is greater than the sum of its parts and one worsens exponentially day by day, for example, if the garbage pick up people have a holiday or go on strike or simply forget. If you are lucky (as I am at my current restaurant) the garbage area is far from your work space.
3. White Pepper - Smells like ass. Ask any cook (and I have asked many) and this is what he will tell you. Don’t get me wrong–it is a valuable and important spice that enhances many dishes. I have even used it (successfully) to flavor ice cream. But smell it and you’ll know what I mean even if you’re not really sure what ass smells like.
4. Simmering Octopus (also called simply “octo” or “pussy”) - It might just be me (since no one else in my very unscientific poll gets quite the stomach turn that I do) but a big old pot filled with water, octopus (baby or bigger), wine, carrots, onions, celery, bay leaves etc. smells like dirty ocean water that has been rotting for months. Don’t let this change your mind about eating octo, once the little guys are cleaned and marinated or grilled that stench is gone and they are absolutely delicious. And cute.
5. Man Fog -  If you happen to be the last one to change after a bunch of hot, sweaty waiters or line cooks, you do so amidst their man fog, a mix of sweat, stink, food aromas and yes, as sad as it sounds, crotch.  That some cooks  borrow my box of cornstarch to keep their nether regions dry, does little to curb the man fog.
6. Backed Up Drains - Overflowing drains are a constant problem in restaurants, and in different kitchens I have witnessed black, greasy goo shooting out geyser-style of a sink drain, water spilling generously out of the pipes beneath a sink (and sinks are an imperative in kitchens and a little pipe problem will not deter a cook from using them and adding to the pool on the floor), and numerous floor drains flooding entire rooms with inches of filthy water. On a few occasions I have seen actual pieces of poop–yes, poop!–floating through the kitchen. After a few times, cooks and dishwashers nonchalantly tie plastic bags over their feet and wade through the filth until the plumber arrives with his snake. When “The Drain King” arrives and solves the problem, you realize that he is, in fact, a king.
7. Grease Traps - An extension of the drains, but much worse. These are the traps beneath the sink drains or dishwasher drains that do exactly what you think they do: they trap all the grease and muck that makes its way down the drains. These need to be cleaned regularly, which entails a dishwasher sometimes wearing a garbage bag like a raincoat as well as a side towel or napkin wrapped around his nose and mouth to protect him from the horrors that are trapped in these boxes.  The goop must be scooped out and tied up into layers of heavy duty trash bags before disposed of in the garbage area. This job is usually done when the fewest number of employees are around (yes, it’s that bad) but some places, like the hotel I worked in, operate 24 hours a day. Not only does this mean that it can be impossible to clean the traps when no one is around but that the traps are bigger and fuller than those of a small kitchen. When witnessing the cleaning of a trap of these proportions you imagine that all kinds of appalling things will be scooped out and that they are, in fact, The Gates of Hell. Much gagging ensues.

1. I don’t have to worry about having manicured fingernails. To be honest, I’ve never had pretty hands or nails. But working in kitchens and with my hands, gives me the perfect excuse for having less than beautiful nails. My hands and nails are important tools–not pretty things to be adorned.
2. I never, ever have to wear panty hose. Or any other useless, uncomfortable clothes or shoes. In other words, I don’t have to look “pretty” or “made up” to do a good job.
3. I can talk in a funny voice all day if I want to. Or swear. Or say next to nothing. The only rule in the kitchen is to do what the chef says, outside of that, conversation is a free for all.
4. I work with my hands. See #1. Whether I’m rolling out dough, peeling apples or beating egg whites, I have a close, tangible relationship with my work. When a dessert goes to a table I can say I made that, every part of it, from scratch.
5. My work makes people happy (hopefully). There are few better feelings in the world than watching a diner’s face light up with delight after biting into one of my desserts, and then seeing the plate return to the kitchen, licked clean.
6. I can write off cookbooks and restaurant meals. Yes, it’s all research to further my talent and career as a pastry chef and therefore, tax deductable.
7. Learning about new ingredients/flavors is part of my job. Whenever I travel, I’m always on the lookout for a new fruit, or spice or flavor that I can incorporate into my menu. Maybe it’s kalamansi, a citrus fruit I’d never heard of until I visited the Philippines, or maybe it’s something more familiar like Thai iced coffee, that I suddenly realized would make an incredible ice cream flavor.
8. I get to overhear all the crazy/sick/funny things boys talk about. See my previous “what goes on” and “overheard in the kitchen” posts as evidence. Being surrounded by young men has been an eye-opening experience and the things they say when they think no one is listening is truly astonishing–and often hilarious.
9. I don’t have to sit at a desk all day. Okay, sometimes my feet do start to hurt (in spite of my comfortable shoes) but I never have that trapped feeling that I used to have when I had an office job and felt like what I did (or didn’t do) had little impact on the success of the company. Plus, I never was very good at small talk or office politics, two things I don’t have to worry about these days.
10. I get to support local farmers. The Union Square Farmers Market was on my way to work for my last job and I relished passing through it 4 days a week. Not only did the changing produce on offer inspire ideas, it was almost always superior to anything I could have delivered from purveyors who often sourced things from thousands of miles away. I’m no slave to local produce but it sure makes sense to support the locals who travel fewer miles and sell a better product. And I loved getting to know the farmers who were equally glad to know that their product was ending up in some of New York City’s best restaurants.

Why is it that so few shore towns have good seafood restaurants? I grew up on the Jersey shore and have yet to find a single seafood restaurant worthy of recommending. Of course, there’s no shortage, but the fare on offer is overcooked, improperly-fried, often frozen, usually served with a probably-came-in-a-package mix of vegetables and is, to sum up, merely edible. I thought that Cape Cod would be different–and it was, but not by much. Sandwiches we had at the local “gourmet” deli and wine shop missed the mark and the recommended restaurant we tried for dinner was a huge disappointment. Luckily, we (along with some friends) were renting a house, complete with a kitchen stocked with the bare essentials. (Lucky, too, that I had the forethought to bring a good knife, the one tool I cannot live without; unlucky, though, that I mistakenly packed it into my carry-on and had it confiscated by airport security on my way home.)

We happily discovered that there is no shortage of fresh seafood caught daily and sold to the many vacationers renting houses like us. With our limited tools and little more than the fresh fish and produce we bought at farmers markets, we prepared some of the freshest, simplest, and most delicious meals I’ve had. Jesse grilled a whole side of striped bass with lemon juice, olive oil and fresh herbs. Henry dropped lobsters into boiling water (twice in one week!) and baked cod with tomatoes, olives and basil. We had grilled, local corn or squash with almost every dinner. Why would we ever eat out again? For dessert, I chose something I could make from memory and with local fruit that would be a crowd pleaser: a crumble. It is one of the simplest desserts out there, and, for my money, one of the best. Below is a recipe using blueberries from my local farmers market in New York City but stone fruits or other berries work just as well.

2-1/2 pints fresh blueberries

2 T fresh lemon juice

2 T granulated sugar

2 cups all-purpose flour

1 cup light brown sugar

1/2 tsp salt

1-1/2 sticks butter, melted

1. Preheat oven to 325 degrees.
2. Toss the blueberries with the granulated sugar and lemon juice. Pour into a 9″x 9″ baking dish.
3. In a bowl, mix together the flour, light brown sugar, salt and melted butter for the crumble top. Using your fingers, mix the crumble topping until everything is evenly incorporated.
4. Sprinkle the topping evenly over the blueberries.
5. Bake until the blueberries begin to bubble and the crumb top turns a deep brown, about 50 minutes.
6. Cool at least 30 minutes (cooling allows the juice thicken slightly) before serving.
7. Serve with ice cream.

It’s no secret that there’s a lot of friction between the back of the house (those who work in the kitchen) and the front of the house (those who work in the dining room). This is mostly because cooks think all waiters are lazy (they resent waiters for making twice the money in half the hours) and as a result they spend a fair amount of time tormenting them. Their tactics may be as simple as persistent and ruthless name calling (in one case, all one hostess had to do to get on the bad side of a liberal-hating sous chef was wear an anti-Bush t-shirt) or more complicated, like intentionally making ridiculously high-calorie family meal for weeks just to make a single hated waiter fat. Generally, this low-level combat is limited to cooks and waiters, but once in a while a manager comes along who has no hope of escaping the abuse.

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