The Rake Magazine

um ... hello?

If you have dinner plans at a restaurant tonight, expect the unexpected.

Latinos are the backbone of the kitchen industry: dishwashers, prep cooks, line cooks, bussers. They happily and successfully do the work that many native-born Americans refuse to do. Will they be there tonight to support your meal?

It's important to understand that the vast majority of restaurants know how valuable their Latino workers are. None of the well-run restaurants are taking today lightly, most of them have been talking about May 1 for months.

It's a tough spot. You want to respect your workers and their beliefs, but you also have a business to run. Most of the places I've talked to have a plan. They've given the day off to as many Latinos as they can, and they've asked the rest of the staff to step up and help. That's not to say that you won't still see some Latinos at work, I personally know a few who don't agree with the protests and feel that they'd rather support the business they've helped make successful.

But if you are one of those people who feels cheated when you know the chef isn't actually cooking your food, check the line, tonight may be your night.

I committed the cardinal sin of the kitchen last night. I let my attention stray while chopping garlic.

Slice.

My zucchini was a-sizzlin' in the pan, someone had The Simpsons on way too loud, and I was thinking about my window of opportunity to get some potatoes in with the roasting chicken. I was slicing faster than I should have been and I didn't have the requisite finger curl working for me.

When you hold something you're cutting, your fingers should be curled under so the blade of the knife can slide against the flat middle section of your fingers. It's Knife Handling 101 in a professional kitchen.

But garlic is so small and wiley, it doesn't like to be pinned clumsily under fat, curled fingers. It prefers to skit around the chopping block. I tend to use my finger nails to hold it.

First clove down and pushed aside, I was in the middle of the second clove when I looked up at the clock to calculate my timing.

Slice.

My favorite knife took a slight chunk of my left index finger, including a sweet section of fingernail. Any time I thought I was saving by rushing was squandered by trying to find a clean towel and cursing myself under my breath.

Worse yet, I had to toss the already chopped garlic and start fresh, with a throbbing, thickly wrapped finger. With a little help, I managed to get the whole dinner to table in good time, nothing scorched except my ego. I'm supposed to be smarter than the knife.

I've seen all sorts of line cooks chop sections of their hands or burn swaths of skin, most of them pissed they have to leave the line. It is rather surprising when some of the gnarlier ones get the woozy sway going at the sight of their own blood.

Typing this entry with my cartoon-sized gauzed finger hasn't been the most fun. I don't mind kitchen scars, they don't handicap me, but they do humble me. Tonight dinner may be late.

After a hectic weekend of entertaining, Monday can be daunting. Friday night we hosted a cooking class at our house for seven people. We did a kind of Spring Thing with sauteed leeks and asparagus over polenta and halibut with freshly made pesto. I made basil ice cream with lemon-rosemary pound cake for dessert, because I do love the savory sweets.

Saturday was debut night for one of the Girls' new beau. He did very well considering he was thrown into a dinner party with ten people who can finish each other's jokes. We threw a Boy/Girl menu on the table: steak/lobster, classic hashbrowns/quinoa with hearts of palm, and the oddly symbolic asparagus and leeks for everyone! For dessert I tried to make a seductive terrine of layered ice creams, chocolate and port wine. It was sort of a sloppy mess, but so were we, a little.

Sunday we recovered and ate fried chicken from the Minnetonka Drive-In.

So, Monday. I feel that I should make a dinner for the family tonight, to start the week off right. But I'm still a little sick of doing dishes and I don't want to see another asparagus or leek for at least a week. The weather also plays a huge factor in the meal, and since it's not really warm and it's not really cold, my mind is a wee bit fuzzy.

I think I've decided to roast a chicken. Even though our meals weren't extremely intricate this weekend, they were big productions. A roasted chicken is an easy and satisfying dish that reconnects you with the elemental basics. Butter, garlic, lemon, rosemary, that's enough.

Before I caught my stride with roasted chicken, I would pour through books and websites to compare recipes and try to figure out the best, best, best way to do it perfectly. I'd come out with raw interiors and blackened skin or over-salty and under-flavored. It wasn't until I really let go that I mastered the chicken. I stopped looking for a recipe, I trusted my gut.

I put a whole chicken (SmartChicken is a nice grocery store option) in a roasting pan and rub it stem to stern with butter, nearly every lovin' inch. Then salt and pepper to the same degree. Slice a smallish lemon in half, put one half inside the chicken with a chunk of butter, squeeze the other half over the top of the bird and throw it in the pan. Cut an entire head of garlic in half, place both halves in the pan. Pluck most of the leaves off some rosemary stems, sprinkle the leaves on the bird and toss the stems in the pan. In a 400 degree oven, time it so you are roasting for thirty minutes per pound. I'm not a baster, I think it's a silly and wasted effort, my chickens are juicy without it. Check for doneness early, the skin should be golden and crisp, the juices clear when the breast is poked with a skewer. Take the bird out, let it sit on a platter for a few minutes while you deglaze the roasting pan with some white wine.

There will probably be potatoes of some sort, maybe some rice. Now that I'm thinking about it, there could be some asparagus if the clouds break and the sun comes out. But definitely no leeks.

The Food Network is hosting their competition show, Food Network Challenge, at the Mall of America this week. The other day, various food professionals from across the country competed to create a Candy Castle. The sweet victory went to local cake-legend Susan O'Boyle Jacobson, garnering her $10,000 and some nice national coverage.

In a sad turn of events, Susan passed away last night from a heart attack.

Having met her a few times through our little food industry professionals networking group, Women Who Really Cook, I can say that we've truly lost a great one. She was an amazing cake decorator who, at one point in her life, could put out 35 wedding cakes in a busy weekend, by herself. A past President of the International Cake Exploration Societe, Susan was known all over the world.

But her most important contributions are still yet to be seen. Last year she traveled to Russia and volunteered in a large production bakery. She spent nearly three weeks mentoring and giving guidance to the young bakers, teaching them new skills and more efficient techniques. Locally, she taught at The Art Institutes International Minnesota, helping young pastry students to four gold and four silver medals at last February's Minnesota Baker's Convention.

Anyone who makes something beautiful and edible knows, the greatest joy is in sharing it with others. The next time one of her young students wins a competition with a towering stunner of a cake, it will surely be Susan's sweetest reward. There will be a scholarship at AII in her memory.

Last December, the Girls and I decided to embark on a Self-Esteem Workshop in Las Vegas. While our goal was to master all four steps toward better self-esteem (drinking, dancing, eating, and spas), I was certainly most interested in the LV food scene.

Our first dinner was scheduled in the very new and very chic Wynn Hotel at Okada, rumored to be the best sushi place in town. It was a complete disaster.

Most of the sushi was nothing special (I've had comparable if not better at Fujiya and Origami), but more importantly our service was abominable. Not only did our server "team" not communicate well with each other, they didn't communicate well with us. When I asked for a single glass of Otokayama Sake to go with a special appetizer I wanted, our server tried to push a carafe on me, over and over again. When I explained it was just for me, just for this dish, she literally told me how ridiculous she thought I was. She also told one of the Girls, "You really don't want a Lychee martini, I think they taste horrible." I can take a little bit of pushiness and self-importance, some of the young ones haven't been properly trained in the art of service and I can forgive that indiscretion. But after our initial order we were summarily ignored. Our buzz had worn off, our glasses and plates sat empty and any attempt to catch someone's eye was brushed off.

Needless to say, I was worried about the rest of the weekend. We had reservations at top-notch restaurants, but if they were all going to be like Okada, I would rather hit a buffet.

The next night we headed to the Vegas outpost of Tao, the hip New York Asian restaurant. We sat down among the beautiful people, Derek Jeter over here, Magic Johnson over there, and waited for our potentially crappy server.

To the contrary. Our server was a kick-ass fireball who understood we were there to cocktail and eat food that we'd have no idea how to make at home. She asked us what kinds of food we liked, and made recommendations for the first small course. Based on those stellar offerings, we let her choose the main course for us. Light, spicy, tangy, healthy, rich, she took four women, sized us up and hit the mark dead-on with dishes that we all loved in part or completely.

We were pals at this point, she told us nasty celebrity gossip and we related our Okada experience. She wasn't surprised, she'd actually worked in one of the opening kitchens at the Wynn. In fact, cooking was her true passion. Wait a minute, this girl is a kitchen girl? It's hard to find those gems that can work the back of the house and the front of the house with ease and aplomb.

We verily gushed our appreciation for a fabulous night, she had saved Vegas for me. Before we were about to leave, laughing about what a fun bunch we'd been, she confided in us something she hadn't even told any of her fellow workers. She was going to be on a reality cooking show airing sometime in March. She said she couldn't tell us who won or anything, but that we should watch for her on the Bravo network.

The red-haired Tiffani Faison, the kick-ass kitchen chick, is our girl on Bravo's Top Chef. And I have to tell you, I think she's going to take it all. She is smart, intuitive, and driven. She sees things black & white, like all the great kitchen leaders do. She creates great dishes because she can read the task and figure out how to deliver. On Wednesday, you can catch nearly all the episodes leading up to the new one at 9pm. Root for Tiffani.