The Crazy Life of a Female Chef

By Kim M. Eckerman

Are you a woman considering a career as a professional chef? Or maybe you are just curious
about what life is really like behind the kitchen walls of a restaurant through the eyes of
a female chef.
This is the story of my cooking journey from the White Mountains of New Hampshire to the
coast of Cape Cod, then across country to Lake Tahoe and beyond.
After graduating from The Culinary Institute of America and getting married, both in 1981,
my husband and I moved westward. Throughout this book, you will gain insight into my life in
more than twenty different restaurants, both large and small, short-lived and long. For a few years,
I also taught professional cooking at both the high school and college level.
Throughout the book, you will become enlightened to the many diffi culties, as well as,
humorous day to day events that occurred in the many places I have worked. You may laugh, cry and
get angry all in one chapter. Even though I am not a world renowned chef,
I did achieve my highest goal, owning and operating my own restaurant. I
owe my success to my sons and parents support, mentally, physically and
fi nancially. I never would have survived if it wasnt for them.
Included in this book, are a few of my favorite recipes. Someday I
hope to get my cookbooks published, too.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483635422

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

B ack in 1975, I began my very first job. It was in a sub shop in Massachusetts. This was not one of the franchised sub shops that everyone is familiar with but a more unique place. It was owned by a graduate of the Culinary Institute of America. This was the one and only fast-food restaurant I ever worked in. I am proud to say that I was never employed by one of the many famous fast-food chains. This place definitely had the best submarine sandwiches around. Lunch hour was the busiest time, always with long lines of hungry customers. Something about this place drew me to seek employment here, whether it was the fast pace or the great-tasting subs.

The CIA (short for the Culinary Institute of America) is the most well-renowned chef school around, now and then. The owner, an alumnus, ventured toward becoming an entrepreneur rather than a chef. This school gives you the tools to strive toward either. Just because you graduate from the CIA doesn’t mean you can only become a chef. There are so many options in this industry to pursue for employment, and as a graduate, the doors can open sooner. He chose to open his own submarine sandwich joint and make it better than all the rest.

I was given a chance to start working and was trained by his assistant. What I remember about her was that she could be very bossy (nice for bitch). She was, however, very committed to training me properly. She actually thought she was the boss’s primadonna. However, I think he was a little fonder of the cute gal who cooked the steak subs. The assistant was definitely higher up in status than the steak cooker, and she made sure everyone knew it. I secretly wished I could have been trained by the second in charge person, because of her personality, she was nice! However, when I reminisce now, I wouldn’t have changed a thing. I am every bit as stern when it comes to training a new employee, maybe less on the bitchy mode, though.

I realize that I benefited a lot from the training I had received, coming from a B or not. She taught me terrific work ethics that have stuck with me over many years. She did lighten up a bit with me once she realized how good a worker I turned out to be.

Believe it or not, this job greatly influenced my future without even realizing it at the time. The shop was run very professionally, and a lot was expected of its employees. Unlike the more familiar sub shops, where the workers make one sub at a time, we were not only expected to make several subs at once but also to take the orders for the sandwiches and all the special extras without ever writing anything down. I still remember asking the customers if they wanted tomatoes, onions, or pickles. It’s funny that I can remember that, but I can’t remember where I laid down my reading glasses.

This was great training for the minds of a future cook and chef. We sometimes had to memorize up to eight sandwiches. You learn to do little tricks to help you remember.

I enjoyed working there, and, actually, the assistant seemed to like having me around too. She was a year ahead of me in school and considered the smart and nerdy type. I never did let her know that I thought of her that way. The other cook I previously mentioned was in her grade also but was considered cool. She had a full-time boyfriend, but that didn’t stop the boss from sexually harassing her, as it would be called now. Back then, if you wanted to keep your job, you had better just smile or laugh back at his piggish comments. Did I mention to go along with his piggish comments was his piggish body! I had never seen anyone with a roll of fat on his back like he had nor have I since. Needless to say, I never saw him do any kind of physical work, only paperwork.

His wife was real nice, and, of course, he was always well behaved when she was around. From what I recall, she was a hard worker. I wonder, now, if she wasn’t the backbone of that restaurant. I worked there part time while attending high school for about a year, and then it was time for a change.

I feel that there is always something of use in every job you have, no matter how long you work there or what the conditions are like. I definitely learned about professionalism, short-term memorization, sanitation, and how to keep your distance from the boss and still keep you job. Teamwork was also heavily emphasized at this establishment. That is one of the most important skills you can acquire in this business. If you can’t get along well with all different types of personalities and working conditions, then you might consider a different career.

CHAPTER TWO

1 977 was the year I was finally free from high school. I graduated. I thought this would be the end of schooling for me, but my folks talked me into enrolling in college that fall. I tried to convince myself that I didn’t need or want college but was thankfully swayed in the right direction. In September I would be heading off to Amherst to attend the University of Massachusetts. My major was HRTA—hotel, restaurant, and travel administration. This major seemed to interest me the more than any other. I was starting to get excited about moving away from home and beginning college life.

The summer before heading off to the university, I began a job in a grocery store chain working in the meat department. The store was a few towns over from us, but the drive wasn’t too long. My uncle was a manager for one of the sister stores and helped me to acquire this particular job. It didn’t seem like it would be too bad. It was different from my first job, but it seemed like it would be a nice change. I started to realize that I had a real passion for food, and this was one reason why I took the job. Being around a lot of blood and raw meat wasn’t the most pleasant part of the job, but I figured I could learn a few things.

I tried to have a good attitude when I started this job even though there was a constant stench of raw meat, blood, and guts. Honestly, it didn’t really bother me. It wasn’t the most glamorous job either, nor were the guys cutting the meat, especially when they were all covered in blood. I didn’t cut any meat, at least not at first; I was a wrapper. I still think my dad convinced me to take this job just so I would be all the more eager to go to college and get an education.

Actually, working in the meat department was somewhat educational, blood and all. I had a lot of fun once I got to know the crew. The guys were all perverts but in an amusing way. I learned to play right along with them and have fun doing it. No one took anything too seriously. One time the guys put together a certain part of the male anatomy with vegetables and meat. Then they presented it to one of the female cashiers. It was hilarious to watch her expression. I believe she got a kick out of it too, after the color in her face went back to normal. We all had a good laugh anyways.

A few incidents that stand out in my mind about this job are also kind of funny now. Although at the time they weren’t. Being a female in the butcher shop and a rookie, I got the great job of separating the blood sausages. I can’t believe that people actually eat such a disgusting food. Whoever came up with the ingredients to make it must have been either a vampire who liked breakfast or someone trying to play a prank on a buddy. I’ll tell you why I think these things. Blood sausage is made up of pig’s blood and oatmeal. Mmmmm! Doesn’t that just stir up your appetite? Well, after I got through separating the sausages with a knife, I looked like a mass murderer, all covered in blood.

Another incident occurred when I was traying up chicken pieces. I had several trays of raw chicken on a portable rack. I was supposed to take the pieces off the trays and get them ready for packaging. When I was reaching for one of the higher trays that was over my head, I accidentally tilted it, and all the slimy chicken juice ran right down the front of my shirt. The unfortunate thing was I lived about thirty minutes away and couldn’t just pop home to change. I had to endure it for another three to four hours.

At the time, I drove a ’71 VW bug! It was really a piece of shit. I would be cruising down the highway and it would just die. I think I kicked that car more often than I ever kicked my younger brother. Usually, after waiting until the engine cooled, it would start up and I could be on my way, but I was more than just a little frustrated as I tried to patiently wait. I sure don’t ever plan on buying a newer version of the VW bug after my experience with that one. It did, however, get me back and forth to work and also would be my ride to Amherst. The summer flew by, and before I knew it, I was moving to western Massachusetts to begin my new life.

I am such a hands-on learner that it would have been nearly impossible for me to sit at a desk for eight hours a day as a secretary like I thought I might do. However, the classes I took in high school, shorthand and typing, sure came in handy during my college years. Nowadays, kids are raised on computers and know how to type in grade school. I remember my typing class back in eighth grade. We used manual typewriters. Kids today wouldn’t have the patience to deal with them. Anyhow, back to the point, that I don’t regret taking those secretarial classes. They have helped me out a few times, even as a chef.

I had a great time at UMASS or Zoo Mass as it was referred to. There were three or four other colleges located in or near Amherst, besides the university, so there was no shortage of people my age. Twenty-seven thousand students attended UMASS, and there was always a party going on. I lived on the eighteenth floor of one of the dorms in a double room. I lucked out and had a terrific roommate. She was a few years older than me, and we hit it off right away. On the weekends she always went home to be with her boyfriend. The advantage to this was having the room all to myself. How lucky is that, to have a great roommate and also have the room to myself all weekend long.

College life wasn’t so bad. Parties all the time, lots of new and interesting people, and occasionally, classes to attend. I never was a bad student; I just did a lot better in some classes than others. Spanish came easy to me, and I aced that class. Math was a different story. I did all right with basic math, but trigonometry and geometry were not my cup of tea. Of course, you have to get all your requirements out of the way in college before you can start taking the classes you are really interested in. This was difficult for me, as is for many, but this got me thinking about another change. A chef school might just be what I would really enjoy, and it was still college, kind of. I knew I would love going there but now had to figure out a way to make it possible.

My folks really wanted me to attend college so why not a chef school. I decided to bring it up to them. To my surprise and delight, they seemed fairly receptive to the idea. My mom assisted me in my search for a culinary school. At the time, 1978, there were only three culinary schools: the Culinary Institute of America, Johnson & Wales, and the Cordon Bleu (in France). France was definitely out of the question, so I applied to the other two. Just the thought of attending a culinary school made me beyond excitement. I think I had finally figured out what I wanted to do with my life.

In the application for the CIA, I had to write an essay explaining why I wanted to attend their school. I had no trouble coming up with reasons why. Before long I found out that both of the schools accepted me. Now I had to make a choice. Of course, I really wanted to attend the CIA but needed to give J & W a fair shake.

My mom and I drove to Providence, Rhode Island, where J & W was located. After arriving in Providence, we searched for a place to park and soon found a parking garage close to the campus. After parking the car, we searched for an exit from the garage. We couldn’t seem to find one anywhere. After much frustration, we finally climbed through a broken door. This in itself made us a little uneasy. After finally getting to the street that would take us to J & W, we started walking. I remember getting propositioned by a few of the local street boys and once again feeling very uncomfortable. After finding the campus, we realized that we were at the wrong J & W campus and after all that hassle. We were on the business school campus. The culinary school was on the outskirts of town. It was getting late in the day, and the drive home was about an hour. We decided to blow off J & W altogether. I told my mom I really wanted to go to the CIA anyways. We had had enough of Providence for one day. The final decision to attend the CIA was made right then and there.

I certainly couldn’t complain about the statistics at culinary schools. At the CIA it was ten to one, men to women. The only bad part about my choice was the fact that I had to wait a year before I could begin school. I felt it was worth the wait. In the meantime, I could get a little more experience working with food.

I decided to stick around home, Worcester, Massachusetts, and get a job. I found one at one of the local colleges working in the snack and grill bar for the students. They served burgers and other junk food that college kids thrive on. The employees of the snack shop shared the same prep kitchen as the cooks who prepared food for the college’s main meals and a local nursing home. The cooks were not the kind I would want cooking for me or for my grandma. I remember once when they were making meatloaf for the nursing home. They threw the eggshells in right along with the eggs. When I questioned them, they said it was extra protein! They also were perverts, which I was finding out was a common trait among food service workers.

There was an elderly security guard who worked for the college, who, as it turned out, was attracted to me. This was unfortunate. For one thing, he was way too old for me! In my opinion, he was also way too old to be a security guard. I tried to be friendly to everyone, but he must have taken it the wrong way. One day at work, after returning from a holiday break, he surprised me from behind. When I turned around, he planted a big wet one on me. Yuk! I wasn’t expecting him to be right behind me nor was I expecting the kiss. I was quite disgusted. Another time he had even asked me to go with him to gaze at the stars. Now doesn’t that sound like an opportunity every eighteen-year-old gal would want to jump on?! He was dreaming! I should have reported him after his attempted kiss, but I guess I didn’t want to get him into trouble. After I terminated my employment from the college, I didn’t need to worry about him anymore.

The summer before heading off to the CIA in New York was one of the best summers I can remember. Through another relative’s connections, this one better than the meat market job, I got a job at a small gourmet restaurant in beautiful northern New Hampshire. It was run and owned by a married couple. The woman was really cool and an exceptional cook. We served gourmet dinners four nights a week, single seating, promptly at 7:30. The dining room sat seventeen people, and, as I recall, it was always full. Everyone was served the same appetizer, salad, and dessert, and they had two or three choices for the main entrée. All the food was made from scratch. I was quite impressed.

It was while working at this restaurant that I was first introduced to baking bread. There also was a wonderful vegetable garden in the backyard. Every day I would pick the lettuce and other vegetables to be used for that evening’s meals. There also was an array of berry bushes on property. We made some scrumptious desserts with the berries.

It was a beautiful atmosphere to work in. Sometimes I would jump in the river hole during an afternoon break. The fact that all the food was prepared daily made a great impact on me. I was learning something new every moment I spent with the woman. To this day, the impression she left upon me hasn’t left. She helped me to realize my passion for food. Unfortunately, she died, years later from cancer.

Everything happens for a reason, so they say. If I could have started culinary school right away, I never would have had the chance to work with her. I never would have known what I missed out on. However, now that I do know, I am forever grateful to this wonderful woman. She helped me to confirm my desire to become a chef.

CHAPTER THREE

B efore I knew it, I was leaving the beautiful mountains of New Hampshire to live in northern New York State. Hyde Park was the home of the Culinary Institute of America. The campus was beautiful, sitting right near the Hudson River.

The closest city was Poughkeepsie, where some strange characters resided. Sometimes when my friends and I were bored, we would hang out in Poughkeepsie and just people watch. We would joke about some of the residents and how they probably drank too much of the Hudson River water because many of them seemed to be crazy. It was very entertaining, to say the least.

I lived on campus my first year in one of the dorms and had, of course, a roommate. This chick was weird. She was a bit overweight and gave off the appearance of a goody-goody. Actually, more of a nerd. Anyways, her nickname, she claimed, was Tiger. It should have been Baboon in my opinion. That’s not the nicest thing to say, but she was strange. I don’t know why she was going to culinary school in the first place. She just didn’t seem like she was there to learn about cooking. Luckily, for me, she contracted mono and soon departed. My next roommate was much better. We hit it off right away. She did her thing and I did mine, and we always got along doing it. She wasn’t in my actual class so we only occasionally saw each other in passing. She was a block, similar to a class, behind my class.

My class had about seventy students that were split into four groups. This was the average class size. Two groups went to class during the day and two at night. Each group went to a different class. For an example, toward the end of the second year, we had a Russian class. One group was in the kitchen, as cooks, preparing the meals. The other group was in the dining room. After seven days, the groups switched places. I was with the same classmates for the entire duration. There were seventeen students in our group. We really didn’t know any of the other students in our class, outside of our group, especially the groups that went to class during the opposite shift.

The first year we were in the a.m. class. All the classes lasted about eight hours each day. Each class, actually called a block, was three weeks long. Some of the blocks were divided in half, covering two to three topics, while others only covered one. For instance, culinary French and cost control were two of the shorter classes.

The school’s program, at that time I attended, lasted two years, with an externship after the first year. Your externship generally lasted anywhere from three to four months. After you graduated, you received an associate’s degree in occupational studies. Needless to say, you got to know your fellow classmates in your particular group quite well. I thrived at school and absolutely loved it.

New students arrived every three weeks. Needless to say, every three weeks, there was a graduation. This was how it differed from other colleges. Some classes were taught in kitchens and others in classrooms. Every class was so interesting and different from the previous one.

I’ll list some of the classes taught in the first year. Chef orientation, nutrition and food chemistry, sanitation, cost control, culinary French, meats, product identification, intro to baking, culinary theory and skill development, pantry and breakfast cookery, soups and stocks, entrée preparation, intro to table service, law for food service, storeroom, and stewarding. As you can see, the curriculum was quite diverse. Every student attends the same classes, just at different times.

One of the pastry chef instructors had worked in the White House for one of the presidents. He was amazing with his hands. He would make spectacular flowers out of pulled sugar. This sugar must reach a certain temperature, similar to caramel. It hardens after it is shaped and appears like colored glass. When pulling and shaping the sugar, it needs to be very warm. Once it cools down, it begins to harden and can no longer be shaped. It was too hot for most of us students to handle, but the chef’s hands were tough as leather from his years in the industry.

Most of the chef instructors were older and retired from the industry. Many were foreign too. I would say there was quite a number of European chefs. Teaching was much easier on them with less stress and better hours. A good way to ease into retirement.

One good and bad thing at school was the fact that you ate real well. We actually did tire of the rich food and craved pizza or a giant greasy burger. You had to be careful not to put on the pounds too. There was a college nearby with a swimming pool that the culinary students had access to. It was a good way to help stay in shape.

Nearby, there also was a hospital for the mentally insane. They all wore white and at the