Six Months in a Sautoir
Some people find their salvation in religion… I found mine in a pot full of onions.
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| A sautoir is a pan with 90 degree 'r' shaped sides best used for frying or poaching [soh-twahr, saw-; French soh-twar] |
I thought it would be interesting, now close to three years
out of culinary school at the French Culinary Institute (International Culinary
Center) to remember back on my time there. Of course, I have almost nothing but
fond memories of my six month stint there. From learning classic French cuisine
from top chefs, interning for a true mad scientist, hacking it in a busy Soho
restaurant, and opening the bathroom door for my favorite Master Chef, I feel
like I had an extremely fulfilling career at my school. While I almost always
look back at my time with rose colored glasses, I do remember the early
mornings, the late nights, the sore feet, and multiple gashes and cuts to my
battered hands. I think it’s a good time to go through all I remember—in no
particular order but how they come up in my mind. This series will be called Six
Months in a Sautoir.
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| My prestigious graduating class, August 20th, 2010 |
For logistical purposes, I’ll start from the beginning. A
question I hear thrown around all too often is, “What was it that made you want
to cook?” or some variation on that question. You could substitute ‘cook’ with
‘become a chef’ or ‘become a bread baker’—but it all spurs off of that main
question which is basically asking us all, why? Chefs are held in a different
light now a days; being a chef is no longer a poor profession only filled by
delinquents and druggies. Even when I was going through middle and high school
the thought of culinary school was frowned upon. I’m glad that all changed. Chefs
are celebrities now, leaders, and are looked upon highly in society. They’re
appreciated. When we’re asked why we do this, the people asking it are usually
in the know. Maybe they know how long the hours actually are and have some idea
of how hard it really is to make a soufflé rise perfectly like a tower without
it collapsing under its own weight. The ‘why?’ question’s inflection is a
positive one, no longer asking why we would ever choose a profession like being
a chef, but more curious as to our story. It all points back to how we found
ourselves there.
I can’t remember a single moment in time from when I was a
child. Anthony Bourdain writes about how his first oyster, fresh off a boat in
France, symbolized his life from that point forward—the drugs, sex, and
debauchery of the restaurant business somehow fitting right in with the
glistening, moist, fleshy oyster at the time. Jacques Pépin recounts his father
letting him sip wine out of a big cask in their basement the proper way which involved taking a long
slurping pull from the glass to aerate the wine—he choked with his first sip.
No, I can’t remember where it all began. I do remember going out with my
parents to multiple great French restaurants as a kid, my siblings and I all
dressed in identical khakis and blue polo shirts. I do remember eating some
form of Brandade de Morue (Salt Cod au Gratin) out of a scallop shell being
stood up with mashed potatoes. I remember Sunday brunches with beef stew or Chateaubriand
with the whole family sitting down for our family time meal. I even
remember when my taste completely changed and I started appreciating food in a
different light... ordering an espresso at the end of my meal and drinking wine
with my Dad. I even had Foie Gras for the first time in that meal. Food becoming something special to me happened more recently than I’m sure many of my colleagues.
I had just dropped out of Ithaca College with Junior
standing. I was in no good place, recently experiencing both the death of an
acquaintance and my girlfriend at the time dumping me all within a 12 hour span.
I then had to jump in my car and contemplate the hellish weekend I had in New York City
with a four hour car ride back to Ithaca. Less than a month later I
had my papers in with the school and was packing my car. I was depressed,
dealing with the return of my anxiety and panic attacks, and drinking more than
was common even at Ithaca College. I hand it to my parents for supporting me
when I asked to leave school. It was a time that I can look back on now and
reflect, but I was unable to do that for quite some time. I worked for my Dad
for about a year until I applied to the FCI. The original plan was to re-attend
college and commute from my parent’s house, but I fought that every step of the
way. I don’t know if they just gave in or saw how passionate I was, but again,
I have to commend my parents for the support. I sublet my brother’s Nolita apartment
and started school.
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| Photo Via AlaskaCooks |
It was my second day at school. I wasn’t at all close to
being comfortable with my surroundings or classmates. I had one friend who was
my partner for the first week—I’m sure I’ll talk much more about Jeff in future
entries. I didn’t know the language. To this point everything was a pot, pan,
or knife. I chopped onions or
carrots; I had no fucking clue what ciseler or macedoine meant or what a rondeau
was. So when we were called upon to émincer four onions I thought we were just
practicing out knife cuts. Little did I know we would be making one of my
favorite dishes, French Onion Soup. Cutting the onions was still tedious for
all of us. I specifically remember either Graye or Lauren taking a big slice
into one of their fingers on this day—the first casualty of many.
I chopped my
onions meticulously as not to cut my fingers off, added them to my rondeau and
slowly sweat the onions for about fifteen minutes. I added my salt and sugar
and started to caramelize the onions over the course of the next 30 minutes.
This was a technique, basically glacés à brun, that I had never done before.
Yes, I’ve caramelized onions, but never let them soften for close to an hour
and naturally obtain a solid and even light brown hue. I’ve never added sugar
to onions and never knew just how heavenly the combination of salt and sugar to
onions was. It was at this exact moment that I stopped stirring my onions and looked up at Jeff with a big smile on my face. I caught his eye and said, "We get to do this for the next six months!"
I had finally realized I was in it; I was in school doing something I loved with all my heart. Such a simple yet perfect marriage like caramelized onions with salt and sugar made me feel like I was in the
right place at the right time for the first time. I had finally validated my decision to go to school
at the FCI and become a chef.
This dish, this moment in time, paved the way for everything
that would happen in culinary school for me. Every time I pick up a knife now I
think of this moment and smile and remember why I do this. Really, when I get down to it, it makes perfect sense. French Onion Soup can't be rushed or faked. It takes time, love, and patience. These were all things that I desperately needed. There's something humble and comforting about French Onion soup. It makes you sit and smile, savor, reminisce. It came flooding to me in a single moment kind of like that scene in Ratatouille where Anton Ego eats Remy's Ratatouille... just watch.
Video Via livelovecook on Youtube
Ratatouille the movie is a registered trademark of Disney's Pixar
-Adam at Tipped Mixology
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