the challenge is learning to speak italian better
the challenge is feeling comfortable in a new place, all by myself
I can be patient with myself
I can feel successful
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
reflection
what do i want?
I want to be a part of a social movement focused on access to local, seasonal, organic meals. I want to cook in spaces that encourage strangers to sit together, talk together, enjoy together. I want to cook food that makes people say "wow!" I want to cook with like-minded people. I want collaboration. I want food to blend with revelry, I want revelry to be found within a life of hard work and focus and dedication, I want to live amongst friends, I want time for myself, I want beauty and adventure, I want to share my favorite things with you, I want knowledge of cooking deep within my bones so that I can conjure food magic at any moment, with my eyes closed if I felt like it. I want to feed a hundred hungry new yorkers with speed and grace, i want to feed a few dear friends slowly and with grace.
Now, this is gonna feel like a non-sequitur, but it will come back around to "what i want," so just hang on...
Certain foods in Italy are given the status of "denominazione di origine controllata" (DOP). DOP status is given to regional specialty foods in order to recognize these foods as unique and to prevent competitors from misleading consumers with imitation products. For example, Parmigiano-Reggiano must by law be made in a specific way and come from the specific region around Parma, or else it cannot be called Parmigiano-Reggiano (there are inspectors and regulators and everything, it's all very official).
When a food gains DOP status, something is gained (the celebration of a unique regional product, the outlawing of imitators) but something is also lost, as DOP status often leads to an increased level of mass-production and standardization. There can be a decrease in artisan skills, ancient tools and methods, variety. The word sterilization comes to mind.
Now, DOP products are certainly much better than the average food you will find in the average supermarket in the United States (processed foods made with corn syrup, factory farm produce treated with a healthy dose of chemicals, genetically modified food). And DOP status does not always signify a subtle movement towards standardization and mass production (I had an absolutely beautiful DOP balsamic vinegar from Reggio Emilia that was aged for years and years in wooden barrels in the attic of an old farmhouse and sold in small batches), but I believe it often does.
The exciting part - there are food bandits in Italy. Local artisans who do not care to be widely recognized and do not seek DOP status. All they do is make beautiful cheese or wine or salumi, and share it with their neighbors and friends. I've been lucky enough to have raw milk goat cheese from Tuscany, white wine from the mountains of Veneto, handmade salumi from Le Marche. But, stumbling upon these products requires luck, knowledgable friends, and more luck. Additionally, these food bandits seem to be spread thin throughout the country of Italy. They're like isolated beacons of hope and goodness.
I yearn for more collaboration among food bandits, I want restaurants run by food bandits or at the very least run by friends of food bandits. And I'm not sure that this sort of culture or collaboration exists in Italy.
Where are the food bandits and the local markets and the restaurants all intertwined? Where do cooks and artisans and farmers seem to inspire one another and create what feels like a tangible food movement? Brooklyn! My home! All the inspiring people seem to know each other, the green market folks and the artisan chocolate makers and the butchers of local animals and the cooks and the rooftop gardeners and the pirate radio people and the food truck vendors and the farmers. I think that something is happening in New York that doesn't exist in Italy. Or al least, if it exists in Italy, I have not been able to find it in sustained doses. The sad part is, I no longer expect to find it in sustained doses. I think I feel defeated on that front.
I don't know what I expected to find here in Italy. A legion of grandmothers who could teach me fantastic culinary secrets in only two months despite my inability to speak or understand very much italian. Communities of young folks who cook with inspiration using bandit ingredients and methods. Young bandits and old grandmothers working together to teach me all their secrets. This does not exist.
So, why am I in Italy? That's what I've been asking myself. I've learned about local products, cooking techniques, the balancing of flavors and textures and colors, presentation, professionalism. But what do I want to learn? In the absence of the food bandit culture which I want so badly, I will learn fresh pasta. I will work hard, try not to feel too lonely or isolated, and gain some skill. Unfortunately, I think that's the best I can hope for.
Starting soon, I'll be working in a tiny town (4,500 people) sort of vaguely near Parma. My school tells me that I'll have the chance to learn fresh pasta here.
I hope that the food in my new kitchen is exciting, imaginative, and inspired. But who knows.
The most exciting part about food, for me, is sharing it with people, and telling the story of the bandits and farmers and artisans and cooks who made it all possible. For this, I might have to wait until November, when I come home.
I want to be a part of a social movement focused on access to local, seasonal, organic meals. I want to cook in spaces that encourage strangers to sit together, talk together, enjoy together. I want to cook food that makes people say "wow!" I want to cook with like-minded people. I want collaboration. I want food to blend with revelry, I want revelry to be found within a life of hard work and focus and dedication, I want to live amongst friends, I want time for myself, I want beauty and adventure, I want to share my favorite things with you, I want knowledge of cooking deep within my bones so that I can conjure food magic at any moment, with my eyes closed if I felt like it. I want to feed a hundred hungry new yorkers with speed and grace, i want to feed a few dear friends slowly and with grace.
Now, this is gonna feel like a non-sequitur, but it will come back around to "what i want," so just hang on...
Certain foods in Italy are given the status of "denominazione di origine controllata" (DOP). DOP status is given to regional specialty foods in order to recognize these foods as unique and to prevent competitors from misleading consumers with imitation products. For example, Parmigiano-Reggiano must by law be made in a specific way and come from the specific region around Parma, or else it cannot be called Parmigiano-Reggiano (there are inspectors and regulators and everything, it's all very official).
When a food gains DOP status, something is gained (the celebration of a unique regional product, the outlawing of imitators) but something is also lost, as DOP status often leads to an increased level of mass-production and standardization. There can be a decrease in artisan skills, ancient tools and methods, variety. The word sterilization comes to mind.
Now, DOP products are certainly much better than the average food you will find in the average supermarket in the United States (processed foods made with corn syrup, factory farm produce treated with a healthy dose of chemicals, genetically modified food). And DOP status does not always signify a subtle movement towards standardization and mass production (I had an absolutely beautiful DOP balsamic vinegar from Reggio Emilia that was aged for years and years in wooden barrels in the attic of an old farmhouse and sold in small batches), but I believe it often does.
The exciting part - there are food bandits in Italy. Local artisans who do not care to be widely recognized and do not seek DOP status. All they do is make beautiful cheese or wine or salumi, and share it with their neighbors and friends. I've been lucky enough to have raw milk goat cheese from Tuscany, white wine from the mountains of Veneto, handmade salumi from Le Marche. But, stumbling upon these products requires luck, knowledgable friends, and more luck. Additionally, these food bandits seem to be spread thin throughout the country of Italy. They're like isolated beacons of hope and goodness.
I yearn for more collaboration among food bandits, I want restaurants run by food bandits or at the very least run by friends of food bandits. And I'm not sure that this sort of culture or collaboration exists in Italy.
Where are the food bandits and the local markets and the restaurants all intertwined? Where do cooks and artisans and farmers seem to inspire one another and create what feels like a tangible food movement? Brooklyn! My home! All the inspiring people seem to know each other, the green market folks and the artisan chocolate makers and the butchers of local animals and the cooks and the rooftop gardeners and the pirate radio people and the food truck vendors and the farmers. I think that something is happening in New York that doesn't exist in Italy. Or al least, if it exists in Italy, I have not been able to find it in sustained doses. The sad part is, I no longer expect to find it in sustained doses. I think I feel defeated on that front.
I don't know what I expected to find here in Italy. A legion of grandmothers who could teach me fantastic culinary secrets in only two months despite my inability to speak or understand very much italian. Communities of young folks who cook with inspiration using bandit ingredients and methods. Young bandits and old grandmothers working together to teach me all their secrets. This does not exist.
So, why am I in Italy? That's what I've been asking myself. I've learned about local products, cooking techniques, the balancing of flavors and textures and colors, presentation, professionalism. But what do I want to learn? In the absence of the food bandit culture which I want so badly, I will learn fresh pasta. I will work hard, try not to feel too lonely or isolated, and gain some skill. Unfortunately, I think that's the best I can hope for.
Starting soon, I'll be working in a tiny town (4,500 people) sort of vaguely near Parma. My school tells me that I'll have the chance to learn fresh pasta here.
I hope that the food in my new kitchen is exciting, imaginative, and inspired. But who knows.
The most exciting part about food, for me, is sharing it with people, and telling the story of the bandits and farmers and artisans and cooks who made it all possible. For this, I might have to wait until November, when I come home.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
changes
there are some good things here. i like being near the sea. there's a pine forest that i rode my busted bike through this afternoon (it reminded me of the bike trail in cape cod, i kept waiting for my favorite sandwich place to appear around the next corner but it never did). there's some good camaraderie in my kitchen. i generally feel accepted and comfortable at work. we eat really well. but, i'm going to find another kitchen. i can participate more somewhere else, i can learn more somewhere else, i can be inspired more. i'm not gonna settle. i'm gonna always aim as high as i can. i crave heroes, local and seasonal ingredients, food that inspires a sense of community. when and where does food inspire a sense of community? how can i be a part of this? that's the path i'm ultimately on. that's the quest.
no more ants in the kitchen, cigarette smoke in the kitchen, fathers fighting with sons, a roommate with an alarm that goes off over and over again in the morning. no more fourteen hour days? we'll have to see about that one. enough standing and watching other people cook. there's nothing happening in the La Pineta kitchen that I couldn't do myself if given the chance (except maybe read the meal tickets, shorthand italian chicken-scratch, yikes). so, i'm leaving. if i'm not learning, participating, and being inspired, then i must go somewhere else. and i'll miss the sea, the familiarity of the routines i've learned here, the comfort of having gotten the hang of a a fair amount of stuff.
i'll always welcome the chance to take a risk in order to find something great.
off again into the unknown. a whole new set of people and routines and organization systems and recipes, a whole new kitchen to learn. i don't know where i'll be going. i should know in a few days.
i have to say that La Pineta is strikingly pretty, right by the sea, and their food is as fresh as it gets, with really nice strong flavors. it's very good, simple food in a beautiful place. not a lot more you can ask for. but, their kitchen is not uplifting. i know that uplifting kitchens exist. i will exist in uplifting kitchens.
lasting memories... backdoor deals with shady fishermen that result in the purchase of huge, beautiful, fresh tuna fish. eating the belly meat from the tuna as soon as it is filleted - cooks eating the best part themselves, love it. the son arguing with the father (again) and holding a pretty big fish in his hand, a whole fish, and waving it around wildly as he argues. the moon and the sea. eating watermelon with the matriarch one night after serving the usual sixty people for dinner - she sits outside slumped in a chair, watermelon in one hand and a cigarette in the other, smiling because it's her kitchen, her world, and all we can do is hope to sling food as fast as her when we're her age. not sleeping enough, becoming very weary and then pretty sad. feeling strong again, remembering to take better care of myself. first arriving here, sunset. riding on the back of motorbikes, feeling like jack nicholson in Easy Rider.
i have no idea if i'll end up somewhere better. i hope this works out. i know what it feels like to work in a kitchen and feel very happy. it doesn't feel right here. i hope i can achieve that good kitchen feeling here in italy even though i still don't speak italian very well. wish me luck...
no more ants in the kitchen, cigarette smoke in the kitchen, fathers fighting with sons, a roommate with an alarm that goes off over and over again in the morning. no more fourteen hour days? we'll have to see about that one. enough standing and watching other people cook. there's nothing happening in the La Pineta kitchen that I couldn't do myself if given the chance (except maybe read the meal tickets, shorthand italian chicken-scratch, yikes). so, i'm leaving. if i'm not learning, participating, and being inspired, then i must go somewhere else. and i'll miss the sea, the familiarity of the routines i've learned here, the comfort of having gotten the hang of a a fair amount of stuff.
i'll always welcome the chance to take a risk in order to find something great.
off again into the unknown. a whole new set of people and routines and organization systems and recipes, a whole new kitchen to learn. i don't know where i'll be going. i should know in a few days.
i have to say that La Pineta is strikingly pretty, right by the sea, and their food is as fresh as it gets, with really nice strong flavors. it's very good, simple food in a beautiful place. not a lot more you can ask for. but, their kitchen is not uplifting. i know that uplifting kitchens exist. i will exist in uplifting kitchens.
lasting memories... backdoor deals with shady fishermen that result in the purchase of huge, beautiful, fresh tuna fish. eating the belly meat from the tuna as soon as it is filleted - cooks eating the best part themselves, love it. the son arguing with the father (again) and holding a pretty big fish in his hand, a whole fish, and waving it around wildly as he argues. the moon and the sea. eating watermelon with the matriarch one night after serving the usual sixty people for dinner - she sits outside slumped in a chair, watermelon in one hand and a cigarette in the other, smiling because it's her kitchen, her world, and all we can do is hope to sling food as fast as her when we're her age. not sleeping enough, becoming very weary and then pretty sad. feeling strong again, remembering to take better care of myself. first arriving here, sunset. riding on the back of motorbikes, feeling like jack nicholson in Easy Rider.
i have no idea if i'll end up somewhere better. i hope this works out. i know what it feels like to work in a kitchen and feel very happy. it doesn't feel right here. i hope i can achieve that good kitchen feeling here in italy even though i still don't speak italian very well. wish me luck...
Friday, August 13, 2010
chaos kitchen
i remember being in spanish class in 7th grade. we used to do these practice exercises where the teacher would tell us things in spanish like, touch your pencil, touch your desk, touch the wall. one day, the teacher called on a kid to touch the door. he looked at her, not really understanding what she had asked him to do. she said it again in spanish, touch the door, only this time she encouraged him by saying "rapido, rapido!" jolted by this, the kid shot up from his desk, looked around confusedly for a second, ran towards the door, ran through the open door and into the hallway and slammed the door behind him. we all laughed. a lot. he didn't exactly understand what was being asked of him and he made a mistake. touch the door, do not run outside and close the door. i'm telling this story because at work people will sometimes frantically tell me something in italian, and i feel a little like that kid from spanish class, understanding the gist of what i am being told but not necessarily executing tasks with precision. But (!) something really cool has been happening recently. it happened once. and then again. and now it happens fairly regularly. someone will say something to me in urgent kitchen italian, and i will magically understand every single word they have said to me. it's weird and great.
sometimes at the end of the day our kitchen reminds me of one of the trashed hotel rooms from the movie Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Maybe not as trashed as that, but perhaps similar in feel and spirit. the sense that utter mayhem has just occurred. random things strewn around the kitchen.
i'm still not learning or participating in the ways that i want to. the seafood tastes good though.
sometimes at the end of the day our kitchen reminds me of one of the trashed hotel rooms from the movie Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Maybe not as trashed as that, but perhaps similar in feel and spirit. the sense that utter mayhem has just occurred. random things strewn around the kitchen.
i'm still not learning or participating in the ways that i want to. the seafood tastes good though.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
work
all i do is work, eat, and sleep. i dont feel very alive. that's the negative side of things.
unrelated - every once in a while, a total wing-nut beach character will walk into our kitchen. not the restaurant, the kitchen. our chef is a stoic guy, and we cook some serious food, and the wing-nut will invariably be welcomed in with open arms, kisses on the cheek, huge hellos, everything. it reminds me of coney island, how no matter how strange a person might be, they won't be out of place. our characters include old hairy men wearing nothing but speedo underwear, old women with hacking cigarette coughs, a pair of middle-aged bald identical twins who may also be brothers of the chef. we feed the men from Senegal who sell trinkets on the beach.
my co-workers think that trying to speak to me in english is the absolute funniest thing in the world. in the middle of the dinner rush, when we typically feed about 60 people, one of the kitchen guys will shout out something like, "Yoshua! Looook! The salt, is on, the table!" "Good!" I reply, as the kitchen worker is utterly consumed by hysterical laughter. i spent 10 minutes the other day explaining to someone how to say the word 'oven.' "haaven?" "uh-vin." "haa-ven."
There is not a lot of room for me in the kitchen. i observe, i help when i can, i don't get in the way. i work with fish sometimes, filleting big fish and small fish, i cut vegetables, do other random stuff, fry things sometimes, i don't get to cook with fire enough or plate dishes enough. the less engaged i am, the less happy i am, and i'm not super happy right now. There's a matriarch in the kitchen who is not interested in teaching me. some guys look out for me though, and show me things from time to time, let me try things. i assert myself more and more though as i feel more comfortable, as i understand more, as i learn things in italian. i recognize that the seafood is very fresh (despite the messy, chaotic kitchen - we feed the alley cat. there is an ant problem that nobody seems to care about). we receive beautiful whole fish, red shrimp and scampi shrimp that don't exist in new york as far as i know.
i managed to wrangle for myself a junk bike that i can ride to work. at night i have to travel through a patch of unpaved road - there are no lights, just trees and stars. i have to walk the bike. i can barely see my hands on the handlebars. i like this part of my day. the beach is right in front of me but i don't get to enjoy it, although i'm glad it's there. i worry that i'm not learning as much as i could somewhere else. i dont feel like this restaurant is using me effectively. but then again, i dont speak or understand italian very well, and there is not that much time for them to show me every little thing, i need to just keep watching and memorizing and ask to step in when i know how to do things. i want to learn pasta and cook with fresh seasonal produce and be exposed to interesting cheeses and i dont have any of that. i'm learning seafood, which is certainly something, but i dont feel inspired. and i'm very tired.
unrelated - every once in a while, a total wing-nut beach character will walk into our kitchen. not the restaurant, the kitchen. our chef is a stoic guy, and we cook some serious food, and the wing-nut will invariably be welcomed in with open arms, kisses on the cheek, huge hellos, everything. it reminds me of coney island, how no matter how strange a person might be, they won't be out of place. our characters include old hairy men wearing nothing but speedo underwear, old women with hacking cigarette coughs, a pair of middle-aged bald identical twins who may also be brothers of the chef. we feed the men from Senegal who sell trinkets on the beach.
my co-workers think that trying to speak to me in english is the absolute funniest thing in the world. in the middle of the dinner rush, when we typically feed about 60 people, one of the kitchen guys will shout out something like, "Yoshua! Looook! The salt, is on, the table!" "Good!" I reply, as the kitchen worker is utterly consumed by hysterical laughter. i spent 10 minutes the other day explaining to someone how to say the word 'oven.' "haaven?" "uh-vin." "haa-ven."
There is not a lot of room for me in the kitchen. i observe, i help when i can, i don't get in the way. i work with fish sometimes, filleting big fish and small fish, i cut vegetables, do other random stuff, fry things sometimes, i don't get to cook with fire enough or plate dishes enough. the less engaged i am, the less happy i am, and i'm not super happy right now. There's a matriarch in the kitchen who is not interested in teaching me. some guys look out for me though, and show me things from time to time, let me try things. i assert myself more and more though as i feel more comfortable, as i understand more, as i learn things in italian. i recognize that the seafood is very fresh (despite the messy, chaotic kitchen - we feed the alley cat. there is an ant problem that nobody seems to care about). we receive beautiful whole fish, red shrimp and scampi shrimp that don't exist in new york as far as i know.
i managed to wrangle for myself a junk bike that i can ride to work. at night i have to travel through a patch of unpaved road - there are no lights, just trees and stars. i have to walk the bike. i can barely see my hands on the handlebars. i like this part of my day. the beach is right in front of me but i don't get to enjoy it, although i'm glad it's there. i worry that i'm not learning as much as i could somewhere else. i dont feel like this restaurant is using me effectively. but then again, i dont speak or understand italian very well, and there is not that much time for them to show me every little thing, i need to just keep watching and memorizing and ask to step in when i know how to do things. i want to learn pasta and cook with fresh seasonal produce and be exposed to interesting cheeses and i dont have any of that. i'm learning seafood, which is certainly something, but i dont feel inspired. and i'm very tired.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
bibbona
ok, lasting memories from the past week or two... riding home on the back of a co-worker's motorcycle in the middle of the night after my first day of work in the tiny town of marina di bibbona and thinking how life has taken me to such completely unexpected places. watching a real tornado swirl over the mediterranean sea and proceed to rain hail on the restaurant and momentarily knock the power out while we hardly stopped cooking lunch for our guests. sunsets. adventures into the mountains to attend farm parties with the best food, friends, community, and homemade wine and beer i could ever hope for (fantastically inspiring, beautiful, must write more about this later). a whole roasted pig. dancing. my last days cooking in colorno until my final exams in october.
i sliced my finger today, so typing is hard. today was my third day in my new kitchen. the rhythm of the day has been getting slightly smoother. everything is in italian. i get slightly more responsibility each day. i like my co-workers. my apartment is a dump. i have a roommate who is a talented cook and a good guy. we can sort of communicate with one another in italian. it's actually really hard to type with this cut finger (don't worry mom it's not too bad).
the internet doesnt work here very well at all, so writing may continue to be haphazard. my new kitchen is busy, hectic, dirty, pretty fun, somewhat confusing, and not fantastically inspiring but i'm gonna give it a little more time before passing final judgment.
this is such a bare minimum update. i'd like to write much more soon. i have very little time though, i've literally been working 13ish hour days, maybe longer. tired. hurt finger. off to bed i go. next time i wanna write about the funny cast of characters i'm now involved in with my new restaurant, the work i do, the food, the scenery, how we all wear these bandanna things at work that look pretty dang good and make me feel like a pirate, other random thoughts, insight, feelings, general brilliance and trueness of heart.
i sliced my finger today, so typing is hard. today was my third day in my new kitchen. the rhythm of the day has been getting slightly smoother. everything is in italian. i get slightly more responsibility each day. i like my co-workers. my apartment is a dump. i have a roommate who is a talented cook and a good guy. we can sort of communicate with one another in italian. it's actually really hard to type with this cut finger (don't worry mom it's not too bad).
the internet doesnt work here very well at all, so writing may continue to be haphazard. my new kitchen is busy, hectic, dirty, pretty fun, somewhat confusing, and not fantastically inspiring but i'm gonna give it a little more time before passing final judgment.
this is such a bare minimum update. i'd like to write much more soon. i have very little time though, i've literally been working 13ish hour days, maybe longer. tired. hurt finger. off to bed i go. next time i wanna write about the funny cast of characters i'm now involved in with my new restaurant, the work i do, the food, the scenery, how we all wear these bandanna things at work that look pretty dang good and make me feel like a pirate, other random thoughts, insight, feelings, general brilliance and trueness of heart.
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