Hell’s Kitchen Cooking School II: Right in the Oven

The slightly soapy smell of baking bread wafts up above the stovetop. Here it intertwines with a cacophony of scents and smells, sweet and savory. One man is making caramel, another tends to the chicken-lemon-rice soup, crowded into the space the size of a bathtub, while a third cracks the oven just enough to check the bread.

 

Behind them, freshly kneaded dough is now being spun into rolls by two men. Off to the side I direct a seventeen-year-old named Evan, who has never had a job before, on how to hold a chef knife to dice an onion for our meal later. His first cuts down the onion are slow and nervous but also surgical. Taking his time, he goes around the hemisphere before turning it to cross-cut. I continue to watch as he goes into the second half with more confidence before stepping away to remove the green beans from the steamer. I quickly replace them in the hazy, screaming compartment with thin cord-sized strands of carrots I julienned before the students got to class in order to get them just flexible enough to tie in a light knot around each half-portion bundle of beans.

 

I call Drew over, an adult who has worked in a professional kitchen before and who is here to learn more, to trim the chicken breasts and slice them into cutlets thin enough to pound into scallop-sized pieces the thickness of a hardbound-book cover. I take Evan to sauté the onions and prepare our marsala-like sauce. Normally made right in the skillet as the chicken pan-fries to a golden brown, we whip the sauce together in a measuring cup so he can understand the proportions and how each ingredient affects the taste. It’s similar to a red-wine demi-glace, though we are an alcohol-free kitchen (Yooper John’s under-the-bunk potato hooch just doesn’t cut it as a cooking wine),something that, with experience, doesn’t limit us but only expands our horizons. A little grape juice, a dash of balsamic vinegar, some homemade chicken broth, a tablespoon of lemon juice, a pinch of brown sugar and some cream. Browned onions in the pan, followed by some mushrooms, with our sauce poured in over top, allowed to simmer before a butter-roux is whisked in. The taste, rich with a myriad of notes of flavor. “Man, that’s good,” he says.

 

The first thing I do every morning, after washing up, is make my cup of coffee. If the water is hot, it just needs a minute in the microwave after adding a spoonful of the dehydrated stuff to be just right. I sip it as I go out the door, past the officer who checks my pass. The air is crisp, and the sky is still dark, and I take in the few stars that still struggle against the dusky light. My head is in the clouds on my way to work every day, because there’s no other place it would rather be until I get inside. Through the double-doors, it looks a lot like an industrial school or institution, which is what this building basically is. Upstairs is the GED school, where basic education is a chore mostly forced on those who, apart from their adult sentence, are usually otherwise juveniles. Education is often fought against, protested with “I don’t need this sh*t, I’m going back to selling dope when I get out with my new connects,” though occasionally accepted and periodically enjoyed. I worked there for seven years, one of the most rewarding things I’ve ever done, as I got to witness revelation and change in young men. To the right on the main floor, are the vocational classrooms. At one time there were four, but now, due to statewide budget cuts, there are only two available vocational education options for these men, including many young ones who have never had the opportunity to learn a trade or skill before as they came to adult prison just out of eighth or ninth grade. As a tutor/chef in the Food Technology vocational class, one of the two remaining ones, I work to help these men better themselves at a skill which they can take home to their families, which they can take home to care for themselves, which they can take home and, combined with other skills and lessons and use to stay away from the temptation of things which might lead them back to prison. As someone who suffered abuse at a young age because I didn’t have the confidence or the skills to extricate myself from my situation, I take seriously my ability to help (or to fail) others in bettering themselves and their abilities in a positive manner. Others, including my employer, took that time with me and gave me the opportunity to learn on my own, the only reason I have any skills as a thirty-year-old man today.

 

Eating well is also a perk, and I’m looking forward to dipping into the hummus I showed the class how to make yesterday while finishing my coffee. My employer, as part of his teaching duties, likes to teach the class different methods of food production from different styles of cooking, many of which the students (mainly the young ones) have never had before. Asking the class if anyone had ever had hummus, most had not, and one student, mouthier than his size should allow, yelled out how disgusting it was and how no one likes that stuff. By the time it was done and monkey-dishes of it were passed out with some chips, the sunshine smell of the lemon with the earthy scent of the chickpeas and tahini and garlic had broken the barriers down, and everyone asked for more, including sass-man who was conspicuously quiet as he held out his bowl for extra. Now I’m hankering for some extra myself this morning for breakfast. The classroom is divided into two parts: the educational front-of-the-house, and the traditional, full-service back-of-the-house. I hang up my prison-issue coat and walk to the back, where I work to cook, or guide the cooking, for between thirty and seventy guests every day, mostly the inmate students, but sometimes staff too, who provide feedback on how the dishes compare to the outside world.

 

Once a month, my employer puts on a dinner and pays for a deluxe three-course meal with multiple options, and for that day we work hard to be the best restaurant in town. Hummus is possibly going to be one of our next appetizer options, but for right now I open it up and snack on it as my boss talks to me and my co-worker about our plan for this day.

 

Today we’re cooking for professors and students from the University of Michigan in addition our regulars. The guests are here as part of an event, and we get to try to impress these people who eat well on a regular basis. It’s a privilege, an honor, and exciting… and there’s no room for error. To get to this point, each student involved has to prove himself, if not in the accumulation of technical skill, then in willingness to work and the ability to listen and learn. This is where I enjoy working with the younger men more; our records for shortest time before injury in the kitchen are within the first three minutes on the first day of working, within the first twenty minutes, and within the first hour… records all set by adult-adults over the age of thirty. I’ve had co-workers who talk down to the students, or who barked orders at them, but I’ve found it most effective to speak normally to them, using the authority that comes with knowing what I’m doing and being able to show it. Still, the youth are the most receptive, and the ones who are willing to work usually have the kind of questions that are fun to answer. “Can you deep fry cookie dough?” (yes, if you batter it… let’s do it) “How do you make spaghetti sauce?” “What goes in a Big Mac’s secret dressing?” (thousand-island… this is how you make it) “How come that burger tastes better than any home-grilled one I’ve ever had?” (because it was seasoned properly and cooked medium-rare).

 

So today, our special menu is the soup with freshly baked rolls for the class, along with some caramel-crunch cake (with, of all things, potato chips rolled in with the caramel for a salty-sweet crackle that circumnavigates your taste-buds in every bite). For the guests, something to give this day’s line-chefs something more to focus on. Our main dish is Chicken Holly: pan-fried cutlets of chicken, sautéed with onions, mushrooms and garlic, finished with a sauce made from homemade demi-glace and a grape-balsamic reduction, served with a rice pilaf and a carrot-“tied” bundle of green beans dressed in seasoned butter. Anticipating some of our guests being vegetarian or vegan, I have been preparing chickpea seitan cutlets with a Thai yellow curry, alongside the vegetable bundle dressed with vegan seasoned margarine. For dessert, my coworker is supervising some homemade apple pie that is nearly out of the oven at this point, the warm, sugary smell rising from the oven next to the one with the baking bread.

 

As we work, the civilian teacher I work under, an incredible chef, takes a look at the task everyone is working on, giving additional pointers. A moment of truth for me, as he knows my cooking and taught me much of it to begin with, as now he tries a sample I made of our main course, a meal I came up with. And there is no greater compliment than when a man who has the ability to cook anything and most things better than you could do so goes in for seconds on your dish. He doesn’t say anything, but nods his head and asks me how I was planning on garnishing it. He turns the question to the students as well. “Who can tell me what a garnish is and what its purpose is?” The students aren’t completely sure, so he gives them a breakdown. “Customers eat with their eyes first. The difference between a delicious meal at a mom-and-pop diner and the same one costing ten times more at a fancy restaurant is very often how the same meal is served.”

 

The guests trickle through the steel doors, and we can hear murmurs about how good the food smells. The tutor-chef who helped teach me when I was first learning the basics of cooking told me to never take that as a compliment, to instead take it as a challenge that the food had better live up to the potential promised by its scent. Everything is ready to finish off (so that it is still hot when served), and the hustle begins. The vegetables are removed from the steamer and plated, the pilaf is scooped as I finish the chicken and the rich, bright sauce. Once fully assembled, my boss, ever the teacher, uses the moment to show the students the vigor added with a simple pinch and “pow” of chopped parsley and a slice of orange on the side. We slide them over to the serving tray where Evan, dressed in his nicest, ironed prison uniform and fresh, bleached apron, takes the food to the guests. Oooohs and aaaahhhhs sound as they receive their plates. I quickly wash my hands, finish the Curry Seitan, and bring them out to the vegan guests, one of whom informs me that the last vegan meal someone else “made” for her was a plate full of slightly cooked vegetables and a slice of pizza without cheese. Some of the guests talk to our kitchen workers and to me as they eat and as they finish their meals. A few ask for the recipes to the meals today, the best payment I can receive in this non-commercial kitchen. The compliment is magnified by the fact that these people are accustomed to eating well.

 

Our time to eat as they leave. The students get paid for their hard work in good food. After ten years eating in the aptly named chow hall, I am grateful for this opportunity every day I have it, and the students often clamor for the opportunity to be part of the events for the same reason. I can’t blame them, and to the degree it is in my control, I make sure they eat well for working well. The catch is that they have to eat it right now, as to bring it back risks a contraband ticket. So there is a sight of a bunch of grown men stuffing their face until they’re about ready to pop… here, a sure-sign that someone put in a good day’s work.As we clean up (nobody’s favorite part), we start planning for tomorrow. Not quite as busy as today, but we still plan on serving the best meals in town again… and to teach a new generation the skills they’ll need to do so for a job, or for themselves and their families, skills they learn in Hell’s Kitchen Cooking School.

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Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Grease half-sheet pan (13″x18″ baking pan) and flour (if well-greased and floured properly, a “brownie sling” nor a pan liner is needed). In mixing bowl, whisk together the brown sugar, melted butter, and eggs. Sift, then fold in with spatula, the flour, baking powder, and salt until fully combined. Fold in chopped walnuts. Pour into prepared half-sheet pan, spread out evenly. Bake approximately 20-25 minutes, rotating halfway through baking time, until toothpick stuck into blondies 1/3 of the way to the center comes out clean. Remove from oven, allow to cool. Cut into 24 individual blondies.