Discard Burnt Shit
Sometimes, this is what it feels like when I cook:
Okay, what am I making today? Poulet Roti Grand-mere. Roast chicken, grandmother style. Oh god. Not again. I’ve made this six times already. It. Is. So. Boring. And long. And involved. And all of that stupid garniture. Garni-churrrr. I want to go home. No I don’t. I want to go out to eat. But not chicken. Maybe a fried egg. With breadcrumbs. Mm. I should go to Savoy. Definitely. I should do that tomorrow. No, I have to work late tomorrow. My life is no fun anymore.
Well, at least chicken is easier than the goddamn lemon tart. Or the barramundi. Okay, chicken it is.
Better get my mise en place all set.
Let’s see. I need a chicken. Better get to the low boy now so I can pick out a good one; last time my bird’s neck was broken. Wait. If I get it now, I’ll have to keep it under my station over ice. I don’t have enough room for that. Wait on the chicken.
Get all of the stuff for the jus. Then get all of the stuff for the garniture. But that doesn’t really make sense, does it? I need vegetables for both things. Maybe get all of the vegetable first, then put it into separate bowls at my station? That’s a good idea. Well, since I’m up here, I might as well get butter. But butter and oil go together, and I need them both, so I’d better not just get butter. Hee hee! What a great sentence. I love consonance. I should remember this, so I can write about it later. Don’t get the herbs yet. Even if I wrap them in a towel, Chef will yell at me.
Ah, shit.
I forgot to bring a knife up. How am I going to get the butter I need? It’s in a huge brick. Would it be the worst thing in the world if I took the entire block back to my station, portioned it out and brought it back up? It’d only take a minute. No. Someone else will need it. Well, here’s a spoon. Right-o, scooping butter with a spoon. I hope Chef doesn’t see me.
For once, for the love of god, don’t forget to soak your pearl onions in warm water. Dumbass. I really need a lot of square boys for this recipe. Get a few small ones, and a big one to put your peeled potatoes in. GET THE TRUSSING STRING! YOU ARE GOING TO BE PISSED AT YOURSELF IF YOU HAVE TO GO BACK FOR THAT! GET WINE AND STOCK, TOO! Stop yelling. Get your stuff.
Okay. I have everything I need for the next five minutes. Ready, go.
Cut the bacon first. No, first remove the rind. Now cut it into lardons. I loooove lardons. Definitely cut some extra for snacking after they’ve cooked. I know the recipe says to blanch the bacon, but that’s bullshit. Put it on the fire. NO. Put the pan on the fire. Heat it. Add oil. Add bacon. You need fat to render fat. Dumbass. Sizzle. Yum. I love that sound. Pay attention. Practice sauteing your bacon, because you do it like a spastic moron. Hold a towel at the base of the pan, push all the protein to the lip. Jerk your hand back. Okay, maybe not that much. That hurt. Hot oil. Try again. Not bad. Chef was watching.
Bacon’s done, drain. Reserve the fat and use it to saute your mushrooms. Ah. Right. Mushrooms. I’ll need to peel and quarter them. Okay, then. Do that.
That didn’t take too terribly long.
Sauteing mushrooms! Look at me go! Look at how nifty my pan-jerking skills are! Where is Chef when I’m doing a good job? Jonny deglazes his mushrooms with wine. That’s not in the recipe, but maybe I should too. Well, I forgot the fucking wine, so I guess I won’t.
Drain the mushrooms.
Peel the pearl onions. This is really hard. Why is it that the second skin will never come off without taking three more layers of flesh? Now they’re tiny. You know, I knew I was going to forget parchment paper. Go get parchment paper. It’s on top of the convection oven.
HOLY FUCKING SHIT THE CONVECTION OVEN IS ON AND I JUST LAID MY ENTIRE ARM INTO IT. That is going to leave a really bad burn. That sucks. No, that’s awesome. I want a hot burn to show off. Make mental note to show all the boys in class once it colors. Sweet.
Make a cartouche out of parchment paper.
Put pearl onions in pan. Where is the pan? Oh. Used it for the bacon. Should have gotten two. I KNEW I HAD TO GET TWO. Should I start my chicken?
Get new pan. Put pearl onions in, along with butter (good thing I got it!), water, sugar and salt. Use more water than last time, because the onions were drastically undercooked. Put on fire. Put on cartouche. Whoops, cartouche flew off and is burning. Make new cartouche. Try not to freak out.
Time to start the chicken! Go to the low boy and pick one out. Forget a bowl. Go get a bowl. Go back to low boy. Get chicken. Go to station. Forget to wash chicken. Go to sink. Wash chicken. Dry chicken. Take out bag of innards. What do I save for the jus? Heart? Kidney? Liver? What do I throw away? Wait, which one is the liver? I don’t think I’m supposed to use kidneys, or liver. Heart? Heart sounds good.
Time to clean and ready the bird. Show off fucking awesome knife skills during manchonner. Too bad no one’s looking. Well, my partner is now that I just spewed some cartilage onto his cutting board. Sorry. Get sani-solution soaked cloth. Wipe cutting board. Continue attacking chicken. Wipe hand on side towel. AUGH, NO, WHY DID YOU DO THAT!? Take off towel. Remember to toss it and get new one. No food poisoning tonight; not on my watch!
Season bird, then stuff a lemon in its butt. Parsley and garlic wouldn’t hurt either. Truss it up. Season again for good measure.
Get a pan really smoking hot. Too hot. Shit. Burned the oil. I need to pour off the oil. I don’t have an extra bowl. Walk to the dishwasher station and dump it in the waste container. Start again with the oil. I need a meat fork. I have a meat fork. Okay, here we go.
Browning chicken! Um, my pan is smoking. Is that okay? Probably not. Keep going anyway, because I care but apparently not that much. Is that bad? Does that mean I’ll never be a good chef? Probably not. But it isn’t a good habit. Make mental note to change all bad habits, including overspending on cab rides. But the subway sucks! And cabs are so nice and quiet! And I usually have all of my bags and equipment with me! That tool bag is so heavy. I need a knife roll. I don’t have the money to buy a knife roll. But I apparently had the money to go out for two (okay, two and a half) beers last night. Bad Rochelle.
Um. Pay attention to your chicken.
Fully browned? Nice. Get new pan, because the oil is completely black in this one. Nice. Not.
Rub bird all over with butter, put in oven, start stopwatch on wristwatch. Check it after twenty minutes. Don’t let it get past 140 degrees. Check it after twenty minutes.
Start jus.
Brown the bones (I really do want a knife roll), then brown the mirepoix. Burn the mirepoix. Ah, man. That wasn’t in the recipe. Discard burnt shit. Start again, this time with only vegetables. This is going to be one fucking sweet jus. And not in the good way. Make mental note to add chicken carcass later. Maybe that will help. Maybe not.
Start cutting potatoes into cocotte. Good. I like this part. Quiet, calm.
Wait.
Check the chicken.
125. Not yet.
Resume cocotte. I want water. I should go get some. No. I should stay at my station and do my goddamn cocottes. Good. Discipline is important. Hum. Mind going blank. Is this what Chef means when she mentions the tournage zone? How many do I have done? 9? Need at least 4 more. Go, go, go!
Check the chicken. Done. 142. Not bad. Remove, put on rack. Look at time. An hour to plating. Freak out. It was WAY TOO EARLY to cook the chicken. Cover with aluminum foil and hide under station. Make joke to partner about chicken-shaped parcel hidden behind my carrots. Hope that Chef didn’t see. Know she did.
Hey, didn’t I burn my arm earlier? Whaddya know, it’s red and scorching! Try to conceal excitement. Loser. Masochist.
Well, I kind of have a bit of time left. Go through cocotte again, perfecting any rough edges. There are kind of a lot of rough edges. Or am I just being too picky? TRICK QUESTION, THE ESSENCE OF A FRENCH CHEF IS AN OVERLY PICKY NATURE. Stop yelling at yourself. But do make it perfect. Make everything perfect.
… I don’t really believe in perfect. I embrace imperfection! Ha-ha! Good, because this jus is really fucking sweet.
Break down chicken. Nice. Juicy. Stop thinking in sexual metaphor! Break down chicken. Add carcass to jus. I remembered! I want a knife roll! I want a glass of water! My underwear is wedged inside my ass! My shins are sweating!
Put garniture on half-sheet pan, along with chicken breasts. Put legs back in oven to finish cooking; they’re a bit red. I’m pretty freakin’ awesome!
My arm hurts. Strain the jus. Still sweet. Fuck it. Chop parsley. OH MY GOD THE POTATOES.
Boil potatoes. Boil, boil, boil water. HURRY UP. No, don’t boil. Simmer. Simmer, simmer, simmer water. HURRY UP. Okay, drain. Air dry. Into the pan with a shitload of oil! Brown those fuckers!
Wait. Put that thought on hold.
Place plates and garniture in oven. Everything has to be warm.
Return to potatoes. Drain oil. Add a shitload of butter. Put in oven. Clean up station.
Stop thinking.
Clean up station, wipe everything down. Remove plates. Arrange in logical pattern. What is logical? Two-and-two. Remove chicken. Put chicken on plates. Chicken doesn’t go on plate first. Remove chicken. Pour jus on plate. Now chicken. Now garniture. Remove potatoes from oven. Put potatoes on plate with bare (albeit gloved) fingers. Oh. Potatoes are a bit hot. A lot hot. Burn fingers. Arrange potatoes in proper triangle pattern.
Ready? Set? Go. Start to bring plates up to Chef. Turn around. Forgot the parsley. Say to island-mates “I FORGOT THE FUCKING PARSLEY!” I swear a lot. Put parsley in jus, hope it looks like it was mixed in originally. Present plates. Go back to station. Start cleaning. Try to stop thinking. Fix wedgie. Feel marginally better.
Go back up to Chef’s table. Find out everything I did wrong (it’s a lot). Eat 7 pieces of bacon and 8 pearl onions to make self feel better. Surprisingly, it works. Ready self for next class: it’s lemon tart.
I got super stressed out reading this, which I think is a good sign. Did the chicken taste good?