What Chefs Eat

I was recently invited to a birthday luncheon for a dear guest.  This guest is a generous soul, she constantly thinks of others which goes the same for her daughter, who planned the event. They are beloved by our restaurant staff and are known for long leisurely lunches and what a treat—to lunch without an agenda other than celebration, companionship, and consumption. 

            As we began our main course the conversational spotlight found its way to my plate with the question posed ‘what did the chef order?’ Our host added, “I’ll bet people would be fascinated by what chefs eat.” Many around the table agreed. I looked up from my pizza to fourteen pairs of eyeballs and told them blank, “It would be scary and it would be sad.” 

            It fathoms me to open a refrigerator at a clients or friends house to find it full. Look at all that food.  Do they eat it in time? Four different types of vegetables, gasp, they don’t go bad? Proteins—dairy—it doesn’t go bad before you get to it? How. What do you all do, just like, eat all the time?

            Grocery shopping is a joke I play on myself over and over.  I stare at the dairy. I like milk--Kate, you like milk. Should we try again? With the small version? It’s better for me to shop late at night so I can casually wheel around stopping here and there, leaning on the cart, just thinking. 

            The easy grabs: Butter, easy grab. Velveeta cheese singles, easy grab. Loaf of sliced bread, flavor varies, easy grab. Lay’s potato chips, individuals, the box of ten. Peanut butter and jelly about every six months. Things I can squirrel away in the freezer because they are safe; Eggo’s, Cinnamon raisin bread. But then the other things. I shuffle around, what if? What if I bought that? 

You know what would make the process more convenient is if I could sit whilst I shop and think—I go at the end of a 12-hour work day as oppose to a 14-hour work day so I have more energy, but if I could sit but also have the mobility—a scooter perhaps. Would that be frowned upon? I mean it’s 10 p.m. not too many other people are in need of a scooter at this time. Will Karma take a limb from me down the road? There is no way of knowing with that one. Does the amount of time I have spent on crutches cancel out the wheelchair I bought at a thrift store as a teenager to roll around in? How many credits do I have stored up, like two or three?

            The vegetable section. I walk past the kale, psh, nice try. Talk about a house guest who never leaves. Tomatoes—only if we are also getting bacon—and that means BLT’s for the week. 

Bananas—ha—what am I going to do choke down a banana at 8 a.m. before work? Besides, I can just grab one later in the kitchen.   Berries—tick, tock, tick, tock, seven days tops. Limes and lemons are a good investment, you never know who might pay you a visit and I like to be ready to go on gin & tonics, especially this time of year. 

            So, the bulk of what I eat happens at work—though I don’t consume much food during the work week because I’m mentally distracted.  I know, I know, they say you ‘shouldn’t trust a skinny chef,’ but I promise you I am tasting a lot and running around a lot too. 

Which brings me to once I start feeling a little snippy, when the hunger has gone from zero to starving, that is the signal to walk to the middle cooler, grab a few veal cutlets, and drop them in the fryer. Five minutes later--I remember--and either Violeta or Felipe has saved them. I find the cutlets looking like they spent the day in the sun but forgot to flip sides.

Or—Violeta H. or Violeta V. and team will assemble a family meal around 2 p.m.—sometimes it’s molé, or tortas, or tostadas!!! Those are good days. Melon agua fresca—tart limeade blended with sweetened condensed milk. The team wolfs it down, silently bent over their stations, the flavor propelling us into our next set of tasks and the late afternoon. 

For PM pickings, after or during dinner service, I’ll mosey my way down the line; extra mac and cheese here, fresh pasta is hard to resist. Roasted potatoes tossed in butter and garlic with a little bearnaise nearby-- transcendent.

Hors d'oeuvres for dinner is always a happy meal—miniature everything. Beef wellingtons, crab cakes, cheeseburgers, meatballs.

If there isn’t anything extra then I circle back to cutlets. I eat a lot of cutlets—veal or chicken.  Smothered in our version of a beurre blanc and garnished with peperoncino.

Occasionally, I’ll grab a few broccoli florets off Pierre’s station. But that’s after saying something stupid to him along the lines of we should make an effort to eat more vegetables, and not sandwiches filled with vegetables. 

Last week, Pierre and I were trying to recreate a sandwich we had made the week before—it was double 44 Farms hamburger patty, double American cheese, caramelized onion, mustard, pickle, two pieces of white bread toasted in a cast-iron pan. Is that a patty melt? I’m pretty sure we didn’t put ketchup on it, but Pierre thought we maybe did. As we bickered, Gabriel walked down from pasta station to check out what we were making. I side-eyed him, so did Pierre, like a couple of hyenas huddled over a fresh kill. 

It was too late to build another—it’s a slippery slope when making private snacks.  Best to be quick and quiet. I needed my whole half of this sandwich. It was Friday. 

“It’s okay chef, I don’t like mustard,” Gaby looked at us, smiling.

“Oh, thank God.”

Hours later, Pierre returned from his break and I looked at him, “I’m still full.”

“Me too.” he agreed. 

“It was only half a sandwich.” 

So, we filed that combination away as if we had stumbled upon the sandwich equivalent of the fountain of youth. Guess we could have shared with Gaby. 

When Joey preps short ribs—YO. We use 44 Farms—but the juice he creates for the simmer, it’s out of this world. I tong off little bits around the corners and sometimes even take home a box of side cuttings.  Last Saturday night I cobbled together a short rib grilled cheese at 1 a.m. with my home staples; bread, butter, Duke’s mayonnaise, American cheese, Lay’s potato chips, hot sauce—it was the perfect end to the week.  

Then Sunday rolls around and I get a little wild—what’s it going to be--doughnuts, kwossaints, onion rings, fried chicken, tacos, oysters, sandwiches, sushi, ribeye? French rosé, Italian reds, cocktails, beers. If we’re doing this—today is the day.

This past Sunday was positively dreamy. After church, I convinced myself: not to go to the gym, not to go find friends, not to read, not to write. I instead got back in bed and three hours later woke to a beautiful, quiet afternoon.

Around 7 p.m. I walked to Fiora’s; the picturesque wine shop on lower Westheimer that serves the best sandwiches I’ve ever eaten in my life. Amir, the owner, updated me on the options that hadn’t sold out the night before and lo and behold my favorite sandwich, there was just enough to make one more. The Boq. French bread, white anchovy, roma tomato, burrata—whatever else he does. Coupled with almost a whole bottle of rosé, a killer playlist and the breeze, I don’t know what I did to deserve this moment. 

And then on Monday I wake up with my stomach holding a gun to my head saying, “Salad, Broth, or I’m ending you.” 

I pray the supplements I spend a fortune on are supplementing my life choices, I guess down the road we’ll see.  Like I said, what chefs eat is scary and it is sad—but those Sunday moments, those sandwich moments, those tostadas with the team, would I trade them for three square meals a day? Never.