the shape of excellence
michelin part 6, the quality bar, kaizen
This is a re-sharing of a culinary experience that I had back in 2022, working at a 2* Michelin restaurant, Birdsong SF. I posted an eight-part series on Twitter at the time, but it was never formalized in a longer format. I’m doing this to sort of immortalize the experience here since it was some of my earliest beginnings of living according to my values, doing what I found interesting, and finding beauty.
It’s an experience that helped shape my first sabbatical and I’m revisiting some of these learnings as they mix with conversations and readings in my current sabbatical.
Each part will be about the same with some grammatical and intonation fixes, plus an updated reflection at the end.
This is part six. Enjoy 😌.
the quality bar
Several days into my stage, I was almost thrown off the line because I couldn’t shut drawers and lowboys quietly. I kept closing them with too much speed.
The head chef pulled my saucier over to him. “If he slams one more lowboy, he’s going off the line.” My saucier leaned back to me and casually informed me about the consequences if I didn’t stop.
I got lucky because it was the end of the week and the end of service, so the reprimand could simmer down over the weekend and not leave a bad impression.
My actions on the line reflected my saucier’s actions. He told me multiple times before to not slam things. My fuckups were his fuckups. For those slams, he shielded me from the blame, twice. I owe him.
I haven’t slammed anything since. Not even at home (well, maybe once or twice 😬).
I’ve talked about this previously, this idea of having a high personal standard and consistently holding it. It pops up everywhere in hospitality. In this case, my standard wasn’t high enough, and I was taught a lesson.
There is a purposeful way to do many things, even something as simple as using cling film. As we were cleaning up that night, my saucier noticed that I was doing it wrong. His wide, horrified eyes panned up from the loose, bunched up plastic sitting in my hands, straight up into the depths of my soul. It was like the world had stopped, and everything was in slow motion.
“No. No. No. Absolutely not. What is this? Let me show you.” He pulled up a metal container and stretched it tight until the top looked like glass. “Nice and tight, smooth like a mirror, single layers for solids, and double and around for liquids. You try it now.”
I haven’t cling-filmed the same way since.
I also haven’t squeeze bottled the same since. “Tip at the bottom, not the top. Keep your elbows in, it’s all in the wrist.”
There’s a way of dolloping cream on a plate, plating herbs, saucing meat, and seasoning using salt. “Pinch and massage the salt to feel for larger granules. Uniform ones only.”
There’s timing down to the second. A dish we served had meat, cold pickles, toasted bread, and hot broth. The broth needed to be served right alongside the bread. Both need to be hot. Same with the meat. You can’t stagger them. You can’t pour the broth or grill the bread first to save time. Last time someone tried that, everything went into the trash.
“Is the broth hot Frank?”
“Yes chef.”
My saucier walks over, eyes not leaving mine, mind reading me to see if I was bullshitting him. He grabs a spoon and tastes.
“Not hot enough. It’s not burning my tongue.”
“Yes chef.” I start pushing the broth up to the hottest part of the stovetop.
“No, no Frank, don’t do that. You’re going to boil and emulsify the broth.” He nudges me aside, and grabs a small pot.
“Skim away the fat and get some of the broth below so you can boil it fast in the smaller pot, and then add the fat back in. It’s the only way, otherwise you risk emulsion.”
The science might be lost on some folks, but the concept shouldn’t be. We’re talking about heating a liquid. That’s it. Sounds easy, right? Just push it up until it boils.
Nope. That would’ve gotten me thrown off the line faster than slamming all the lowboys at once. I remember the head chef walking by and noting that he wanted a shimmering, smooth layer of delicious chicken fat when serving the broth. The only way to get that is to let the fat settle. Too much turbulence and you get bubbles and the whole thing is ruined. That was the standard. From that day forward, I knew what it was and I knew it was my responsibility to hit that target every time despite non-optimal conditions.
I can’t tell you how many times I didn’t want to pull out that smaller pot. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, they’re waiting on me, the whole meal is about to go into the trash. Who is going to know the difference?” Me, dammit. The minute you start cutting corners like that is the minute you should no longer work in hospitality. I knew the difference, and it leads to a reduced experience for the customer, even if indiscernible. I had to really think ahead on what I needed, and if that meant hoarding those small pots and lining them up, that’s what I was gonna do. 😂
The only way these standards are kept is transparency. Chefs are direct. They will tell you to your face if you are mucking it up. Despite them being mean at times, it’s never personal. Succeeding in these conditions is so brutal that if you don’t truly care about the people that stand alongside of you, nothing will last.
I observed heated shellackings, full-on stares of disdain, and wickedly mean reprimands during service that eventually ended with a smile, laughter, and a “great job.”1
I mucked shit up, and almost got thrown off the line. But I also got fist bumps and redeeming “fuck yeahs.” So weird.
This odd combination of direct bluntness with compassion was a really weird contrast, and it sometimes bordered on verbal abuse. I’ve never felt this range anywhere else.
The work, in the end, is beautiful in its own way. There’s a sense of brilliant satisfaction after a full day where you’re not dying in the weeds.2
kaizen
The attitude required to hold a high standard reflects some of the principles that I see in kaizen. Every compliment, accomplishment, failure, and setback, was met with enduring acknowledgment and a persistence to do better. Maybe it’s a bit toxic at times, but goddamn if it doesn’t make you anti-fragile.
You fucked up. “Yes, chef. It won’t happen again, and I’ll do better.”
Too slow. “Yes chef, I’ll move faster.”
Stop slamming lowboys. “Yes chef, won’t happen again chef.”
Use cling film the right way, goddamn it. “Yes chef. Can you show me chef?”
How’s your day? “Best day of my fucking life, chef.”
This idea of constant improvement leading to anti-fragility makes or breaks the growth curve for most of the things one decides to pursue. Without acknowledgment you build toxic ego and resentment. Without a persistence to do better, well, you’re dead in the water.
2024 reflection
It’s important for anything that you do to feel out what the “shape of excellence” in that field really looks like. For cooking, it’s doing it alongside professionals who operate at a two-star level. For something else, whether it be athletics, academics, or business, there are folks out there who are on some ungodly level of proficiency. They have the experience because they’ve been through the wringer and back. Find them, befriend them, and learn all that you can from them. Have their standard of excellence be guideposts to help you shape and define your own.
This is not to dismiss or normalize the abuse that does happen in kitchen environments. What I experienced was not abuse, but depending on circumstance, constitution, and environment, it could be interpreted in different ways.
A state where you’re behind in prep, fucking things up in service, having everyone wait on you because you’re slow as fuck, getting reprimanded and still screwing up, etc.