Ready for Part II? Read up on Part I here…
:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:
Six days a week the Marigold kitchen plays host to these four chefs, one dish washer, one manager, and one waitress. A student from the Restaurant School also works in the kitchen when he’s not in class. Guests start arriving for dinner at five thirty Tuesday through Sunday, but prep officially begins at twelve. Saturday is their busiest day; they served ninety-two diners this weekend. On a slow night they’ll have only fifty covers in the same time.
Hidden in a beautiful Victorian house, a former tearoom built in 1907, on 45th Street at Larchwood Street, the small West Philadelphia kitchen is barely large enough to fit the chefs. Luke and Erin set up shop in the hot kitchen and guard their turf tightly. Eric stations himself near the refrigerator and tackles the cold prep. Eric is calm and quiet and spends most of his time hunched over his workbench garnishing salads or painting English toffee on a white dessert plate with a pastry brush. Eric is tall, yet unassuming, and surprisingly thin for a pastry chef.
…
On my first day in the kitchen I tried my best to disappear into a corner, careful not to be in anyone’s way. I quickly picked up on kitchen lingo; a loud “behind you,” “corner!” or “hot water” guarantees that those hairpin turns with hot stockpots and trips up the steep steps balancing a tray of raw ducks run smoothly.
Luke’s back now and we officially meet. “Rebecca, right?” Nope, it’s Rachel. But he’ll keep calling me Rebecca for the next two weeks. The onions are peeled and cored and now Luke hijacks me. In the spirit of the kitchen’s Middle Eastern bent, Luke is teaching me how to make malawah, a Yemenite take on puff pastry. Luke points me in the direction of the walk-in refrigerator, sets aside some melted butter, and hands me the rolling pin. I am making the malawah. As per Luke’s instructions, I roll out the dough. I brush the top with butter and fold it back up. I repeat this six times and again, every twenty minutes for the next two hours.
Luke steals a glance at me—quality assurance. We chat when he has a free second: school, prior culinary experience, the basics. His older sister is a medical student at Jefferson and he teases me: five years down the road, will I be wearing a white coat or a chef’s coat? Like me, Luke had no formal training before his first job in a restaurant. He started college in Pittsburgh, but it didn’t stick. He “needed a job, needed food,” so he found his way into a kitchen and got a job washing dishes.
He’s been living and working in Philadelphia for a few years now, but he’s modest when talking about his previous jobs. I hear from others that he’s worked at Striped Bass, arguably the city’s best restaurant. But he only tells me of jobs in butcher shops in the Italian Market.
Next time I’m in the kitchen Luke calls me over as I’m starting to peel some carrots. “Rebecca, today you’re going to learn artichokes.” He walks me through it. I core a dozen artichokes and remove the hearts. Artichokes lose their green color when exposed to oxygen so I race against the clock. I trim the stems, peel off the tough bits, and hand them over to Luke. Together we taste the braising liquid he’s prepared: preserved lemons, tomatoes, some carrots and onions. Eric takes a poll of the day; he wants to know how we eat our artichokes at home. I steam them and dip the leaves in aioli. I see in Eric’s quiet eyes that I’ve met with his approval.
Steve peeks his head in looking for Mike. The chef is running late today and is tense when he finally arrives. The menu at Marigold changes “as frequently as the chef’s whim,” Luke confides in me one afternoon, and the pressure in the kitchen is running high tonight with two entrées appearing on the menu for the first time. In just a few hours customers will be ordering the new “Duck Three Ways” but Chef Michael Solomonov has no duck. He picks up his phone and dials his meat guy. “Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Where the fuck are my ducks?” Erin quietly prepares the duck confit and works on presentation. She curses the bulgur kibbe as it stubbornly sticks to the sides of the timbale. Burning her hands on the hot metal molds and having no luck as she tries again, Erin calls Mike for help. Mike paces the kitchen, cell phone in hand. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
The duck is secured by five and now it’s six o’clock and the first guests have arrived. Caroline leans against the swinging door and raises her voice to be heard. They’ve chosen a salad and the scallops to start. Next the duck and pork, followed by an apple tasting for dessert. Table five has come to Marigold Kitchen for its quiet sophistication and reputation. They don’t see Erin’s failed attempts to unmold the kibbe or Mike’s panicked phone calls. They’ve come to Marigold to appreciate the artful presentation of the lemon orzo and braised kale with their pork wrapped in grape leaves and remark on the dish’s inventive flavors. They’re oblivious to the heat and noise of the kitchen, to the madness and frenzy just yards from their seats in the calm dining room.
The small kitchen is an exercise in ordered chaos. From five thirty until eleven or midnight the chefs are grateful to finally see the products of hours of prep. There’s no time for chitchat. “Fire two bass, one duck, one gnocchi, and a pork.” Table five has finished up their first course and others have arrived in the meantime.
Most of this falls on Erin. She grabs two filets of black bass from the refrigerator. Earlier I had scaled and cleaned the bass. Mike gutted and filleted them and showed me how, with a small pair of tweezers, I could feel for the tiny sharp bones sticking out of the fish’s spine and remove them, one by one. Erin sautés these filets in a sizzling hot pan as Luke reaches for the Persian wedding rice. Mike inspects the plate after the rice and bass have been drizzled with a creamy walnut sauce and the dish is ready to go.
More guests start arriving and Caroline, the only waitress working tonight, grabs the amuse-bouche on her trips through the kitchen without even slowing down. Tonight Mike has dreamt up a scallop amuse and I am responsible for its execution. A dab of turnip purée, a paper-thin slice of seared scallop, a sprinkling of crispy bacon confetti. I set up a station in the corner and collect the flat soupspoons as Carlos finishes washing them. Luke seasons his purée for the last time as Erin grabs the skillet off the fire when the scallops finish cooking. Luke spots me from across the small kitchen. “Whoa, lay off the purée, we don’t want the turnip to end up all over their shirts,” he yells. Moderation is the key in this fast-paced kitchen.
