you say. “¿Todo bien contigo?”
“Sí, güey. Siempre.”
You make your way to the back prep area—the production kitchen—to greet Rogelio, the A.M. prep cook. He’s loading split veal shins into a fifty-gallon cauldron. His forearms are thick and rippled from decades on the steam kettles and tilt skillets. You shake his hand and leave him to his work.
After the greetings, it’s time to do the rounds. First is a walk-through of the line.
The line is the nexus of the kitchen—the main stage, where thrills reside. It’s where the cooking gets done, where mise en place is transformed into meals, moment by moment, hour by hour, day by day. The three-hundred-square-foot section of the kitchen where half a dozen cooks and chefs work long into the night, straying seldom but moving much.
Our line—generously sized and uncommonly well appointed for a downtown New York restaurant with ninety seats—is set up in the traditional fashion, with Escoffier’s brigade system in mind. The hot side is T-shaped, with a made-to-measure Bonnet stove as its centerpiece. This five-by-fifteen-foot gas range of Herculean capabilities is the island suite around which the cooks run their various stations. At the far corners of the range are a grill and a plancha, for meat and fish roasting; in the center are a row of steel-grid burners, a pasta cooker, and a fryolator; at the near end are a pair of cast-iron flat-tops. Above the stovetop is an open-flame salamander and some pan shelving; below is a fleet of gas ovens and hot cupboards.
Perpendicular to this apparatus and forming the horizontal line of our T is the pass—le passage. The pass is composed very simply of a flat, sturdy stainless-steel table, above which hangs a set of telescoping heat lamps and below which rests an assortment of clean china. It’s called the pass because this is where the cooks pass their food to Chef for plating, and where Chef passes the food to the back waiters for serving. Nothing comes or goes in the kitchen without a stop at le passage.
Flanking our T on either side is a row of lowboy refrigerators, one a mirror image of the other. The lowboys hold the cooks’ cold mise en place throughout service. They also act as work surfaces, upon which the cooks do their cutting and seasoning and arranging of ingredients. Above the lowboys are welded shelves that hold the sections’ printers and ticket racks, along with some side materials—C-folds, gloves, bar mops, etcetera. Below the lowboys lie the black carpet runners, which keep the cooks from slipping as the tile floors get slick with this or that refuse throughout the night.
Our cold side is set up to the right of the T, beyond the fish station’s lowboy. The cold side is home to garde manger and pastry. It’s composed of a roll-in freezer, two lowboys, and a connecting table that combine to form a narrow U shape inside which two people can work comfortably. Since most of the food emanating from this section is cold, the emphasis here is on refrigeration. There is not much in the way of heat, not even a gas feed. The two stations are rigged up sparingly with two induction burners, a circulator, and an electric tabletop convection oven, nothing more.
These two areas, the hot and cold sides of the line, are central to the restaurant, both spatially and ideologically. The entire operation revolves around them. Without a kitchen there is no restaurant; without a strong line there is no kitchen. Therefore, it is essential to maintain cleanliness and order in these areas.
When they arrive in the morning, Rogelio and Kiko perform an opening routine. They turn on all the equipment: ovens, fryers, flat-tops, and hoods. They deliver health code supplies to every section: sanitizer buckets, latex gloves, fancy caps, and probes. They re-up the stations with all the basics: pepper mills and saltshakers, as well as ninth pans for mise en place and squeeze bottles for fats and acids. In your walk-through, you double-check this work. You also double-check the work of the cooks from the night before, their scrupulousness with the closing procedures. You make sure that any mise en place left over in their lowboys from last night has been consolidated, properly labeled, and neatly organized. You make sure that their ovens and fridges have been thoroughly cleaned. You make sure that the prep lists they’ve written for themselves are clear and comprehensive. Then you check the equipment. You make sure that all the fridges are holding a temperature below 4.4°C, to prevent bacterial development. You make sure that all the pilot lights are lit and that the burners are running clear. You make sure that all the hand sinks are stocked with soap and C-folds, that they’re streaming both hot and cold water, and that their drain screens are free of debris. Finally, you make sure that all the hinges, handles, knobs, gaskets, and spouts are gunk-free, that everything, every corner, every tabletop, every surface, looks shipshape, like new, next to godliness. These are the conditions we need in order to cook well.
After the line, it’s time to hit the storage fridges—the walk-in boxes. The watchwords here are the same as on the line—cleanliness and order—but each walk-in also requires its own specific attention.
You start with the fish box. A briny waft of sea air strikes you as you enter. This is good. If another aroma hits you—of chemicals, say, or rot—you know something is wrong, perhaps expensively so. Fish is the most delicate of all foodstuffs in the kitchen. It has the shortest shelf life, the highest price tag, and the weakest constitution. The flesh is easily damaged, and exposure to temperature fluctuations can denature its physical properties. It easily takes on an unattractive “fishy” smell. It becomes mealy. It develops slime. Not only do these transformations happen quickly, but they can also be of great detriment to the cooking process. The minutest degradation of quality impacts the ability of a given piece of fish to undergo the administration of heat. It loses its capacity to retain moisture; it fails to take a sear; it crumples, falls limp, goes floppy. This can harm the business significantly. There is an expectation among discerning diners that fish be cooked to perfection. In their minds, it is a chance for the chef to exhibit his skill, or lack thereof. People know that cooking beautiful fish at home presents a marked degree of difficulty. It breaks apart; it dries out; it’s flavorless. It sticks, even to nonstick pans. When people go to a restaurant, they expect to see a better performance. The fact is, fish is always difficult, even for professionals. To be chef poissonnier in a good restaurant requires extensive experience and mastery of technique. It is one of the most honorable positions on the line, and for good reason. To complicate the exercise by allowing the protein to deteriorate through negligent storage can be ruinous.
So when you enter the fish box, you’re checking on several things:
First is temperature. Whereas most foodstuffs keep well below 4.4°C, the fish box must remain between 1.1°C and 3.3°C.
Next is the manner of storage. All fish must be properly covered, protected from air, and shrouded with an abundance of ice. Whole fishes must be sitting upright in the ice—dorsal fins to the sky as if they were swimming—in order to preserve their anatomical constitution. Laying a whole fish on its side predisposes it to bruising, bone breaks, bloodline punctures, uneven air circulation, and a host of other unwanted conditions that compromise the integrity of the fish. Portioned fishes, on the other hand, must be wrapped tightly with food-service film, laid out flat and even in perforated trays (which keep liquids from pooling), and overspread with ice. Any deviations from these methods of storage must be rectified at once.
Next is the quality of the product. Everything must look fresh and smell fresh, or else it goes in the garbage.
Finally comes general hygiene. All surfaces—shelves, walls, ceilings, and floors—must be spotlessly clean. The fish box, above all places, must be immaculate.
The other boxes come under a similar level of scrutiny. The produce box should smell of fruits and vegetables, the dairy box should smell of milk and cheese, the beverage box should smell of beverages—typically keg beer, which can be nauseating in the morning—and the meat box should smell of blood.
