And have a good time doing it.
Aurora alumni.
This past Wednesday I had the pleasure of cooking alongside some of Vancouver’s most elite chefs. I use the word cooking loosely, as I was really just trying to stay out of everyone’s way and grab a few nice photos in the process.
Mission somewhat accomplished.
As is predictably the case when you throw many chefs in a confined space, then ask them to produce seven courses of the finest food available, I became but one small part of a giant, beer-drinking, knife-wielding, good-time-having machine.
And Why Do Australians Love It So Much?
Strange food from a distant land.
I work with a man (more of a boy really) named Tom Giblin. Most days, he comes to work and immediately makes himself some toast. Onto that toast, he puts butter, followed by a dark, sticky, tar-like substance from a tube. This is Vegemite. I was fascinated by his use of it and had to find out what made this resinous goo so appealing to him and his country-mates. I interviewed Tom last night and this is what I found out:
Butter On The Endive: Vegemite. (Tom sneers as I mispronounce the name).
Tom: It’s Vegemite, not Vegimate. (Imagine a slightly posh Australian accent for the rest of the interview).
BOTE: Ok, so what is it exactly Tom?
Tom: As far as I know Vegemite is a by-product of brewing beer, but you should probably look that up on the internet, cause I’m not exactly sure.
This isn’t real, this isn’t happening.
Happy place: a giant pile of sausages.
Dear diary,
There is some major sporting event going on in town next week and apparently it’s a big deal. I have been wondering what’s been going on for awhile - lots of official looking types with walkie-talkies walking around and they have very shiny vehicles that they zip around in. It’s starting to really inconvenience me too. I can’t park my car where I usually do, even though Whistler is virtually empty of visitors right now, and I have to walk an extra five minutes from my $20 parking spot to get to work. The nerve of these people.
And it gets better. I was casually chatting with chef yesterday and he was telling me that starting next Saturday we will be doing anywhere from 500-600 customers per day for the two-week duration of this little winter romp-around. Jesus christ, nobody told me about this. I never would of taken the job if I knew I would have to work this hard. I think I might be developing a stomach ache. I’m going to plant the seed at work today by starting to complain about my gastro-intestinal problems. Then when I call in sick for those two weeks, it won’t be that big of a surprise. Just like I did in elementary school when I wanted to stay home and watch 21 Jump Street.
No, I’m just joking, I love being busy and this will be a new level of busy I am not at all familiar with. I will try to make the best of it and keep writing about the trials and tribulations of feeding the world. Anyways, I have to go eat some cereal, talk soon.
Dear readers, share your stories of heartbreak and triumph in the comments section. We can give each other strength.
300 covers = a lot of dishes.
Koji, Whistler’s most eligible bachelor.
I call it “the crush”. It is 10:35 pm. The time of night when the dishes start piling up with such speed and ferocity that not even the most seasoned of dishwasher can keep up. The last of the main course plates are coming back just as the cooks start violently tearing down their stations. As I bring another armload of inserts and utensils to the dish area, I look Koji in the eye and whisper, “I’m sorry”.
This is also the time when the dishwashers take their evening meal break. As they sit peacefully in the back, eating their dinner and talking about the next day’s snow conditions, the pile grows like an out-of-control sourdough experiment. They return, take a deep breath, and carry on.
This is the first post from new B.O.T.E. contributor Katie Sanders!
Once upon a time, I had the most amazing bagel. Granted, I was under the influence of pain killers, flat beer and jet-lag at the time, but still, that bagel stands out as the most amazing I’ve ever had. It was chewy and dense, yet somehow still delicate. I didn’t bother to dress it up, because I could tell just by looking that to put anything on it would be something akin to a chef’s sacrilege. It was plain bagel bliss. Since that day I have looked in vain for a bagel to be it’s equal. For years I have remained disappointed.
Until now.
A minute of my life on the mountain.
I made a little film (that’s right, I’m calling it a film!) focusing on one minute of a recent service at Araxi Restaurant. It takes place in those early moments of a busy night when the restaurant is filling up rapidly but you have only seen a few scattered bills trickle in. The customers are taking their time – this is their night, and they won’t be rushed. They linger over their glasses of champagne, maybe ordering a half-dozen oysters to get things started – just looking for any excuse to delay the inevitable taking of the order. Meanwhile, I’m in the back, amped-up on coffee, ready to fucking explode.
As garnishes get smaller, so do the tools used to plate them.
Focus.
Here is the biggest death blow, dagger insertion, piss-on-grave, pile of crap article you will ever read about anything [NYT]. No, it’s not that bad, but it made me laugh. Come on, a whole article about fancy chefs and their tweezers. Jesus.
Three moments from the week that was.
Lay down with me honey.
I got something to say.
I’m afraid you’re going to break my heart.
Beans I’ve never seen.
We let the sun come up on us again.
We just got a shit-load of these orca beans (also known as calypso or yin yang beans) from North Arm Farm. They are just stunning in their dried state. Just stunning. If you haven’t figured out why they are called orca beans yet, just keep staring at them and it will become very clear. I am drinking wine out of a coffee mug. I have wine glasses, but I like my mug right now. It’s very late and I live in the woods. Alone.
James was saying these are good fresh in the summer cooked in butter. I bet they are. I long for Summer on my drives down the mountain. My heater core is busted and it gets very cold. I have to get that fixed soon. I think I bought a lemon.
Anyways, the beans are creamy and delicious when cooked. They do lose their orca-ness though, but whatever, nothing lasts forever, does it? Fuck you expanding universe.
The mafia is ruining it for everyone.
So I was at work today, just doing the list and contemplating life, when I heard some really sad news. You may or may not have heard already, but the buffalo mozzarella industry in southern Italy is having a rough year. Last year health authorities found high levels of dioxins in the cheese. The product, the best of which is from Campania, is being fucked by the mafia, who are using the countryside to dispose of large amounts of toxic waste. The liquid that the mighty water buffalo are drinking in some areas is now so full of nasty shit that it is filtering into the cheese. Check out this post on the The Lede [NYT] from last year for more.
So now the price is going up, and the product is inconsistent, and it’s off the menu, and we’re all fucked.
