On Boys, Cakes and Getting in Trouble

Supplying a large volume of pastries daily to our three boutiques as well as a host of other clients, the vast, windowless offsite kitchen just outside Paris where I did my internship was a considerable operation. I'm no good at estimating square footage (and even worse with meters), but to give you some idea of the scale:

• I worked with a team of about a dozen others.
• In addition to the main lab, there were separate rooms for each the pesée (weighing ingredients) , four (ovens) and tour (large machine that churned out laminated doughs).
• The primary walk-in freezer (yes there was more than one) was about the size of the biggest kitchen at LCB.

Everything was prepared by the hundreds (or more - the last time we made chaussons aux pommes I calculated over a thousand turnovers), and then frozen to be baked and/or finished later.

Normally I worked in rotating teams in the main lab, but after about a month into the internship I would periodically be assigned to S, the chef in charge of le four . I'm fairly certain this all started because everyone else was tired of dealing with me - with my slowness and clumsy French - but I didn't care; S was the first person who extended kindness and patience, eventually becoming one of the few true friends I made there. She was the life preserver that helped me stay afloat in a new and (at least in the beginning) unfriendly environment, and I learned a lot from her.

*** 

During my final week I switched from the day shift (7am - 4pm) to working nights (10pm - 7am). While adjusting my schedule to sleep during the day was brutal, I found that I really enjoyed the night shift. Whereas during the day we mostly did prep work and intermediate steps, the night crew finished everything to be delivered on time in the morning. So in a way the tasks felt like more of an accomplishment because the results were so tangible; for most of the night we worked to put together and garnish everything until the deliverymen came to take the pastries away.

On one particular night I was, once again, assigned to work in the four . But instead of S the pâtissier in charge was a young guy, about my age, whom I'll call A because he was Algerian and also very attractive, to the point where each time he showed me how to do something I was more focused on looking at him rather than what he was doing. Over the course of the next several hours this made for several silly, careless mistakes on my part.

"C'est pas grave," he would say, with a slight smile, showing me once again how to do the thing correctly. And all was forgiven. 

The following night I was back in the main lab working with the manager when A, en route to the plonge to drop off dirty dishes, came up behind me and proclaimed, in English, "I miss you."

As he walked away I asked the manager if he was always like that. 

"Ouai," she said emphatically. 

*** 

In addition to the ovens, le four also houses a few other machines that I can only describe as giant food processors with temperature control mechanisms. S had shown me how to use them to prepare various crèmes and confit  in giant quantities, but with A I made praliné , a kind of syrupy paste derived from caramelized hazelnuts and almonds. We had learned about praliné in our first lesson at LCB, and I distinctly remember chef saying not to attempt to make it at home because the processing of the caramelized nuts to achieve the final product is too much for domestic machines. (In fact, as a consultant to kitchen equipment companies, he often uses praliné as a test to see if the motors on food processors are up to strength).  

A explained how they first heat the water and sugar to 118C, then add the nuts and periodically scrape down the sides of the mixer as the mixture caramelized. My job was to watch the temperature of the syrup, since between that, making crème pâtissiere in the adjacent machine, and monitoring the simultaneous baking in the three ovens, he was likely to forget. I suppose my presence was an additional distraction, but from what I could tell it was a welcome one. Afterwards the contents of the mixer were emptied into large metal trays to be taken to the Robocoup in the main lab.

Interns rarely got to touch any of the machines, perhaps for good reason. I had been instructed to use the industrial processor (Robocoup) before, but each time something always went awry. Either I messed up assembling all the parts and the machine wouldn't turn on, or I didn't mix the contents enough, or I made a huge mess when emptying the bowl. The night I was to blend the praliné into its final form - also the last night of my internship - was no exception.

A colleague helped me set everything up, explaining that the machine could only take 3-4 trays of caramelized nuts at once and that I was to leave it on the highest setting for exactly four-and-a-half minutes. I did exactly that, but when I came back and opened the machine after the timer went off, instead of a nice homogenous liquid there was a grainy paste. Puzzled, I called the same colleague over, who determined that the blade hadn't been locked in properly and the motor had jammed. Naturally, this was the exact time that the executive chef came in. 

I understood enough of what the chef, an intimidating and fast-talking sort, was saying to my colleague to know that he was berating me for not being French and therefore not understanding how things are done. I could have been thrown under the bus right then and there, but instead my colleague claimed responsibility because it was she who had initially set up the machine. At that moment I felt immensely relieved that the chef and I had never had a formal introduction and that therefore he didn't know my name; I suppose from now on I'll just be remembered as the intern that broke the Robocoup.

*** 

Each shift had only one brief break. During the day it was for lunch, usually taken around 12:30pm at the cafeteria of the complex that housed the kitchen, and at night we had "breakfast" at 5am after the goods had been dispatched, when we feasted on all the superfluous or damaged pastries that couldn't be sold. For me it was much too early to be eating rich mousse cakes and cream-filled choux pastry, so I always reached for the viennoiserie (brioche, pain chocolat) and tea cakes that were scraps from the four. My favorite? The dainty little Financiers.

When I worked with A he showed me how to fill the molds with batter (almost to the top but not quite) and then, using another piping bag with the smallest tip cut off, inject a bit of praliné into the center. The result was an insanely addictive little almond cake.

Alas, the recipes at work were also off-limits to interns, but this one from Dorie Greenspan comes pretty close.  And unless you have a professional grade food processor at home (or even if you do...), I'd suggest buying your praliné from the store.

Adventures in Sushi Making

​While I still technically have one week left to go (the dreaded night shift), for all intents and purposes my internship is pretty much over. Since Friday was the last time I would be working with the group of people that over the last couple months have pushed me to work harder than I ever have in my life, I thought it would be nice to bring something to share. But what do you feed to a bunch of chefs?

Originally I wanted to bring something American, seeing as everyone in the kitchen is either French or an expat of some other European country. ​However this led to a minor existential conundrum because, really, what is American cuisine? I ruled out desserts (apple pie, chocolate chip cookies) because they didn't seem worthy of my colleagues, which left a small group of savory dishes that were impractical because they either wouldn't keep well overnight or I had no experience preparing them (ribs, fried chicken).

My parents suggested sushi because it's easy to make, share and transport, not to mention that everyone likes it. (Sushi restaurants are everywhere in Paris - some chains even deliver to your apartment). I should note that there is some small irony in me, fourth generation Japanese American on my father's side, preparing a traditional dish like this. Back in the states I am what is often referred to as a "Twinkie" or "banana" (i.e. yellow on the outside; white on the inside). So, like any clueless person trying something new, I took to the internet for advice.​ (I had "made" sushi before at home, by which I mean my parents did most of the work while I nibbled on scraps).

​I found all the ingredients I needed at a Japanese grocery store near Opéra - including a cheater's solution of sushi rice seasoning and a bamboo mat for rolling - and, armed with some food bloggers' tips, proceeded to make California (crab, cucumber, avocado) and Seattle (cucumber, smoked salmon, cream cheese) rolls. I think my favorite piece of internet advice came from Yahoo Answers, where a reader suggested rolling sushi "like you would a large joint." (Don't worry; I didn't lick the seaweed at the end).

Come Friday, maybe it was just the hunger of lunch being many hours past, but the food pretty much all disappeared by the time I finished thanking everyone for the experience and the opportunity. No one had tried a Seattle roll before, so I suppose I did manage to bring a little taste of home.

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3 Types of Crazies You Might Encounter in the 10ème

Each Sunday night I work the dinner shift in the 10th. It's not even in the outermost circle of arrondissements, and yet once we get off work around 11 pm there is no shortage of unsavory individuals around. Here are a few of the most memorable.

1. The Gung-ho Athlete

A couple co-workers and I were heading toward the nearest Metro when a tall athletic man jogging in our direction stopped a few inches in front of us. He proceeded to belt out a couple lines of whatever song was playing on his iPod (it was in English but I didn't recognize it), before continuing on his way. Not that weird, right?

Except that it had been snowing all weekend so the temperature was well below freezing and he was wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and open-toed athletic sandals without socks.

2. The Belligerent Drunkard

Inevitably at the end of every shift, there are a few stragglers who beg us to take their orders before we shut down and start cleaning. I thought this was one such customer, who sidled up with a full pint in hand after the line had dissipated, and asked for an order of fries. I'm fairly certain he was also on something other than alcohol, because after trying and failing to engage us in conversation he disappeared (to unlock his bike, I later learned), returned to toss his beer inside the truck, and began pedaling off on his getaway vehicle.

The beer landed on the hot grill (not in the nearby fryer, thank God), leaving most of us shocked by the resulting steam and acrid smell. My boss, however, immediately took off after him - on foot - and chucked the only weapon she had at the perpetrator: her burger. It hit the guy square in the face.

3. The [Potentially Paranoid Schizophrenic] Conspiracy Theorist

On the same night that we encountered #2, we were chatting near the Metro station when I felt something brush against my bag. Paranoid after being pickpocketed once, I whirled around and found myself face to face with a crazy-eyed black man. (Not tryna be racist here, keep reading).

"I am from Africa," he said in slightly accented English, his attention fixed on me despite the four others standing around me.

"Where are you from? What are you doing here?"

"Uh...I'm a student from the US," I started to say, when he interrupted me with a revelation.

"China is with the al-Qaeda!"

That's when things really started to go off the deep end. He proceeded to tell us he was working with both the FBI and CIA, and at one point even pulled his phone and held it to his ear because he was speaking to one of his "agents."

It was funny at first, but grew tiresome once it became clear he wouldn't leave us alone on his own accord. Also he had the disconcerting habit of getting really close when he spoke to you. It wasn't threatening, per se, but personal space is something I value very highly.

My boss eventually lured him away so I could sneak off into the Metro station by telling him she worked for al-Qaeda.

5 Types of People You Might Meet While Working on a Gourmet Food Truck*

Chances are if you’re voluntarily working five-hour shifts in a space less than half the size of a typical college dorm room alongside four others, you’re probably already a little crazy (or at least eccentric). So just embrace it, because in all likelihood your next job will not be as cool.

1. The Power Tool

He might seem okay at first, but behind the attractive boy-next-door façade lies an irritating web of condescension, cockiness and tendency to blame others that inevitably reminds you of all the frat boys you ever disliked in college. He monopolizes the speakers with his music and has song ADD to boot; it’s okay not to have great taste in music, but at least let something play all the way through once in a while.

If you’re a girl he might try to hit on you. If you’re a guy he will probably ask how much you bench or whether you’ve ever fucked a redhead. Because, guess what? He has. Umm, cool story, bro. Moving on…   

2. The Flirt

Be careful, because not only will he try to distract you from working – he will probably succeed. By all accounts he is one of the most well liked people on staff and is always willing to help out, whether that means taking over your station or giving you a bear hug when you’re cold. Your heart might palpitate a bit when he gives you a peck on each cheek before saying goodbye until you remember that, duh, you’re in France and that kind of gesture is nothing special.

3. The Wisecracker

It’s all fun and games with this guy until he catches wind of something embarrassing that you did, in which case you will never hear the end of it. Case in point: the time I got black out drunk at a party attended by another co-worker and allegedly did many strange things that I don’t recall doing. He’s still laughing about it. But when he isn't making fun of you he's probably offering you sage life advice from the long professional career he had before entering the restaurant industry.

4. The Proud New Yorker

Although this kid most likely grew up in a suburb, he possesses all the self-entitlement of a stereotypical Manhattanite. He’s fast-talking, opinionated and an expert on everything – particularly when it comes to anything culturally related. Oh, but didn’t you know? New York City is the epicenter of civilization.

5. Canadian Expats**

Canadians never get stressed out when the gas doesn’t turn on or the automated ordering system malfunctions, nor are they ever goaded by the Power Tool’s off-color jokes. They work hard, provide comic relief through the occasional deadpan one-liner and play a well-curated selection of indie music; that is when the Power Tool isn’t around. Rock on, guys.

*The people described in this list are fictitious. Any similarity to any person living or dead is merely coincidental.

**This also applies to British expats.

Shit Happens

Twice a week I pick up two boys after school, walk them home, and play with them until their mother returns from work. Allegedly my job is also to teach them English (they're French), something at which I have not been particularly successful. The brothers are 3 and 5, and about as well-behaved as one can expect two boys of their ages to be. (I'm kidding - they're actually pretty good most of the time, except for when they get too rambunctious and I have to physically separate them). Last week, however, was an incident that I doubt any of us will forget any time soon.

We were about halfway home when 3 starts tugging on my arm and crying for his mother. I reassure him that she will come back soon, but as we continue to walk the tantrum escalates in volume and intensity. Finally he stops in the middle of the sidewalk and, still holding my hand, stamps his feet while screaming wordlessly. 

And that's when I hear it - an unmistakeable fart followed by a god-awful stench.

"He needs to go to the bathroom," says 5, unhelpfully.

We're only a few blocks away from their apartment, but 3 doesn't want to move. (Not that I blame him; soiling yourself is probably one of the most uncomfortable feelings ever). He's still crying, so I pick him up and continue onwards with 5 in tow.

By the time we get to the front door the tears have subsided and 3 is babbling on about what he wants for his afternoon snack, but I'm thinking ahead to how I'm going to handle the situation. (Previously, 3 was too shy to go to the bathroom in my presence and preferred to wait for his mom to get home).

I set their snacks out on the dining room table, noticing that 3 doesn't take a seat like he usually does but instead eats standing up. 5 keeps wrinkling his nose and scowling at his brother, telling him to go to the bathroom. I ask 3 several times if he wants to go, but he keeps saying no.

They finish eating, and 3 asks if he can have some chocolate. I take the opportunity to bargain, saying that if he goes to the bathroom he can eat chocolate afterwards. 3 merely pouts. After turning down my offer again, I hold my breath and carry him into the bathroom.

3 initially struggles, but becomes submissive as I start to remove his pants. It immediately becomes clear that not only did he poop, he appears to have had an episode of exploding diarrhea. As I try to figure out where to put his soiled clothing so as not to contaminate the house, 3 takes the opportunity to clamber up to the toilet to take a piss, smearing crap all over the seat in the process.

Naturally 5 bursts in at exactly this moment, on the pretext of having to pee, and freaks out when he sees the state of the toilet seat.

"Go play with your toys," I urge him.

"You better clean that really well!" 5 says to me over his shoulder as he leaves.

Meanwhile 3 has finished and looks at me expectantly. Seeing as his entire lower body is covered in filth, I decide it's best to stick him in the bathtub and hose him down with the detachable shower head. 3 acquiesces, but only after I reassure him that I won't get his head wet.

Once clean 3's mood lightens considerably. After drying him off he escapes to the hallway, and I have to catch him so I can put clean clothes on.

I guess you could call it a bonding experience, because I notice that suddenly 3 is a lot less shy around me and that he actually listens when I tell him to do (or not to do) things. Seeing as this was around Thanksgiving time, I couldn't help but think how thankful I am not to be a parent.

But it seems that 3 finally trusts me now, so that's something.

An Antidote for the Chronic Shopaholic

If you already know me pretty well and are reading this right now, I'm sure I don't need to beat around the bush when I say that I have a money spending problem. I haven't gone to therapy for it or anything (yet) but in the past there have been many poor fiscal decisions made on my part. The summer that I worked at Nordstrom during the annual Anniversary Sale, fell prey to the temptation of the employee discount and ultimately spent more than I earned (which was actually quite a lot; nothing like getting paid on commission to light a fire under one's ass) comes to mind. Usually it's clothes and accessories that get me, but I've also made some pretty bizarre and frivolous purchases. (See: the six wide-mouth quart-size Mason jars currently sitting in my brother's attic from when I went through my mixologist phase).

There is an entire psychology behind shopping, believe it or not, but in layperson's terms this piece on Man Repeller really hits the nail on the head. At the peak of my shopping addiction, which I would say spanned my university years, every time I felt the urge to buy coming on I would sit at my computer, meticulously add things to my virtual shopping cart at my favorite online stores (sometimes scouring several at once in different tabs), take a deep breath, and then - whoosh - hit command + Q. Urge temporarily sated and zero money spent. If that's not a win-win I don't know what is.  

These days it's a little different. The only online shopping I do now is the occasional purchase through Amazon.fr, because the mere thought of international shipping costs from my usual haunts sends an uncomfortably large chill down my spine. But, more importantly, I have a new job that somehow provides the same catharsis as Shopping Cart Syndrome.

As a Paris contributor for Shopikon, I go around making appointments with independent retailers to interview them and take photos of the stores. There are a lot of things that I enjoy about the process, namely the chance to meet cool people and talk to them about what they're most passionate about, practicing my French, getting to know my DSLR more intimately than ever, and exploring parts of the city that I haven't seen before. On occasion I might even get some free swag.

It's also refreshing to be inside a shop in a purely professional context. Without the pressure and expectation to make a purchase I...actually don't buy anything. Since I only pick stores that are of personal interest, of course there are things I see inside that I wouldn't mind owning. But want and need are two very different things.

Call it reformation, growing up, whatever, but I'm doing much better. So while I'm still relying on my savings to pay the rent, the money I'm earning through freelancing and other part time work at least covers food, transportation and the additional odd expense.