THE RAW SIDE
BY VAL STAFFORD
Two steam tables and a microwave.
Any time I find myself cooking something in some Macgyver-escue, janky, downright ridiculous manner, I think of the Blind Pig. Not that place on Walnut Street or that other one on Neil Street, but the original one, tucked away in a then-quiet little alley on Taylor Street. The “old side” was once a barber shop. It was tiny. It seems like there were only nine bar stools, tucked around a pretty little bar-top, flanked with rockabilly punks and whiskey aficionados. They expanded into the adjoining building and now had a stage and what I will endearingly call a “kitchen.” Machota helped get me in the door. You had to be one of the cool kids to work there, and I definitely wasn’t one of the cool kids. The crew was intriguing. I got to know Machota at Nature’s Table. He was smart and sarcastic with his infectious laughter, a love of garlic, and an appreciation for good beer. The jazz community suffered such a blow with the loss of the Table. But it was if the scattered pieces of it dusted themselves off and followed Machota as his entourage with an Art Blakey, Miles Davis, and Mingus-laden soundtrack. Creason was the resident beer expert. He was into beer way before this whole “craft beer” fad. He put together a most impressive collection, poised in the coolers like a frosty parade, meticulously listed on giant chalkboards. And there was Larry Love, the dreamy dreadlocked bartender, Darrin, who was one part punk, one part cigarettes, and three parts whiskey, and Mr. Fab.
Mr. Fab was the face of the Blind Pig. Many folks thought he was the owner, as he and the owner were both British. We usually just let people believe that he was the owner. It was better off that way. He was handsome and charming, with a permanent smile. Mr. Fab was so busy with the customers that we had ample opportunities to fuck with him. Entire chopped jalapenos would make their way into his cups of soup. Tablespoons of salt would end up in his coffee. There was a little nook where we left any food mistakes for him to eat. Typically, there were sandwiches that weren’t meant to include mustard, or salads that were supposed to have the dressing on the side, and the occasional scallop salad that was returned by an ill-informed vegetarian. We had a package of sliced cheese from Sam’s Club in which the deli girl was nice enough to include the cheddar colored half-inch thick wax coating butt end of the cheese. Rather that toss it, it was carefully crafted into a tempting sandwich and left in the nook. It was a particularly busy day. It took him three hours, but Mr. Fab eventually ate the whole thing, as we snickered around the corner, nearly pissing ourselves.
Sharon was the closest thing I had ever met to a movie star. She was tall and graceful, with cats’ eye glasses, jet black bangs, red lipstick, and her signature overalls. She effortlessly concocted lively soups and funky salads. Looney Tuna was a fan favorite. Spiral pasta studded with black olives, cheese cubes, tuna, red onions, and red wine vinaigrette. The Spinach Mushroom Tahini salad was rich and velvety, blanketed and tamed by the nutty dressing. Her soups were fabulous. Green Chile Cheese, which wasn’t green but tomato based, had loads of garlic, onion, and tons of green chiles. It was slowly simmered, then pureed until velvety smooth, and crowned with shredded cheddar. The Italian Stew was an herbaceous, chunky mix of eggplant, zucchini, yellow squash, onion, garlic, and tomato, served over rice. There were curries and bisques, Cuban Black Bean, Peanutty Yam, and Caribbean Banana. Bananas in a soup! During the day, the kitchen was hidden with a little collection of folding walls. One would expect to peek around the barrier to find Sharon standing over the stove stirring pots of steaming pasta, sweating mire poix, or tending to garlic laden pots of beans. But there was no stove. No tabletop convection oven. No open flame. No two steam tables and a microwave. She ran an entire restaurant with a rice cooker, two soup warmers (aka crock pots), and a toaster. And she made it look easy.
The days at the Pig were glorious ones. It was the best music venue in town at that time. As the sun came down, the tea drinking beatniks at Jazz happy hour would slowly be replaced by chain-smoking, shot-pounding kids like us. Mr. Fab would manage to bring in big name reggae groups, the likes of which the small time joints of the town have rarely seen since. Ward had his finger on the pulse of the local rock scene comprised of the baby-faced boys of Hum, Menthol, Lonely Trailer, and Honcho Overload. We would lose our voices screaming when Big Sandy and His Flyrite Boys rolled through town, and skinny little Wally would stand on his upright base, strumming with string-busting enthusiasm. Somehow, I never felt awestruck. The whirlwind of rock and rollers, afterparties and aftermath all seemed very commonplace.
Except for that one time. I was working the door for a band I had never heard of. Nashville Pussy. The place was packed wall to wall. Uncomfortably so. In retrospect, as the door man, I had perhaps exceeded the limits of occupation by a few dozen tattooed heathens. No worries. And then they took stage, a screaming, fire breathing, gyrating Amazonian goddess at the helm. Small mosh pits erupted like cluster bombs. Pint glasses were spiked and shattered, beer bottles broke and the floor seemed sure to cave in shortly. The crowd roared as the band stepped off stage for a smoke break. I got someone to watch the door and kidney punched my way through the crowd to the restroom. I nearly kicked open the door with urgency, realizing it was occupied. The fire breathing, leather-clad 6-foot - inch blonde was fixing her mascara. And perhaps doing a line of coke. Rock and roll multitasking at its finest. I backed away, nervous and apologetic. “You’re fine. Take a piss” she said. And I did! I peed in front of the lead singer of Nashville Pussy! And now I was awestruck.
Six mornings a week, we would roll into work, one by one, in various degrees of dishevelment. Eyes half open, we drank pots of coffee, ate salami and mayo sandwiches, and took about seventeen ibuprofen. The small clan of kitchen crew and lunch servers managed to keep it together somehow. Darrin was always the wild card. He would often have to tend bar the night before until three or four in the morning. He would stumble in with a goose egg from where his head hit the toilet while puking, or better yet, with the brand of the hot stove grid seared upon his brow from an ill fated frozen pizza attempt. We let him sleep it off behind the stage curtains as the customers sat nearby with their cucumber cheese sandwiches and chick pea salads. We never really got upset, we just covered for him and went about our day. Sharon amazed me. It seemed like she could cook anything in a rice cooker. Indian food, seared shrimp, Japanese noodle salads, sloppy joes, anything. We took work field trips to Sam’s Club and Asian Mart and spent our free time pillaging thrift stores and amassing vintage lamp collections. She and her boyfriend were in the planning stages of opening a restaurant of their own. They asked me if I wanted to be involved. I believe my exact words were, “Hell. Yes.”
Living the not-so-glamorous life. The building took several months to renovate. David was like a Tasmanian devil/mad scientist with dry-wall dust in his hair at all times. He and his buddies did a lot of the restoration work themselves. We had to bring in plumbers and electricians for the big jobs. But the boys framed and dry-walled, laid intricate patterns of tile in the kitchen and bathroom, and installed all manner of fixtures and features. They turned rusty gears and bent up tin and weird old salvage things from Paca into functioning works of art. As a very unskilled participant, I was in charge of tasks like sanding the walls, or hanging out on a twenty-foot scaffolding for two days, wiping the tin ceiling with turpentine until I saw unicorns and yetis. Sharon spent painstaking hours turning salvaged antique doors into hauntingly beautiful portraits that would be covered in glass and affixed to table bases. We all looked pretty haggard. This was likely due to our existing on coffee, cigarettes, pizza delivery, and Mickey’s big mouths and PBR for about five months or so. At some point, I think we just stopped eating altogether and went straight to beer. It’s all kind of a blur towards the end.
The smell of stainless steel. The shopping that you get to do before opening the restaurant is undoubtedly the best part, with all the catalogs, all the food reps, and the shiny shiny things. Thousands upon thousands of dollars later, all of the things arrive. Sometimes, it’s what you ordered, sometimes, not as much. Still, it’s just like Christmas each and every day. You cut open the boxes and tear off the plastic like maniacal children and scrape off the stickers. You put it together and shine it up and arrange it perfectly. It is the first and last time that the kitchen will ever look this way. I know that stainless steel doesn’t have a smell, but I can still smell the smell of that pristine, delicately arranged little kitchen. Days later, plates would be shattered, fingers would bleed, skewers would burn, and tempers would be lost. As they would the next day, the day after, and the day after that.
As with any such undertaking, things always take much longer and cost much more than they are supposed to. But somehow, we passed all of the inspections without bribery, got our menus together, and assembled a crew. Many former coworkers and friends would join us in battle, as well as a handful of folks off the street. The menu was impressive almost to the point of being overambitious. This made daily prepping a fairly hilarious shitshow. We put things on the menu that we had always wanted to try, or serve, but had never made before. We burnt several pots of couscous, chock full of expensive dried fruits, before reading the damn directions and realizing it simply had to be placed in a bowl, covered with boiling water, and allowed to rest. Several scorched pots and a few hundred dollars were the cost of being too stubborn or tired to read the damn box. We had too many things on a stick. There were entrees with marinated chicken and vegetables on skewers. Both were doused in spices and greasy orange palm oil. The lucky guy or girl who got this job would stand in a corner with a cutting board on top of a trash can and put things on sticks for hours, with the palm oil dripping down their elbows. It was a pretty awful job.
I had no idea what I was doing when it came to ordering some of the supplies. We had a grilled swordfish sandwich on the menu. I ordered a few pounds, no big deal. It arrived the next day, in all its glory, seventy five pounds, four and a half feet tall, and frozen solid. I panicked. Do I submerge half of it in the sink and try to defrost the bottom part and cut off a chunk? Do I place it on top of the sink with two strategically placed running faucets and try to saw it in thirds? Or do I take all the shelves out of the upright freezer, wedge it in there, and hide the pricey evidence like a serial killer? I bought a hunk of chocolate that was supremely heavy, had to be chiseled into manageable chunks, and cost as much as a used Nissan.
The smell of stainless steel. The shopping that you get to do before opening the restaurant is undoubtedly the best part, with all the catalogs, all the food reps, and the shiny shiny things. Thousands upon thousands of dollars later, all of the things arrive. Sometimes, it’s what you ordered, sometimes, not as much. Still, it’s just like Christmas each and every day. You cut open the boxes and tear off the plastic like maniacal children and scrape off the stickers. You put it together and shine it up and arrange it perfectly. It is the first and last time that the kitchen will ever look this way. I know that stainless steel doesn’t have a smell, but I can still smell the smell of that pristine, delicately arranged little kitchen. Days later, plates would be shattered, fingers would bleed, skewers would burn, and tempers would be lost. As they would the next day, the day after, and the day after that.
As with any such undertaking, things always take much longer and cost much more than they are supposed to. But somehow, we passed all of the inspections without bribery, got our menus together, and assembled a crew. Many former coworkers and friends would join us in battle, as well as a handful of folks off the street. The menu was impressive almost to the point of being overambitious. This made daily prepping a fairly hilarious shitshow. We put things on the menu that we had always wanted to try, or serve, but had never made before. We burnt several pots of couscous, chock full of expensive dried fruits, before reading the damn directions and realizing it simply had to be placed in a bowl, covered with boiling water, and allowed to rest. Several scorched pots and a few hundred dollars were the cost of being too stubborn or tired to read the damn box. We had too many things on a stick. There were entrees with marinated chicken and vegetables on skewers. Both were doused in spices and greasy orange palm oil. The lucky guy or girl who got this job would stand in a corner with a cutting board on top of a trash can and put things on sticks for hours, with the palm oil dripping down their elbows. It was a pretty awful job.
I had no idea what I was doing when it came to ordering some of the supplies. We had a grilled swordfish sandwich on the menu. I ordered a few pounds, no big deal. It arrived the next day, in all its glory, seventy five pounds, four and a half feet tall, and frozen solid. I panicked. Do I submerge half of it in the sink and try to defrost the bottom part and cut off a chunk? Do I place it on top of the sink with two strategically placed running faucets and try to saw it in thirds? Or do I take all the shelves out of the upright freezer, wedge it in there, and hide the pricey evidence like a serial killer? I bought a hunk of chocolate that was supremely heavy, had to be chiseled into manageable chunks, and cost as much as a used Nissan.
We worked out the kinks, a few at a time. The restoration, Sharon’s artwork, David’s handmade sconces and industrially salvaged accents came together beautifully. People clamored to get in the door and stood outside the huge windows at night, peering in at the magical space. Lunch and dinner were both fairly busy, but brunch was just a madhouse. We served up fat omelets filled with jambalaya, illegally good crabcakes, plate after plate of red flannel hash, and the world famous Uncle Justy's coffeecake. Plates were thrown. Whoever had the worst hangover usually ended up with the task of opening thirty cans of warm Pabst to make the beer bread, praying that they weren't too tardy to complete the bread in time for service.
Brunch, when survived, does bring out a certain amount of camaraderie and cause for celebration. This usually meant a trip to The Esquire. And pitchers of Old Style. One day in January, after too many pitchers of Old Style, three of us ended up with shaved heads. Well, the clippers gave out on Jen, so she had kind of a mohawk, which was later shaved by a horrified stylist at the BoRics's inside of Kmart. This was confusing to the customers, as two servers and a hostess were all bald and of similar stature. “Um, yes, my server, uh...one of the bald chicks...”. This was also fairly upsetting to one of Rhonda’s many admirers, Donnie V. of Enuff Z Nuff. After his band was hot in the eighties, and then “big in Japan,” they delivered produce. They worked for our friend Jack the Snake, also an MTV one-hit wonder and Rod Stewart impersonator. They rolled in on Friday nights smack dab in the middle of service and strung out. But their produce was beautiful.
Brunch, when survived, does bring out a certain amount of camaraderie and cause for celebration. This usually meant a trip to The Esquire. And pitchers of Old Style. One day in January, after too many pitchers of Old Style, three of us ended up with shaved heads. Well, the clippers gave out on Jen, so she had kind of a mohawk, which was later shaved by a horrified stylist at the BoRics's inside of Kmart. This was confusing to the customers, as two servers and a hostess were all bald and of similar stature. “Um, yes, my server, uh...one of the bald chicks...”. This was also fairly upsetting to one of Rhonda’s many admirers, Donnie V. of Enuff Z Nuff. After his band was hot in the eighties, and then “big in Japan,” they delivered produce. They worked for our friend Jack the Snake, also an MTV one-hit wonder and Rod Stewart impersonator. They rolled in on Friday nights smack dab in the middle of service and strung out. But their produce was beautiful.
The special events menus were my favorite. Extravagant New Year’s Eve bore the traditional steak, lobster, and bubbles. Mardi Gras brought gumbo, dirty rice, etouffee, blackened catfish, crawfish cakes, smothered eggplant, bread pudding, and cafe au lait. The wine dinners were over the top. Paul Simpson, local wine genius would bring the half dozen featured bottles, we would taste them, and put together a menu. I found the successes of these dinners especially exhilarating, as my prior experience with wine was deciding which color of Boone’s Farm we should drink in a cornfield by the railroad tracks.
One such dinner was impeccably concocted and executed. The diners requested our presence in the dining room. This had never happened to us, and we didn’t know quite what to do. Sharon was camera shy and didn’t want to head out front. The line cooks glanced down at ourselves, with our sweaty, dirty aprons. The dish boys were soaked from a seven-course bout in the dish pit. The sous chef, long-haired baby-faced William, my brother Justy and his rock and roll dish pit, and myself sheepishly headed out front. When we came around the corner, the record stopped. An audible gasp was heard, at least in my reality. The thought bubbles popped up like cartoons over their heads: “these little punks cooked our dinner?” After the shock wore off, they rose to their feet in applause.
It wasn’t always pretty and delicious. There was, underneath it all, the raw side. The nerves that were kept at bay were now so transparently exposed. We were all utterly exhausted. The ninety-plus hours a week was breaking what was left of our bodies and sanity. We lashed out at each other and the staff. Some threw plates, some threw tantrums, and some broke pint glasses at the brick wall in the alley after especially grueling dinner services. I threatened to stab a server, and also threw a soup bain marie down the stairwell at him. When he returned upstairs, we were all wearing cabbage hats and trying to keep a straight face. I was only twenty-five or so, but I was broken. When I got home and stepped into a scalding hot shower, my feet would burn and sting as they met the porcelain. It brought tears to my eyes every night. I was deliriously tired. I hallucinated that my vintage red peony curtains were giant slabs of hanging meat. My pillow was a swordfish. I smashed it and prodded it in my sleep, angry that the fishmonger had sent me such a spongy fish. I’m going to call them and return this. How dare they send me this type of quality! I would wrangle my swordfish pillow for three or four hours and get up and do it all over again. It took me two or three quadruple lattes a day just to maintain a semblance of normalcy.
Around this time, I had an opportunity to cook in France. I took what was left of my sanity, said my farewells, and headed to Lyon. I learned so much at Radio Maria, and met so many amazing people. The bonds of friendship built in such an undertaking are fierce. I will never forget it. Was it rough? Positively. Was it all worth it? Absolutely. The days, even hours, would sway from excitement to fear, triumph to despair, followed by a last-minute Hail Mary with varying outcomes. What’s funny is that no matter what the emotion or the circumstance, it always felt the same. It was the same in the beginning as it was in the end. Raw.
One such dinner was impeccably concocted and executed. The diners requested our presence in the dining room. This had never happened to us, and we didn’t know quite what to do. Sharon was camera shy and didn’t want to head out front. The line cooks glanced down at ourselves, with our sweaty, dirty aprons. The dish boys were soaked from a seven-course bout in the dish pit. The sous chef, long-haired baby-faced William, my brother Justy and his rock and roll dish pit, and myself sheepishly headed out front. When we came around the corner, the record stopped. An audible gasp was heard, at least in my reality. The thought bubbles popped up like cartoons over their heads: “these little punks cooked our dinner?” After the shock wore off, they rose to their feet in applause.
It wasn’t always pretty and delicious. There was, underneath it all, the raw side. The nerves that were kept at bay were now so transparently exposed. We were all utterly exhausted. The ninety-plus hours a week was breaking what was left of our bodies and sanity. We lashed out at each other and the staff. Some threw plates, some threw tantrums, and some broke pint glasses at the brick wall in the alley after especially grueling dinner services. I threatened to stab a server, and also threw a soup bain marie down the stairwell at him. When he returned upstairs, we were all wearing cabbage hats and trying to keep a straight face. I was only twenty-five or so, but I was broken. When I got home and stepped into a scalding hot shower, my feet would burn and sting as they met the porcelain. It brought tears to my eyes every night. I was deliriously tired. I hallucinated that my vintage red peony curtains were giant slabs of hanging meat. My pillow was a swordfish. I smashed it and prodded it in my sleep, angry that the fishmonger had sent me such a spongy fish. I’m going to call them and return this. How dare they send me this type of quality! I would wrangle my swordfish pillow for three or four hours and get up and do it all over again. It took me two or three quadruple lattes a day just to maintain a semblance of normalcy.
Around this time, I had an opportunity to cook in France. I took what was left of my sanity, said my farewells, and headed to Lyon. I learned so much at Radio Maria, and met so many amazing people. The bonds of friendship built in such an undertaking are fierce. I will never forget it. Was it rough? Positively. Was it all worth it? Absolutely. The days, even hours, would sway from excitement to fear, triumph to despair, followed by a last-minute Hail Mary with varying outcomes. What’s funny is that no matter what the emotion or the circumstance, it always felt the same. It was the same in the beginning as it was in the end. Raw.