Jalapeño Girl

When Setting the Table....

The beautiful client was picky, particular, and wealthy. I wanted her to be pleased, since this was only my second time working at her manse. In catering--like all jobs--paying attention to little details is vital. Plan ahead, think things through, etc., etc. Yet mistakes happen, and bring me back to Earth. I'd like to think my brain wasn't operating at one hundred per cent because we were on Day 2 of a heat wave. I had gotten little sleep the night before, and was worn out by the heat.

There were two hours for me to set the table and do other kitchen tasks. Easy, right? Well.... Forgetting the first course soup spoons shouldn't have happened. My boss and I went over the menu when I arrived to work. The maid had already set everything out for me, or so I thought.  I should've done an inventory for each course before I set the table. But it looked like that had already been done for me. I didn't realize my  huge error until the guests were seated and ready to eat. My boss was ladling and garnishing the soup bowls for us to carry out.

OMG. All of the sudden, I could visualize the place settings in the next room. Shit! I had put a spoon down, but it was for dessert. A teeny spoon sitting at 12 o'clock was not going to gain me any smiles or looks of support from the client (or my boss). I was panicking. There were no soup spoons on the table! Eeeek!

My boss said, "I told you! Soup, Mary! You needed soup spoons! Go!!"

Out to the dining room I walked-ran, to find the proper spoons. Talk about awkward. There were four drawers to go through. I finally found the spoons tucked under an antique looking cloth. By this time, half the soups were already on the table, placed by a co-worker. The guests were talking and hadn't tried eating yet. They were of the well mannered sort, whew. That bought me just enough time.

I worked my way around the table, neatly placing a spoon for each guest. The final spoon was set right before the last soup bowl arrived. Within a minute, they started daintily eating the soup. I reported back to the kitchen: "They have spoons. Soup's set," to my boss. She was visibly relieved but still peeved, and I apologized, twice. It took me all night to forgive myself, and I kept replaying the nightmare missing spoon scenario over and over again in my head. Pulling such a rookie move will do that.

Catering Tip: Pipe It

Piping bags are used to fill canapes, as well as drizzle everything from chocolate sauce to whipped cream and even savory pastes. Disposable piping bags are made of heavy plastic. I have two cloth ones from cooking school that get washed and re-used. Make sure to air dry sufficiently or you get mold or stinky smells!

If you forgot to buy or bring a piping bag to a catered event, you may be able to use a baggie. Of course, there's a catch: the baggie only works if the material you are piping is more liquid than paste. Think mayo, pesto, that sort of thing. To make your own piping bag, use a one gallon sturdy baggie. Cut the bottom corner off according to how wide you need your piped liquid to be: one quarter inch is a great measurement to start with. Don't make the hole too big or the liquid will rush out too quick and be too wide a ribbon.

If you are piping a thick dip, the plastic bag will start to tear in little slits. A baggie is not sturdy enough to handle the pressure of squeezing out thicker substances. Trying to force a baggie to work, almost guarantees you'll have a mess of oozing multiple holes. Not the best way to get things done or impress your clients and boss!

HDO me

HDO is short for Hors d'Oeuvres, which are passed "butler style" by waiters at events. I love servers who offer to clean the platter (using water and vinegar) when they return to the kitchen. That's much better  than handing it back all smeared and messy. I notice and appreciate the help; sample nibbles for you, good server!

Here's a recent sampling of HDOs served at a Bay Area event:

Endive & asparagus spears with dijon sauce

Butter lettuce with shrimp, toasted coconut, shallots, ginger, lime, peanuts, and a smidgen of jalapeno

Artichoke cake with sharp cheddar and onions, baked

Ancho Chili Chicken Skewers with guac dip-the leftover tasted great the next day.

"We're Sorry"

"Sorry. We didn't know," the catering boss lady said at the start of a recent shift. She was apologizing because of the clients. I had arrived early in the morning at a Peninsula location. We were providing breakfast and lunch for a group that had vastly different beliefs from my own. Other staff members were appalled and even disgusted, too. We checked out their literature and hand outs and stifled giggles and sneers. But it wasn't going to be fun. We were warned there was high security for this event, and to expect protesters and perhaps other disturbances. Great.

Yes, the group seemed to be outrageously nutty to me. I could think of rebuttals to every point they made throughout the day. But I remained quiet and kept working. I wondered who the attendees were. I was surprised such a large group existed in the Bay Area. Their program was piped into the kitchen. We decided to listen, even if we all STRONGLY disagreed. I thought I might learn something, and I did; some sad souls are out there.

"Why didn't you leave? I would've!" my friend said, as I recounted who the clients were. I shrugged. She has the luxury of a full time job, with benefits. That's not how catering works. The clients weren't a group of anti-abortionists or white supremacists. Truth was, I didn't want to jeopardize my standing with the catering company, and leave them hanging. Plus, I needed the money.

When I left, there were about twenty people marching on the sidewalk. I wanted to honk my horn, roll down the window, and say, "I'm with ya!" But I had my chef pants on. It would be foolish to make trouble for my employer, too. So instead, I turned up the news radio and sped away.

Dinner to Die For at Grandma Mary's Farm in El Cerrito

This event on Sunday April 12th, sounds interesting and tasty. It's neat that the organizers are using veggies that also have dyeing capabilities. That's something I do not think about, probably ever.

SOIL TO STUDIO
FARM TO TABLE

Join us for a very special evening at Grandma Mary's Farm in El Cerrito.

Sasha Duerr, founder of the Permacouture Institute ( www.permacouture.org), is going to conduct a plant-based dyes studio workshop. Following that, I am going to serve a five course vegetarian dinner using many of the same plants used to make the dyes.

April 12, 4pm-10pm

Address in El Cerrito will be included with your  RSVP confirmation
BYOB
Live music by Clark Meremeyer   ( www.myspace.com/meremeyer)

$70 - $120 sliding scale. This is a benefit for the permacouture institute.

RSVP to sashaduerr@gmail.com

Menu:

Mache, orach, upland cress, watermelon radish, kumquat, walnut, and andante chevre

Soup of princess laratte potato, golden turnip, knoll green garlic, star route baby favas, saffron, and berkswell

Knoll rapinis, dandelion, various kales, black trumpets

Dirty girl chioggas with puree of stinging nettles

Riverdog asparagus with gold nugget mandarin and Strauss brown butter

Rancho Gordo tepary beans with red cabbage, avocado, fennel, coriander, sesame, ginger, and hemp

Strawberry, young coconut, lemongrass, blossom bluff dried stonefruit confit, Cowgirl Creamery creme fraiche,  maple, tonka bean

Cut Me!

If you work in catering, you will eventually probably hear and use the term "cut," which is a term for a caterer who gets off work early. Staff gets cut in waves, sometimes, depending on the event's flow, budget, and/or start and end times. Example: tonight, I was working at an event that was slow, and asked if anyone would be "cut early." My boss looked at me and smiled. "You can be the first," she said.

Cipriano was my main reason for wanting to leave. How can I resist that mug? Also, I was bored and wanted to get home to feed him, and hang out with Oscar. The clients were not eating, and I was only cranking out food for twenty minutes of a two hour party. The rest of the time, I was working solo at cleaning, washing dishes, and putting things away (per the request of the boss). I don't mind working alone, but I do prefer to stay busy. My station was a tiny kitchen in a downtown corporate high rise building. If I was cut, I'd miss out on an hour of waiting around for the party to end. When I weighed the prospect of cleaning and doing major heavy lifting versus being home early, my family won out. 

The boss lady agreed to cut me, but I first had to finish washing dishes, tidy the kitchen and help clean the other culinary space. There were three other men to help with everything, and they put away the two heavy stoves. I am not sad that I later missed loading a bunch of carts to fill the elevator, multiple times. After the carts reach the receiving area-a big parking garage on the entry floor-then we move each box and item back into the catering van. It's super important to lift things safely and not tweak your back. Some smart caterers also bring sturdy garden type gloves, which is a good idea.

Yes, I would make more money if I didn't ask to be cut. But it's super hard to think in those terms when there isn't a lot of work to do and the only thing in store is boredom followed by major physical work.

How to use 6 pounds of Ricotta Cheese

Not only did I get to gawk at nearly naked women at a recent catering gig; I was also rewarded with a bounty of pumpernickel bread, one batch each of saffron and achiote poached shrimp, bay shrimp salad, and six pounds of ricotta. Oscar was stoked. It's always a treat to bring home a random box or bag of catered goodies because it's sometimes premium items or ingredients that I may not have at home.

So. How to eat one's way through six pounds of ricotta cheese? To start, freeze one of the tubs.Really, should two people be eating six pounds of whole milk ricotta in under three weeks? Then think big: go beyond pasta dinners or cheesecake. How do lemon ricotta pancakes sound, with or without blueberries? I've been obsessing over these pancakes for almost two weeks. Purists may scoff at the use of pancake mix but that's their problem! The first batch we made had us ooooohing and aaaaaahing to each other, and the 'cakes were light, fluffy, creamy, and delish.

LEMON RICOTTA PANCAKES

Serve with warm honey or (my favorite) maple syrup. The recipe is adapted from Giada De Laurentiis' on foodnetwork.com.

1 2/3 cup water
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
2 cups pancake and waffle mix, Krusteaz is recommended
1 cup whole milk ricotta cheese
zest of 1 lemon
juice of 1/2 lemon
2/3 cup fresh or frozen blueberries

Using a rubber spatula, stir water and vanilla in a large bowl. Add pancake mix & stir til just moistened but still lumpy. Stir in ricotta, lemon zest, and lemon juice. Stir gently to incorporate ricotta & lemon but still maintain a lumpy batter. Fold in blueberries.

Cook pancakes over a medium hot griddle, using 1/4 cup batter for each pancake. Cook until golden brown, about 2 minutes per side. I like to put butter and syrup the entire stack of pancakes & then microwave for 30-40 seconds. Eat immediately while reading the newspaper, chatting with family, and drinking strong coffee.

Nearly Naked Girls in the Kitchen

No one, and I mean no one complains when scantily clad dancer/model/performer/skate girls in hot pants walk through the catering workspace. Maybe "expect the unexpected" is a super cheesy phrase, but it is an apt descriptor for catering.

This weekend I worked an event on the second floor of a nightclub. We were issued ear plugs. Our stoves were plugged into a confusing thread of cords that may normally be used for sound equipment. It was dark. Thousands of guests were downstairs, and we had a prime viewing spot in the balcony. The performers for the night included a sexy snake charmer lady, roller skating girls, gymnasts who used silky looking sashes to lift, shimmy and pull their way up to the ceiling, and a loud but good funky band. There was also a pair of male gymnasts that did striking moves, but the more macho guests giggled and guffawed. Perhaps they weren't used to all that male flesh. Watching the two guys lift and sweat their way through their act, and I too started thinking about gay male sex.

Guests were not supposed to be in our area, but the performers sometimes used our balcony as a walkway. Female chefs would gawk at the ladies with the slightest whiff of disdain and fascination; the guys did not hide their goofy smiles and open mouths. Our head chef/boss kept offering the ladies food, and they seemed to only want chicken skewers (so that's how they stay so trim and hot!). We'd all put our knives and tools down to slowly watch the ladies as they'd pass by, all smooth, shiny and glittery.

Then there were the unwanted visitors to our space. That'd be the arrogant pushy male guests who would announce their presence and then try to make small talk as they'd greedily grab a nosh here and a bite there. They'd linger and look around, as if they wanted the other guests to see them schmoozing and eating in the "kitchen." On the other hand, maybe they were just like the guys I was working with: trying to get a nice long look at some nearly naked women.

The (Catering) Replacements

One Golden Rule of Catering: Replace thyself. Preferably NOT on the day of an event. If you're heaving or otherwise ill, give the catering company as much advance notice if at all possible, so as not to induce headaches. The last thing a staffing person wants is to figure out who to call as your back up. I learned this the tough way years ago. I was still in cooking school, and learning the ropes.

I had a bloody eyeball when I woke up early on a Saturday morning. My catering call time was for 3 p.m. that day, in Palo Alto. The bloody eyeball hurt and seemed too disgusting to look at, from a catering guest point of view. Or so I rationalized to myself. At 10:30 a.m., I left a voice mail on the staffing company's machine describing the bloody eyeball, and saying I wasn't feeling well and that my eye looked gross. I  said sorry a few times throughout the message, and meant it. I thought that was all I needed to do. But no. Two hours later, I received a scathing response from a bitchy woman:

"What am I supposed to do?" she asked. "This is a  huge event, and we really need you. How am I supposed to find a replacement? It's late!" she screeched. She was right, but I didn't have a good answer.

"Look, my eyeball has blood in it, and it hurts. I don't think I should be around food."

"Did you go to a doctor?" she asked.

Why would I do that? I didn't have health insurance, and was taking the cheapo/free self care route.

"No," I mumbled. Our conversation-or rather, her continuing to yell at me-continued for two more minutes. I hung up my phone with the understanding I had seriously fucked up and would not be able to work for this company again. Lesson learned.

I was supposed to cater tonight for an elaborate dinner party. But I tweaked my back cleaning and moving furniture at our place last weekend. Because I have excruciating back pain that flares up every year or so, I did the smart catering thing. I backed out of my catering gig as soon as possible. Last Sunday, I emailed my boss apologies and short details of my back woes, along with the names and phone numbers of two potential replacements. I described in detail their background, "works for the Gettys", "catered a huge New Year's party for wealthy Euros," etc. so she could understand who would be working in my place. If either of those two names didn't pan out, I let the boss know I had other great replacement candidates.

I will call her tomorrow to check up on how my replacement did.

Catering Christmas Dollars

Dilemma: deciding between spending time with family, including my newborn son, or... make some sweet catering cash. I have been asked if I'd like to cater for seven hours (2 p.m. to 9 p.m.) on Christmas. Holiday hourly pay would be fifty dollars an hour. That's a minimum of $350, which is high for one job. The chances of a sweet tip are strong if past holiday gigs are telling.

Restaurant work guarantees having to work on every holiday. I don't miss that. Catering has been a pick and choose matter for me since I have various clients. Yes, I worked on Father's Day this year, but I haven't worked on Thanksgiving or Christmas in ages. It seems like it'd be insulting and hurtful to my folks.

Our family's special holiday meal this year is on Christmas Eve, when my chef brother finishes work at the Claremont Resort. We're making turducken, mashed potatoes, collard greens with red bell peppers, sweet rolls, ice cream, cookies and chocolate. There will of course be a platter or two of pate, cheese, meats, and other snacky delights. So, if I cater on Christmas day, I'll miss some tasty leftovers. I think I'll pass on working on Christmas, but it is tempting.

You're Late!

"Where are you?!" said the Catering Manager into her cell phone, in a terse, hushed voice. "280? You're supposed to take a 101 exit!"

The Catering Manager was on the phone with a co-worker of hers, and looked pissed. This was their sixth phone exchange, and it was 3:45. The truck was at this point forty-five minutes late. Since the van held all the food and decorations for the event, we had little to do. I tried not to think about how rushed things would be once the van finally arrived. To pass the time, I looked at the client's cookbook collection and noted the faces in his framed photos.

Driving a catering delivery van (or truck) in the San Francisco Bay Area during the holidays must be terribly stressful. Sometimes, catering companies use one van for two events, if they are doing things stupidly and on the cheap. Trust me, it's worth the extra money to rent another van. I've seen it happen many times where one crew has to deliver and unload food and gear for more than one event. Going from SF to say, Mill Valley will always take longer than planned. The poor crews are always late, frazzled, and ticked off. Inevitably, something gets left behind. At our event, it was a grand floral arrangement that was left behind in the catering warehouse.

By the time the female driver arrived at our event at 4:15, she looked forlorn and zonked. "My Mapquest said to turn left, but it was a dead end. There were no turns. Then, I got stuck on Market Street, and could only turn right." Poor thing, it was Friday rush hour, and her first time driving in San Francisco. I'm not surprised she got lost.

We had to hustle to carry tables, food, booze, bins, and other supplies up not one but two sets of steep stairs. This heavy lifting is why I shy away from other physical exercise in the hours leading up to catering gigs. My jokes about "Where's the elevator?" were met with thin smiles, but I was trying to lighten the mood. Since we were now an hour and a half behind schedule, it was a rush to get everything set up and ready. Guests were arriving at 6 p.m., so we had to hurry.

Whenever I started to feel panicky about how much I had to do before six, I took a deep breath. One thing at a time. Not my fault we're late. Keep working. What's next on the list? We cranked out a buffet that included: hummus, olive tapenade, pita points; smoked salmon; thinly sliced beef filet with horseradish cream, on focaccia; cheese station with seasonal fruit; lamb lollipops with pear chutney; Asian noodles in a ginger-garlic sauce; and chocolate truffles, fruit tarts, and petit fours. Guess what time the first guest arrived? 6:20. Of course.

Milk Maid

Eating, going to the bathroom, or taking any sort of break may not happen during the rush(es) of a catered party. That's why I usually try and feed and groom long before guests arrive. A recent party was different. I knew I'd have to find a way to sneak at least one, maybe two bathroom breaks in. Reason: I needed to lock myself in the bathroom so I could get rid of my breast milk. I had to do it or my breasts could swell, leak, and become seriously painful.

I haven't turned into a catering slacker, but plotting these bathroom breaks sure felt like it. I am not used to walking out of the kitchen when things are in full swing. There were only two women's restrooms, which meant I had serious competition if half of the 200 guests were female.

I hurried into one restroom and closed and bolted the door. I could hear the band playing some loud but pleasing Motown music, and knew the guests would be eating their first course for about twenty minutes or more. Although I wish I had time to bring a breast pump machine or hand pump in, that seemed like way too much time and effort. Instead, I was going to stand over the sink and squeeze any milk out. I untied my apron, and ripped my white chef coat off. Then I lifted my shirt and undid my bra. Let the milking begin, stat!

I was squeezing so hard, my breast started sporting angry red marks. Good news was, the milk was coming out. After two minutes of this, I could hear female voices outside the bathroom door, presumably waiting for the loo. Great. The combo of the bathroom's warm and bright lights and feeling rushed made me sweat a little. I kept looking to the door in a panic, half expecting someone to turn or eventually open the handle.

This milk dumping was taking too long! I watched the milk squirt out and drizzle around the sink, before eventually dribbling down the drain. When some milk streamed near the soap, I wiped it away, and mumbled "Ew!" to myself. I wondered if the sink had been the scene of quick milking ever before. When I returned to my work station minutes later, I was flushed and wanted to share my secret with a female co-worker. But instead, I grabbed my mallet and got back to cracking some crab.

Breakity-Break

I have been told I need to slow down and rest because I have a son on the way, due in early October. Since this is our first (maybe only?) kiddo, I can't say for sure how long I'll be away. But I look forward to returning soon with more exciting food, drink, and related tidbits. Until then, cheers.

Closing Time

One of the two remaining guests said to the host, "Well... we're the first to come and last to go!" in a giddy, slightly slurred voice. They smiled as they stood near the host, waiting for a response. Everyone else had left at least twenty minutes before. The host smiled and said to the guests, "Oh, you're still here?" Um, yeah. I know I don't want to ever be that guest.

Event guests usually stay beyond their invited time for any of the following reasons:

• way too drunk and/or "medicated"
• enjoying the party and feeling relaxed/happy/exuberant
• like how it feels to be in a new/different/exotic/beautiful place
• lost track of time
• want to continue eating and drinking free booze
• all of the above: clueless, clueless, clueless

Guests, if you happen to notice food stations shutting down and the staff starts blowing out candles and removing table lines, it's time to pack up and go, stat. Ditto for if the band or entertainment has disappeared or started putting away their things. At this point, if you hunt us down and ask for another drink or plate of food after we've put everything away, well... that may mean you have become a pain in the ass. If we can, we will comply with your request in a somewhat faux cheery way. It is called hospitality for a reason, right?

It's Getting Hot in Here: Smoked Salmon

For my Lake Tahoe gig last week, I started wishing for things to be different. Even though the lake views and live samba music wafting into my kitchen perch seemed at first glance ideal. To get my work finished, I wanted a more elaborate fantasy: to be in a cool, climate controlled kitchen. Think upscale and professional sushi restaurant. What I got was a humid, hot, sticky kitchen revved by two ovens cranked to 500 degrees. Let me explain lest you wonder if I've gone soft and wimpy.

I was assigned to roll 100 pieces of smoked salmon as a part of a heavenly potato chip-caviar-chive-creme fraiche item for the servers to pass. The chef showed me how he wanted the salmon sliced and then rolled. These weren't going to be sweet little roses of the type I learned how to bang out in cooking school. Chef emphasized how tight and uniform each piece should be. Together we decided it'd be best if the pieces were all the same height. I was warm in my full chef's jacket and pants, and the hot ovens were not helping. Worse, my hands were damp and I wished I wasn't "gifted" with a warm body temp from my Dad. The salmon was shredding rather than cutting, and was also sticky. I'd use Chef's small knife to roll, roll, roll, roll a piece, only to realize it was a too-fat mess. These pieces were not anywhere close to tight or attractive looking. So many times in catering I feel challenged. I want to produce quality food but feel rushed and panicky as the deadline for guests to arrive ticks closer.

When hot ovens mess with you, fight back. Rather than leave the full salmon fillet out, I wrapped most of it up and put it back in the fridge. That'd make it much easier to handle, in theory. I kept pulling batches out after I'd finish fifteen or so pieces. It was frustrating to see how slow things were still going for me, and I kept hoping the Chef wasn't pissed. He didn't seem rushed, and even announced that "we're in good shape," at one point, which slowed my pitter-pattering heart just a bit.

I realized my neck was tightening up from being hunched over. Keep going, this is not a spa. It's work. One hour and probably forty-five pieces in, I started to feel like I had finally gotten the hang of rolling tight, perfect looking pieces. Chef even gave a quick "Mmmm-hmm," on one of his peeks at my station. Omigod, he was even smiling! I put the finished pieces in the freezer and stopped after 100. I worked mainly on fully assembling the salmon apps throughout the two hour cocktail shindig. One guest and friend of the hostess came in to use a regular sized spoon to eat more caviar and salmon. More of that came later. The leftover salmon pieces went into a container and would be gobbled by our socialite client and her pals after the party ended.   

My hands still smelled of smoked salmon the next day. An early morning jump off the client's deck into the chilly Tahoe waters helped me feel cleaner and relaxed.

The Kitchen Giveth & Taketh Away

There can be some heartwarming moments in catering prep at the large kitchen I've been working in. The space is the home to scores of catering outfits, and is a buzzing hub of activity seven days a week. All that time spent sharing space means folks are forced to get to know one another. Sharing by way of "do you have a grill pan I can use," or "Help! I need half a cup of rum," happens often, if not daily.

Although I always bring a bag of nuts and a water bottle for emergencies, there's little need for snacks. (The water is a different story. It comes out of the tap with a brownish tint, and is rumored to taste terrible). My client/boss, Chef C, usually whips something up for us to eat -- both breakfast and lunch sometimes. I dig her ham and cheese melts early in the morning, cooked in rich butter. She'll share with folks that are for that day employed by other outfits. Many times, these are people she has hired or worked with over the years.

Good to keep the troops happy. It's not just a one way giving street. One day, Chef C's group was treated by a neighboring group to roast beef, carmelized onions, roasted veggies, and noodles. Flavorful goodness that hit the spot. We sat around the prep station and sighed softly as we dug in. The one advantage for the chefs to feeding everyone is there's little or no leftovers to pull from the walk-in or clean up days later.

Just when I start to feel like it's all love all the time there, I read notices posted on the walk in fridge along the lines of, "You will be fired immediately for taking anything from this walk in without express permission. We won't put up with it. Taking without asking is theft, that is STEALING. There have been numerous incidents of items disappearing. This is NOT acceptable and will NOT be taken lightly." Chef C notices when things disappear. A bottle of water or soda is one thing, but when pricier big ticket items go missing, she gets pissed. Beef, dairy, and shrimp cost serious bucks, and usually require advance ordering. It's also irritating as hell to go looking for something you need to use right away, like olive oil. You may at first feel like senility is kicking in when you can't find the item in it's usual home, or where you last left it.

Chef C caught a culprit using her aluminum foil last week. The entire ream had disappeared. However, her foil cutter leaves a distinct pattern on the ends of the foil. In a face to face discussion, Chef C asked the potential thief if he was sure he knew where the foil came from. He denied it three times until she grabbed the cutter and showed Mr. Culprit the exact same imprint on the foil he had used. "Oh yeah," he back pedaled. "I couldn't find you...." he said, mumbling. Mr. Culprit sometimes works for Chef C, and perhaps thinks her stuff is open season. Even though there are locked and covered areas for storage, it seems like it is a frustrating, constant cycle of items big and small disappearing. I would probably be and act much bitchier and pissed. Perhaps not healthy, but that's my natural reaction to territorial threats. 

 

You Know You're a Caterer When...

...The skin around your finger nails turns brown and black. Whatever nail you may have is also dirty looking. Scrubbing with hot soap and water gets about half the grime and grit off. Hand lotion, or olive oil applied before bed helps some. The best solution for grimy fingers and nails? Masochists only for this one. My nails are super short as it is, but I use nail clippers to cut away as much filth as possible. The skin looks dead anyways, and cutting the skin off is painless. Really, it is. It would be useless to have open sores in this line of work, so I only cut superficially. Sadly, I have no clue what to do with the skin on the side of my pointer finger, which look like a busy road map of more dirt. Since the dirt isn't deep enough to cut through, I'm forced to keep washing and waiting for the appearance of grit to go away.

The reason my nails and skin are blackened is from hours of cleaning and picking herbs, for 2 separate events. Even though the herb bunches get rinsed first in a deep sink and colander, there is still enough trace dirty stuff to cause dirty nail.

Another nasty symptom of catering that is definitely freaky: blackened nostrils. How else to say it? Your boogers turn all black. While in the restroom for a break this week, I blew my nose. I had never seen such dry, black crud in a Kleenex. It was not blood, but looked like dried tar from a dirty street. There was a lot of it. The culprit? Hours spent cooking hot, glistening beef appetizers indoors. I kept thinking back to the somewhat oily, extremely hot, beef cooking pan that had tiny segments of garlic and beef in it. There must not have been enough ventilation, and perhaps I inhaled some of the oven's cruddy fumes throughout the event. I wondered if the warm, humid weather (Palo Alto, baby!) made things better or worse. The black boogers kept coming, later that night. My post-event relaxation was definitely cramped. I felt like a mad scientist every time I went to the bathroom and blew, hunched over the sink. Black, dirty tissue is painless but oh-so-gross. More extra hot water and soapy goodness to clean me up, stat!

Don't String Me Along

A few rules for preparing large quantities of rice noodles: no need to salt the soon to be boiling water. Most important of all, check the noodles to be sure they are not wrapped and tied with white string. If you don't check for string, you may have a panicked search on your hands for stringy bits, post cooking.

I had seven batches of noodles to cook for my boss/client, C. Her only instructions were to not salt the water, and allow the noodles to drain and then cool in covered plastic tubs in the walk in fridge. I had already cut open and dumped more than half the noodles in when I realized some of the packages had noodles with string. The noodle water was too hot for me to pick with my fingers, which I quickly learned after snapping my hand back and looking down at hot, pink skin. I only had a giant strainer to work with, which would not do the trick. I needed tongs for picking out the string. I ran to the other room to find some.

When I returned, the water was cloudy and cooking along nicely. Using the tongs, I tried to see if I could pull the string out. It was nearly impossible to tell where the string was in the cloudy water, because it looked exactly like the noodles. I was also grimacing from my noodle hot air facial, from standing directly over the huge pot of hot water. A noodle steam was something I did not want or need.

I kept looking for the string as I drained the noodles. No luck. How could eight strings disappear so quickly? What would happen if, at the party/event later that night, Tracy Chapman (rumored to be on the guest list) had to pick string out of her teeth? How much would C and our client flip then? I had to wait over a half hour for the noodles to cool enough to touch. Those suckers came out hot! I had divided them into two batches, and was getting ready to seal them and put them in the walk in.

My co-worker, J came over, to ask how many packages I had used. I told her seven and waited for her to high tail it back to our prep area. No need to make myself look like an catering loser, or explain why I'm fishing through the noodles, for string. There were two pieces of string for each package, so I counted as I found and tossed each string. By string six, I was feeling good. Each piece of evidence went straight to the trash. I hoped the two guys doing prep near me weren't observing my weird string search. Of course the last two strings took the longest to find, and the amount of time it took made me a little nuts. A sense of urgency is critical in catering --except when it's "hurry up and wait" time; more on that in another post--but it can lead to a crazy and frantic rush. I finally found and disposed of them, and quickly got the noodles to their cooling zone.

Hours later at a large beautiful warehouse in the City, I looked at the results of my string search. There was a beautiful display of take out boxes with string-free noodles, organic veggies, peanut and fresh herb garnish, and zippy ginger dressing. Guests were smiling and grabbing the boxes and digging in. I snorted to myself silently, "If only they knew!" Lesson learned on my part, definitely.

Smoke Signals

I asked my client/boss, C, "What's up with the mellow yellow in the bathroom? And the cigar smoke....?"

She responded, "Ugh, I know. Those guys are gross." She was referring to the 2 managers of the building, whose office was connected to said bathroom. "They think they're 'saving the Earth' by not flushing their pee down. Who wants to look at that frothy mess?" She paused. "The cigar smoke? That's just what they do. It's been going on forever."

I looked down at the floor and got back to work. I figured finding a toilet bowl full of dark yellow bubbly pee every time I went to the bathroom was definitely less disturbing than the cigar smoke. The thick smoke filled their office and my lungs and nostrils every time I walked by or through. Headache alert! A few angry questions sprung up in my mind: how are they able to smoke smelly cancer causing cigars in a work place? Isn't this California? Don't we have a law against that?

Another female Catering Ho guffawed when I mentioned the cigar smoke. S said, "You think they give a shit that it bothers you? Oh please." No nonsense all the way. Guess any hopes of sisterhood banding together for the sake of our health wasn't gonna happen anytime soon. These gals weren't aware of my bun in the oven just yet, either.

In bed that night, I asked Oscar what to do. He sighed, "I'm not sure, hon. It sounds like you're stuck."

"I really like working there. It's fun. But the cigar smoke? It gives me such a headache. And the baby...." I added, "I just can't believe this is happening in 2007. I don't know if I can stay there."

"Well," he said in a resigned tone.

I had to try just once to beg and cajole my case. Bank on charm and flirting. I knocked and peeked into the office of Big Cigar Smoker #1 the next morning. I cringed while wondering what was behind the wooden door.

"Yes?" he said. "Come in." I sighed before entering. Thankfully, he hadn't fired up the cigar just yet.

I said in my brightest and most friendly voice, "Hello." Pause. "I was wondering if you could do me a favor. Help me out. I'm allergic to cigar smoke." I avoided looking at his filthy ash tray, "And it's really, really hard for me when there's smoke around. Can you help me by... not smoking when I'm here?"

He looked at me. There was a long pause. I hoped he wasn't about to erupt in anger over my request. I kept a smile glued on my face, eyes pleading. He said in a dull voice, "Okay, yeah," and avoided eye contact.

"I can bring a doctor's note or something," I added. What the fuck was I saying?

He answered, "No, that's fine," and gave a meek smile. I thanked him and gave one last smile back. I was THRILLED. What a relief. I was also somewhat shocked that the exchange was pretty easy and straightforward.

An hour and a half later, his boss called me aside. "Mary, right? You work for C?"

"Yes," I responded, puffing my more-ample-than-usual chest out a bit.

"I'm told the smoke makes you sick?" he said, in a gruff but friendly voice.

I shrugged a little (again, what is wrong with me? Why was I making it so tough to ask for no smoke?), and said, "Yes, it gives me bad headaches."

"OK, well. I'll tell the guys, everyone, that they have to smoke outside."

"Thank you so much," I said. "I really appreciate it."

The only reminder of the smoke is the empty and dusty ash tray I spot on my way to the bathroom, where the mellow yellow frothy pee inevitably waits. I hold my nose, stand back and flush the toilet with my foot (shoe on!) before sitting. I'll take your pee over cigar smoke anytime! Better to count my blessings and not rock the boat too much.

Hands Off, Server

It's irritating as hell when a server thinks he or she can and should do double duty in the kitchen. Doubly irritating if the server is doing this because he thinks his ideas are superior to all others, including the boss. Kitchen control freaks, be on guard.

This week, I had a night time event in an enormous Sea Cliff home (mansion?). Open bar, passed apps and a buffet for fifty guests, for three hours. Flowers (preferably edible ones) were deemed the garnish of choice by the chef. What he says goes. His gig, his rules, his cash. No problem, right? Well, almost. Reality is, catering mini-dramas can unleash at any time, regardless of how smooth the event is going.

A server that I'll call J decided one dish should have limes cut in half as a garnish. Talk about fugly. It looked like something straight off of a tequila bar, and did not match the flowers adorning the other hand crafted Italian plates. J had already gotten on my nerves an hour earlier, when he set about arranging flowers. That's great, but J waltzed off without cleaning his heaping mess of dirty scissors, gargantuan plastic wrap, flower stems and parts, and mini-mounds of pollen. There's one of many unspoken catering rules. If the event is flowing and there is not a rush, it makes sense for each person to keep his or her messes clean at all times.

I can now see J's logic in wanting to include his ugly lime halves. It sort of makes sense because the dish was Yucatan chicken marinated in achiote paste, dressed with fresh squeezed lime juice, and a sprinkle of cilantro. After J moved my flower garnish off (could this be what really got me going?) and put his stupid limes on the plate and left the kitchen, I turned to the male chef, my boss. "Those limes look ugly, don't you think?"

He replied, somewhat softly, "Yeah, I'm not a fan." To which I silently wondered to myself, "Why is J fucking with us? Why doesn't he let us" (read: me) "do our jobs?"

When the next order of chicken came up, I had a handful of flowers at the ready, next to the plate. J scooted his butt behind a cutting board and started slowly slicing more limes. I let him keep working while I set about slicing the chicken breasts. There may have been a smug smile on my face. I plated one chicken breast, and then the other. He started to move his limes over. "No, we're going with the flowers for this one," I said.

J gave me a quizzical, sarcastic look and the signs of a mini-snarl curled his lip. "Oh. The limes, though," he said.

"No. No limes. Flowers for all plates," I said in a slightly stern tone. J did not look pleased. He let the plate sit there, and busied himself by taking another plate out. This made no sense and seemed to show J was pissed, or so I imagined. One of the other servers eventually took the chicken with flower garnish plate out for me instead.

I'm not proud that I was a player in the lime garnish drama. But I felt that was my job, not J's. When more than one person puts themselves in charge of a task, no matter how minute, it may lead to conflict. That's just how it goes in catering.