THE MIND OF A CHEF
SOME MORNINGS I POP UP LIKE I’VE AWOKEN FROM A NIGHTMARE. WHITES OF MY EYES RED, BAGS OVER BAGS underneath, pupils dilated. Everything compounds, like the collapsing of a concrete building floor by floor: my list for the day prep, emails to answer, paperwork, store run, call to the IRS, checks to sign. I hear myself through all of it, the subliminal hum of creativity and inspiration, me teaching myself while dreaming how to fix a dish. What was that? I try to recall. Right. Try to dehydrate it before freezing it. Also, add more acid to the sabayon because the aeration dilutes the flavor. I send myself an email. My life is a series of reminders to myself, and if I don’t remember to send them, I will never remember, and it’s just another collapsed floor.
By the time I get to work, I’ve just about finished the cortado I picked up at my neighborhood coffeehouse. I’ve got about five hours of sleep in my system, and it’s going to be a long day. I scoot in past my staff, smile as they all chime, “Good morning.” A lot of them are good kids, and my goal is to teach them, even when I want to yell at them. I obsess with them about the food we make, our service. Even on the days I don’t feel like a success — when I’m hating myself — I have to pretend like I do and encourage them to keep getting better, explain to them how things work, why something emulsifies or sets, what to do to cure the meat or preserve the berries.
A WEEK IN ILIAN A REGAN’S LIFE
The chef documented a typical one for us with a series of pics from her iPhone.
A good day for me is when my prep list reads:
Make chicken skin “snacks”
Practice new vegetable-ash
