While folding clothes the other night I pulled my chef’s coat out of the laundry basket and got this little shiver of pride. I hung it up and admired the embroidery above the left pocket and the familiar folds forever indented on the sleeves. My new ACF patch will fit perfectly on the right side. I checked to see if that red wine reduction had come out in the wash… nope. The third button from the top needed mending.
I adore my coat; it makes me feel cool. I’ve worn many uniforms and have thrown most of them out. Whether my other work clothes were identifiable at all doesn’t really matter. This white double breasted jacket with the odd shaped pocket on the upper left arm is immediately recognizable. In this, I am a Chef.
The company I started a few years ago is built up and around food. For appearances sake, I figured a really nice jacket seemed appropriate. Wearing the coat just wasn’t the same when donned in my prior restaurant jobs. We’d just put on whatever was clean, fit reasonably well, that could button all the way up. Those jackets didn’t have my name on them, so they don’t count. I never did care for the look of the toque; it makes my ears stick out, or the neckerchief, too sweaty; basic black pants, please. We all have our own personal style, we artisans of food.
I read somewhere recently there exists a debate as to whether those of us in the culinary arts are true artists. You must be joking! The painter spends hours or even months playing with reds and browns, oranges and ochre in order to create the perfect sunset. The Chef spends hours or months playing with stocks and herbs, wine and roux in order to create the perfect sauce. Artists, one in the same.
One of the more interesting yet somewhat controversial things about us artists is our passion and our pride. We have a language all our own yet it knows no boundaries. The food language is included here. It is international, with few barriers and is filled with that same passion and pride. It is understood … everywhere.
Just last December I was in Borneo enjoying a holiday meal at a local resort. Having had my fill of Nasi Lamak and all things stir-fried, an identifiable western dish sounded nice. If you’ve never been to Southeast Asia you should know that all resorts and many restaurants offer buffets along with made-to-order cooking stations. The pasta bar had some fresh ingredients and looked pretty tasty until I spied the buckets of butter and cream that SE Asians sometimes equate with all western taste. Without much humility, I asked the cook if it would be okay to show him a different way to prepare seafood linguine. He looked a little uneasy until I flashed my chef credentials, then he gladly invited me in.
While I sautéed my onions, mushrooms and garlic, we got into a wonderful conversation about America, what I did for a living, where he learned to cook and his aspirations. He was anxious to share knowledge of his profession with someone from so very far away. One who held the same beliefs, the same passion, the same joy. My dish completed, he gave it a try, nodded and smiled. I wished him a Happy Christmas and went back to my table.
A few minutes later, my new pasta buddy came around proudly escorting the resorts Executive Chef. He introduced himself to me, presented his card, his smile and a warm hand shake. He praised my linguine and then suggested a few signature Malaysian dishes that I just had to try. We had a lovely chat about our favorite thing – food.
In the end, that is what we’re all about. The stuffs that in their most elemental form sustain the world are the very same things that spark our imaginations, awaken our senses and make us who we are. I love my job and am very proud to wear my coat.
Please excuse me; I need to go fix that button.
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