Where the technique came from
Nine years of somebody senior telling me it wasn’t right yet.
I started as a commis in a tasting-menu kitchen in Hayes Valley, which is a polite way of saying I picked herbs and cleaned the walk-in for a year. That kitchen ran a nine-course menu that changed every few weeks, and nothing left the pass until the chef had looked at it. Most nights, a plate came back. You learn quickly that “close enough” is a decision somebody else has to eat.
From there it was garde manger, then fish, then four years on sauté at a seafood restaurant on the Embarcadero that turned two seatings a night, seven nights a week. Two hundred and forty covers on a Saturday, every one of them cooked to order. My last three years in the city were as sous chef in a small Italian room in North Beach where we made every pasta in the building that morning and threw out whatever we hadn’t sold.
None of that is glamorous and none of it is a shortcut. It is nine years of repetition under people who cared more about the food than about being liked, and it is the only reason a stove in a tent doesn’t frighten me.