From Commis to Concept

Ever since I can remember, I loved cooking shows.  I loved shows where the producers determined the ingredients the contestants would need to use.  There was always one ingredient that was a gotcha like sardines in a dessert.  I liked shows where they traveled to taste food like the locals, regardless of the odd foods they would have to try.  I liked the shows where they would tell you what to do and how to cook what they were making.  I rarely made the meals they taught but I always marveled at the technique.  

So, when my parents asked me what I wanted to do after high school, I realized; I was going to go to culinary school and learn to cook professionally.  

In culinary school they teach you how to cook the five mother sauces and how to use them.  They teach you how to julienne a carrot into thin strips and cut an onion into perfect little squares.  I learned how to butcher a whole chicken and eventually a massive cow.  I learned everything about the kitchen I would need to know to go into the real world and get my first job.

A nice restaurant hired me almost immediately as a commis chef on the garde manger station, a station I was least excited to work at.  But I did it, preparing the salads and whatever other cold dishes the executive chef had my chef de partie do that day.  Eventually I made my way around the kitchen, first to each of the stations and then up to chef de partie. The hours in the kitchen were long, the days were many, and getting time off was a nightmare and near impossible.  The executive chef was not unlike Gordan Ramsay and it seemed to trickle down throughout the staff.  Messing up was not an option and everyone knew it.

“If I had my own kitchen…” Reggie started one day at Johnny’s, a local bar my coworkers and I frequented after work. 

“Finish that sentence” I demanded knowing that Reggie had a big mouth and would talk smack on anyone and everyone including the executive chef.

“If I had my own kitchen, I wouldn’t be so uptight.  If someone messed up, I would show them how to do it properly with care and kindness.” 

“If I had my own kitchen, I would make fun food.  With hydrogen and melted sugar,” said Vivian, taking a sip from the pint of IPA in front of her.

“If I had my own kitchen, I would do whatever I wanted,” I said.  

The conversation moved away from the topic at hand but as I swerved the short way back to my apartment, later that night, the topic hit me again.  What if?

In the morning, I woke up with my usual sleepiness from a long day of work and a long night of heavy drinking.  I made myself a strong pot of coffee, showered and headed back to work.  As I was cutting the carrots, onions, and celery, I thought about opening a new restaurant.  As I saute the vegetables and make them into a stock, I thought about opening a new restaurant.  Throughout dinner service, I thought about opening a new restaurant.  By closing time, I realize I need to figure out how to make it work.

“Coming to Johnny’s?” Reggie asked me, Vivan beside him.

“Not tonight. I have something I need to do.” 

“Suite yourself,” said Vivan, turning around and walking toward the dive bar.

I walked home, all the while crunching numbers in my head.  How much would rent for a restaurant space be?  What about equipment?  Can I get money for staff?  Would friends and family help or would I need to go to a bank?  Would a bank even help me or would they turn me away because of my lack of credit and inexperience in the kitchen?

When I got home, I showered, changed into comfy clothes I hadn’t seen in months, opened a bottle of Cabernet and poured a generous pour into a goblet.  I then grabbed a spiral-bound notebook I bought before starting my culinary classes but never got past writing in the sixth page, and a pen tucked in the spiral.  Hopefully, the pen still worked. 

I made my way to the stool on my balcony, setting the wine on the ground, and I started scribbling my ideas.  Who could work there, what neighborhood it would be in, how much space I would need, both front of the house and back of the house.   Then it occurred to me, I don’t have a concept or a cuisine to help with these important decisions.  How can I create a restaurant without a concept and a cuisine?  I needed to start there and build from that.

I tapped the tip of the pen to the page thinking.  I worked in a French restaurant so that was the obvious choice, but the food seemed to be pretentious and I did not want a pretentious restaurant.  I loved Indian food and made it at home all the time.  Mexican food was easy enough as long as you learned how to make great fresh tortillas, beans, rice, salsa, and meat.  Italian? Spanish? Chinese?  I could not decide.  I needed inspiration.

As I thought through all the dishes I had made over the years, I felt what appeared to be a raindrop on my hand.  And then saw another on the page, causing the printed blue ink to swirl on the page.  I reached my hand out, palm up, to catch the drops and feel them.

A lime green goo dropped onto my finger tip.  I looked at it.  It was not a raindrop at all.  It was something different.  Something I was familiar with.  I took a quick sniff and then stuck the figure in my mouth.  The flavor was bright.  It was milky and a little sweet and a little spicy.  Then I placed the flavor: It was Thai green curry.  I put my hand out again to catch the drops, this time it was a Thai Panang curry.  I put my hand out again, down came rice noodles and a prawn landed directly in my open palm.  Pad Thai.

If this was not a sign that I was to make a Thai restaurant then I don’t know what is.  And that is when the concept developed, clear as day.