sins of the fish

Tough love from a Karate master/Sushi Chef

2008-12-01T15:39:00.005-07:00

The best way to describe my chef in one word is passionate. Everything he does is on purpose and perceived by some as over the top. He worked hard, partied harder, and gave me quite a hard time during my training. In hindsight, it was the perfect method to drive me to success. In the moment, however, I could not have hated his methods more.
Nothing I did, not one skill learned in culinary school was proper or sufficient to him. I was taught to never lift my knife from the cutting board when chopping things. The chefs would say that if they heard "tapping", rather than "rocking", the offending students would have to work on his or her day off to make up for it. I was also taught to move the food towards the knife, not move my knife and body. Though conversant with these simple, classical, French techniques, the sushi chef wanted me to "drop" the knife down with every cut to hear the tapping of my work and to judge my speed. He wanted me to move with the knife as it slammed down on the board one trillionth of a millimeter from my knuckles to ensure perfect cuts when dicing and making julienne. He told me to slice the fish towards and under my hand which held the fish in place, rather than the safe method I was taught whereby the knife was to move away from the other hand and body. Even when I peeled shrimp I was told that I would never get it done in time. He made it clear, though, that there was truly a method to this madness. In time I came to fully understand this.
Every day and night for three weeks I was told that I was the worst chef he had ever had the displeasure of working with. After a few beers with him in the evenings, he would tell me that Asian chefs prepped food both extremely fast and accurate as if their lives depended on it. He would tell me that Americans lack the drive and discipline necessary to be good sushi chefs. Of course most of what he said while "under the influence" wasn't truly his beliefs, he just wanted to "negatively inspire" me. I'm also aware that everything people say, whether embellished or not, contains some elemental truth. As the nights came to a close, he would begin to tell me of the days when he was a champion fighter on the karate circuit. I heard tales of unlicensed street fights with no rules except that the fighter who could no longer stand up lost. He never lost. I learned that his master invented weapons I have only seen in old-school games like Shinobe. All of these tales and nostalgic accounts were entertaining, yet revealed to me that which makes up this tough yet feeling, bull-headed yet brilliant, warrior/wise man I worked so hard to please.
Another benefit of his anecdotes was that the customers at the bar couldn't get enough. He was both a chef and an entertainer. I was beginning to fully understand what it meant to be in the hospitality business. Some cooks are brilliant craftsmen but cannot talk to people to save their lives. Others are fantastic conversationalists, but lack any classical or innovative skills when it comes to cooking. Sushi chefs, and subsequently the chefs at Benny Hana's, had to couple the best of both types of personalities to be successful at their complex jobs of both craftsmen and hosts.
The man had a wealth of knowledge and could write a novel from his life's experiences. He never gave up on me and for that I could not be more grateful. He is a trained lethal weapon and by far the best sushi chef in this state. The sole reason for this bar's success is my sushi chef. However, when things got bad for us and the rest of the staff, he was an intricate part of the downturn for the life of the sushi bar as we were determined to punish the owner for her despicable actions. Namely her complete disregard for both common decency and the U.S.'s fair employment laws.

"Wak-haw!" It's Mandarin Jimmy!

2008-11-24T18:21:00.005-07:00

Over the next two weeks I was first taught by the owner how to roll the maki, cut cucumbers, and maintain the cooler which was visible to the public. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the sushi chef shaking his head in disapproval of her methods. Already I could see the uncomfortable dynamic that the assistants before me must have felt was too much to stick around for. It's easy to do some type of craft if there is one right way and you are being taught that. In this restaurant, there was a boss who didn't quite know what she was talking about and a chef who didn't want to break the poor habits of the assistant that would probably quit within a month like so many others so far.
I was also instructed on how to make the sushi rice by her uncle. Her uncle, whom I call "Mandarin Jimmy", was the chef in the kitchen who pumped out many hot Japanese dishes at lightening speed. He was also quite the ornery bastard and would chew anyone and everyone out in Chinese if they made the slightest of errors. His expletives fell on ignorant, non-Chinese speaking ears. Though he worked harder at catching someone screwing up, he was always equally quick to praise good work with a brief, "Yess-ah, O.K.-la. Thankyew sir!"
For a trained chef, this man's methods were both maddening and absurd. To make the rice, I was to first portion it out with an unmarked plastic to-go cup, wash it until the water ran clear, and then add it and some water to a rice cooker. The fun part was when I had to measure out the water. It was basically equal parts based on how much rice I had scooped out. Then I was to add another "2 fingers" of water. It was supposed to be his two fingers worth, but he would not mark the damn cup for me! The little guy's hands are the size of a normal child's. His index and middle fingers are thinner than my pinky! Needless to say, the first 20 or so batches of rice I made were either a bit too hard, or soft. I was yelled at in Chinese every day and night for ten days until I got it right. Maybe abuse is the best method in Communist countries, but here in our "pretend Democracy", along with the rest of the cooking world I might add, we measure things and become accurate within 2 tries! The explitive I soon figured out the translation to sounded like "One dollah!" It means something to the effect of,"You F'd up!" He was aware of it's sounding like a US denomination, so the worse n offense you committed, the higher the currency. "Ten dollah, wak-haw!" was the worst I'd received. By the way, "wak-haw" meant something like, "Holy F'ing s#!t!!"
I later found out that this man who fought with his neice, played scratch lotto all day and night, made male servers cry, and enjoyed a good techno track with a beer in the evenings, was actually a slave in a foreign land. He had nothing in his life except a wife and kids he hadn't seen in years, an apartment owned by his niece, who also owned the restaurant, and a kitchen where he spent more time than anyone else around him. When ever he asked for a vacation, his niece would lead him on for a while, saying he could go to keep him complacent, and then at the last moment she would tell him that she could not keep the restaurant open if he left for a week. He begged for an electric bike to ease his joints during his travels to and from work. This would have come out of his own money, mind you, he just couldn't make the transaction as he was unable to read english or posess a credit card. She would once again lead him on and finally explain that he'd just somehow be cheated by the American companies in the end. Even this early on I had to come to grips that my boss was pure evil and two-faced. Mandarin Jimmy would agree with me if he could only understand the English that I spoke to him. Maybe he did, I don't know. I cannot speak Chinese.

Just plain sick of working for free!

2008-11-17T18:48:00.001-07:00

After getting canned by my previous obnoxious employers due to circumstances beyond my control, I did the right thing and skipped the unemployment line. Though it was almost Christmas, I began my search for a new kitchen to call home. I printed out what seemed like a million resumes and started my quest, driving from restaurant to restaurant for eight hours per day, seven days per week. Everywhere I went, however, I was told that though the interview went well, I needed to do a "working interview". For those of you who don't know, a "working interview" is basically a way for your prospective employer to fill a position in their kitchen without paying you while judging your performance in an alien environment without any idea how the dynamics work or what is expected. Needless to say, without paperwork between you and the boss, this is just plain illegal, yet it is almost always necessary in every fine dining restaurant in the country. It is also a way for kitchen managers and chefs to maintain a lower payroll budget by keeping an expensive spot open while they "work interview" people until they have enough saved up to buy that new oven for which they have been begging the general manager.
I was frustrated, hungry, and beginning to doubt my worth as an up-and-coming chef. This was certainly not what I expected when I graduated culinary school, still brimming with dreams of running my own kitchen utilizing the newly developed classical French skills of so many that went before myself. 45 days had passed and I had done so many working interviews that I was about to just give up and get a B.S. job in some department store selling shoes like the infamous Al Bundy. Mama said there'd be days like this...just not weeks.
Then, like a sexually harassing slap on the butt, it hit me. One fine afternoon I was searching the online classifieds with my usual cup of rum-spiked joe when I came across an ad for a sushi bar. I thought to myself, "Well self, maybe you should keep your brain plastic and learn a new skill!" I was never afforded a chance to learn the craft of sushi in school but why not add another skill to my repertoire? So I called the number on my screen and set up an interview for the following morning.
Just in case, I dressed out in my uniform and gathered my knife kit assuming that this very well might be another attempt to steal my time and waste my efforts. I arrived early and had to sit at a table to wait for the manager/owner to arrive. My palms sweating and my heart pounding, I tried to break the ice with the server who was cleaning up for her opening shift. "Hi there!" I said. "You here for the server position?" she asked as I sat there dressed as a chef. "Nope," I replied, "I'm here for the sushi bar position." She smirked at my answer, as if to say, "Good luck," and left me to continue waiting as she continued to wipe down the bar.
After a few more minutes the cold February air rushed into the restaurant as the door swung open and in stepped a very well dressed Chinese woman. The chef behind the bar pointed to me and she asked if I was here for the sushi job. I confirmed her inquiry and she led me to another table in the back of the restaurant. "So you want to be a sushi chef?" she asked as she looked me over. "Yes I do, but I'll need to be trained as I've never done it before," I responded. The interview continued for about ten more minutes, and after I was offered a lower wage that I have ever accepted before, she told me to come back the next morning to begin my training.
Though I was a bit disappointed with making half of what I made in my previous job, I was relieved that I had finally landed something and that I would be learning a new skill in my field. I celebrated that night at another local sushi bar with my friends and after returning home a bit sauced, I drunk dialed a few former classmates to rub in their faces the fact that I would soon know stuff that they didn't. Yea, I know, I'm a jerk sometimes.