Kitchen opens at 10am every morning and it's event day.
As a banquet chef it's my time to shine!
If you're familiar with banquets at all, you know that it's all about expert timing. Yes, all professional cooking is about expert timing, but with banquets it's even more so. Why? Well think about it, its not one plate going out to one person, its 500 plates going out to 500 people all eating the same thing (unless they have some kind of special request), and each guest gets 4 courses. That's 2000 plates done...dusted...and must be flawless. And I mean FLAWLESS.
But this never bothered me. I have a knack for plating. I can sweep the same amount of raspberry coulis on each plate over and over, making each look like the last. Comes with practice and a steady hand. It becomes mechanical, a thoughtless movement that your body just...well, does!
No, the chaos coupled with repetition never bothered me. Didn't shake me at all. I could set up an antipasti buffet for 750 hungry Italians in one room and kick off a traditional 13 course Chinese wedding in another room which inevitably would run late because the Dragon dancers just couldn't show up on time. My timing?? Excellent. Again, with practice.
None of this left me shaking in my steal toed shoes. Nothing made me doubt my ability to please people with my cream of wild mushroom soup, or my perfectly marinated Frutti de Mari, which I say without shame. It's good. Like really good. I could go for some now...but I'm trying to stay focused here.
But what made me shiver like a cold shower on a winter's day? What made me lose my cool in the pounding heat of a banquet kitchen about to kick off two separate pasta services at once? Made my hands clam up and my back drip with sweat?
It's not a what...
It's a who...
And his name was Frank.
Frank....Frank The Bread Guy.
OOooooooh how Frank made me stumble and fumble like a 13 year old school girl. Giddy like there was more than just cream in my coffee. I held my breath every time I saw him and sometimes, I'd forget to breath again for more than a few seconds.
Frank. I sigh just thinking about him.
Just like his name would indicate, he delivered the bread to our convention centre. I remember the first day I saw Frank. It was like a warm breeze of Tuscan air drifted right by me. Olive oil skin, chiseled jaw line and that sexy man stubble on his chin. Dusty brown hair and brown eyes that I could get lost in for days on end. He's a baker and soon I found out he was the OWNER of that bakery. Drop dead gorgeous AND a business man? Yes, please!
Yes, Frank was fit too. Had to be since he was the baker, the delivery guy, sales man and my secret lover in my imagination. Frank had drain pipe arms and he wore the torn boot-cut jeans and Polo shirt. I could see the outline of his chest and his narrow waist through his perfectly fitting clothes. He usually wore a cap but when he came in on the odd day without one, I day dreamed of sliding my fingers through his hair...
In my mind, I dreamed of having curly haired, long eye-lashed kids with perfect mocha shaded skin.
Snap out of it! Service is more important.
But I'd secretly wait. Wait to see that back door fly open and this 6 foot, Italian GOD just stroll in carrying 4 boxes at a time of freshly baked breads for service.
Girls can be cheeky, but chef girls can be VERY cheeky. Cheeky? I mean a little dirty talk behind the counter with the other girls from banquets never hurt. I'll spare you the details but let's say I wouldn't mind if he buttered my toast one fine morning.
Oh but that day...the day it was just me and The Bread Guy!
He sneaked up behind me and said, "Hey, how's it going?" and I jumped. I was arranging a cheese board, how aromatic? I began to blush profusely. My throat began to feel parched and soon I was light headed. He towered over me and peaked over my shoulder which for someone at his height, was not having any trouble doing.
I dropped my knife and swiftly turned around. My pony tail bobbed and lashed against his chest ( I wished it was my face crashing into his chest, but that's just all imagination) and I glanced up at his muscular chin and cheeks. A smile unzipped half way as to smirk at me.
"Hey," I managed to choke out.
"You know, I love Asiago, it's my favourite! Better than Parm, no?" he said as I fumbled with slices of Provolone, thin and curled into a tube, gently stacked. Like I said, I am great at plate design or in this case, antipasto bar design.
Is he talking to me? I looked around, no a soul to verify so I guess he was. Frank my Bread Guy, is talking to me.
"Really? I actually love Asiago myself. I like how it looks crumbled," I like how it looks crumbled!?!? Can you be a bigger nerd? No...no you can't. That's it, I quit! The inner me just drops her apron, slams her side towel on the floor and storms out of my consciousness.
He smiles, this time 100% and I gasp a little. Oh, take me now! On this counter! Wait...wait...composure. Be cool!
"So do you like being a chef?" Frank asks. Wow, okay. So this is happening.
"Yes, I do. I wouldn't change it for the world." Good answer. Don't screw this!
"Cool. Go to George Brown?" Stay switched on girl. He's asking you need to answer. Stop looking at those eyes! Okay, look at this chest. No, how can I look at this chest and not look like a perv? Well, look somewhere! Where?? The HAT! Okay...it's like eye contact but not really. It's in the general area! Sweet...done. Now answer the question.
"Yes, but I did that after my degree," Oh my Ggg'...really? Had to mention you are a degree holder? Stick something in your mouth so you can just shut up and not further embarrass yourself.
I reached into one of the boxes he just brought in and pulled out a small white, Calabrese dinner roll. I then grabbed a side plate and poured olive oil from a large tin onto the centre of the plate. I reached without looking (because my Mise en Place is perfect) for the balsamic and did the same,
I felt him watch me as I moved.
"Degree, eh? And you're a chef? What's it in?" My inner me returned, slowly peaking herself around the corner of my wall of logic and reason. Confidence grew.
"Psychology," I answered without looking. I torn the roll in half, then half again and swirled it in the electric oil and vinegar. I ate, shamelessly in front of him. His bread, my olive oil, my kitchen, and his smile.
"Good bread by the way, it sometimes gets me through the day!" Chewing. I had not looked up at him in a while. Cross between anxiety and admiration of this man crippled me.
"Whoa, psychology! So you can read minds?" He didn't hear my compliment. Fine. The inner me begins to step out further into the light, she smiles and nudges me to keep speaking. We both lost track of the time. It could have been minutes or maybe even a good half hour but who cares at this point, I'm already deciding the seating arrangements for our wedding in my mind. I think round tables of 8? The colour theme maybe rosy pink and grey? Or maybe something bolder like purple and turquoise? If he could only read MY mind right now...
"Ha, no! I can't exactly read minds!" I answer, this time looking up. I can see how dark his brown eyes were. I get a hint of cologne and fresh outside air on him that only a crisp fall day can give you.
"I'm sure you can, oh and by the way, my name is Frank!" he said, as he held out his hand.
I took his hand and said it was a pleasure, in more ways than one of course. I am The Girl Who Likes to Cook. Just five feet and two inches tall (or short), with a man's uniform two sizes too big even for the smallest of men. A shiny face and cat-line eyeliner which I never leave without. The inner me fainted with a thud, possibly bruises as well given how hard she collapsed. Her mouth open and limbs flailed around her like a rag doll.
He turned on his heals and strutted away. Through the back door and out into the autumn sun.
The inner me woke up. Fixed her hair and scrambled to the edge of my mind. A sense of wonder on her face, We'll see him again, right?
"Tomorrow," I answered her out loud.
xo,
The Girl
If you're familiar with banquets at all, you know that it's all about expert timing. Yes, all professional cooking is about expert timing, but with banquets it's even more so. Why? Well think about it, its not one plate going out to one person, its 500 plates going out to 500 people all eating the same thing (unless they have some kind of special request), and each guest gets 4 courses. That's 2000 plates done...dusted...and must be flawless. And I mean FLAWLESS.
But this never bothered me. I have a knack for plating. I can sweep the same amount of raspberry coulis on each plate over and over, making each look like the last. Comes with practice and a steady hand. It becomes mechanical, a thoughtless movement that your body just...well, does!
No, the chaos coupled with repetition never bothered me. Didn't shake me at all. I could set up an antipasti buffet for 750 hungry Italians in one room and kick off a traditional 13 course Chinese wedding in another room which inevitably would run late because the Dragon dancers just couldn't show up on time. My timing?? Excellent. Again, with practice.
None of this left me shaking in my steal toed shoes. Nothing made me doubt my ability to please people with my cream of wild mushroom soup, or my perfectly marinated Frutti de Mari, which I say without shame. It's good. Like really good. I could go for some now...but I'm trying to stay focused here.
But what made me shiver like a cold shower on a winter's day? What made me lose my cool in the pounding heat of a banquet kitchen about to kick off two separate pasta services at once? Made my hands clam up and my back drip with sweat?
It's not a what...
It's a who...
And his name was Frank.
Frank....Frank The Bread Guy.
OOooooooh how Frank made me stumble and fumble like a 13 year old school girl. Giddy like there was more than just cream in my coffee. I held my breath every time I saw him and sometimes, I'd forget to breath again for more than a few seconds.
Frank. I sigh just thinking about him.
Just like his name would indicate, he delivered the bread to our convention centre. I remember the first day I saw Frank. It was like a warm breeze of Tuscan air drifted right by me. Olive oil skin, chiseled jaw line and that sexy man stubble on his chin. Dusty brown hair and brown eyes that I could get lost in for days on end. He's a baker and soon I found out he was the OWNER of that bakery. Drop dead gorgeous AND a business man? Yes, please!
Yes, Frank was fit too. Had to be since he was the baker, the delivery guy, sales man and my secret lover in my imagination. Frank had drain pipe arms and he wore the torn boot-cut jeans and Polo shirt. I could see the outline of his chest and his narrow waist through his perfectly fitting clothes. He usually wore a cap but when he came in on the odd day without one, I day dreamed of sliding my fingers through his hair...
In my mind, I dreamed of having curly haired, long eye-lashed kids with perfect mocha shaded skin.
Snap out of it! Service is more important.
But I'd secretly wait. Wait to see that back door fly open and this 6 foot, Italian GOD just stroll in carrying 4 boxes at a time of freshly baked breads for service.
Girls can be cheeky, but chef girls can be VERY cheeky. Cheeky? I mean a little dirty talk behind the counter with the other girls from banquets never hurt. I'll spare you the details but let's say I wouldn't mind if he buttered my toast one fine morning.
Oh but that day...the day it was just me and The Bread Guy!
He sneaked up behind me and said, "Hey, how's it going?" and I jumped. I was arranging a cheese board, how aromatic? I began to blush profusely. My throat began to feel parched and soon I was light headed. He towered over me and peaked over my shoulder which for someone at his height, was not having any trouble doing.
I dropped my knife and swiftly turned around. My pony tail bobbed and lashed against his chest ( I wished it was my face crashing into his chest, but that's just all imagination) and I glanced up at his muscular chin and cheeks. A smile unzipped half way as to smirk at me.
"Hey," I managed to choke out.
"You know, I love Asiago, it's my favourite! Better than Parm, no?" he said as I fumbled with slices of Provolone, thin and curled into a tube, gently stacked. Like I said, I am great at plate design or in this case, antipasto bar design.
Is he talking to me? I looked around, no a soul to verify so I guess he was. Frank my Bread Guy, is talking to me.
"Really? I actually love Asiago myself. I like how it looks crumbled," I like how it looks crumbled!?!? Can you be a bigger nerd? No...no you can't. That's it, I quit! The inner me just drops her apron, slams her side towel on the floor and storms out of my consciousness.
He smiles, this time 100% and I gasp a little. Oh, take me now! On this counter! Wait...wait...composure. Be cool!
"So do you like being a chef?" Frank asks. Wow, okay. So this is happening.
"Yes, I do. I wouldn't change it for the world." Good answer. Don't screw this!
"Cool. Go to George Brown?" Stay switched on girl. He's asking you need to answer. Stop looking at those eyes! Okay, look at this chest. No, how can I look at this chest and not look like a perv? Well, look somewhere! Where?? The HAT! Okay...it's like eye contact but not really. It's in the general area! Sweet...done. Now answer the question.
"Yes, but I did that after my degree," Oh my Ggg'...really? Had to mention you are a degree holder? Stick something in your mouth so you can just shut up and not further embarrass yourself.
I reached into one of the boxes he just brought in and pulled out a small white, Calabrese dinner roll. I then grabbed a side plate and poured olive oil from a large tin onto the centre of the plate. I reached without looking (because my Mise en Place is perfect) for the balsamic and did the same,
I felt him watch me as I moved.
"Degree, eh? And you're a chef? What's it in?" My inner me returned, slowly peaking herself around the corner of my wall of logic and reason. Confidence grew.
"Psychology," I answered without looking. I torn the roll in half, then half again and swirled it in the electric oil and vinegar. I ate, shamelessly in front of him. His bread, my olive oil, my kitchen, and his smile.
"Good bread by the way, it sometimes gets me through the day!" Chewing. I had not looked up at him in a while. Cross between anxiety and admiration of this man crippled me.
"Whoa, psychology! So you can read minds?" He didn't hear my compliment. Fine. The inner me begins to step out further into the light, she smiles and nudges me to keep speaking. We both lost track of the time. It could have been minutes or maybe even a good half hour but who cares at this point, I'm already deciding the seating arrangements for our wedding in my mind. I think round tables of 8? The colour theme maybe rosy pink and grey? Or maybe something bolder like purple and turquoise? If he could only read MY mind right now...
"Ha, no! I can't exactly read minds!" I answer, this time looking up. I can see how dark his brown eyes were. I get a hint of cologne and fresh outside air on him that only a crisp fall day can give you.
"I'm sure you can, oh and by the way, my name is Frank!" he said, as he held out his hand.
I took his hand and said it was a pleasure, in more ways than one of course. I am The Girl Who Likes to Cook. Just five feet and two inches tall (or short), with a man's uniform two sizes too big even for the smallest of men. A shiny face and cat-line eyeliner which I never leave without. The inner me fainted with a thud, possibly bruises as well given how hard she collapsed. Her mouth open and limbs flailed around her like a rag doll.
He turned on his heals and strutted away. Through the back door and out into the autumn sun.
The inner me woke up. Fixed her hair and scrambled to the edge of my mind. A sense of wonder on her face, We'll see him again, right?
"Tomorrow," I answered her out loud.
xo,
The Girl
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