The Bedrock of Brilliance

 

 

The Bedrock of Brilliance

Stuffy air, the press of bodies, flames spouting in the corner, just a bit too confined for you too feel at ease. This is a kitchen in all its glory. Here, at the Culinary Institute of America (or CIA), America’s oldest culinary school, foodies and kitchen acolytes from the across the globe come to gain the skills necessary for their futures in the food industry. I don’t need to analyze the level of food-ed, however.  As can be expected, many differing styles of leadership exist within the bounds of the Culinary, all of which have been reflected in the expert reporting of Michael Ruhlman’s The Making of a Chef. This is what is what designates The Making of a Chef as a truly great report.

Leadership is a fickle thing. It cavorts about one day and ferments, depressed the next. Everyone does it differently, so to report and instruct on leadership is rather a recount of various techniques and how they intersect in an ephemeral grand scheme. Ruhlman, as he progresses through the CIA’s curriculum, refers back to his first instructor, Chef Pardus. Pardus is a figure of order, especially in this hectic profession. He is short, though not diminutive, with a solid posture and wire-rimmed glasses that make him not an ostentatious leader, but a trusted one. Without ever truly dominating a student’s course, Pardus establishes himself as one who can act as a foundation.

Ruhlman starts in Pardus’ basic skills class. By the time he finishes the Culinary’s curriculum, in the kitchens of the CIA’s many restaurants,  Pardus moves from the role of instructor to counselor. Whenever Ruhlman has a tough decision on his shoulders, he consults Pardus; whenever he has a question about technique, he goes to Pardus; whenever he is having difficulty in the restaurant, he consults Chef Pardus. Pardus’ instruction, counseling, and even companionship, serve to ground Ruhlman’s efforts at the Culinary. Pardus, more than every other mentor--desired or not--that Ruhlman operate under, serves as a platform for his expansion. The bedrock of his potential brilliance.

I found a surprising amount of insight in The Making of a Chef, having picked it up originally on the recommendation from my grandfather, himself deeply embedded in the culinary world. He’d been teaching me the culinary arts for several months at that point, and referenced this book as a source for growth of understanding of the food industry. I thought, I love to cook, I love reading, so this sounds fantastic! I never expected the wealth of information regarding leadership. I seldom fail to connect information with an ability to lead, be it in film, literature, or sports. The fact that The Making of a Chef, a book about culinary school, could provide so much wisdom on leading was a, to a point, astounding. I’d known the food industry a wonderful place for the blooming of both creative spirit and the ascendancy of the professional and social hierarchy, and this book expanded on that knowledge to a fully applicable extent.

Ruhlman, at the end of his fifth week at the CIA, interviews Pardus on how he became a chef, and how it shaped his philosophy. Pardus, reflecting on his hard-won education at the hands of a French immigrant, states that “the first thing I learned...was how to make brown sauce” (112). Brown sauce, according to Escoffier, the father of modern French cuisine (and therefore cuisine in general), is the base sauce for all other classical sauces, be they a demi-glace or a roux. In being taught this, Pardus relates, he was taught the skill from which he could derive all others. He was taught one thing, and from that one thing he could expand autonomously to others. This is the essence of good leadership. Instead of teaching someone many independent techniques with no interaction, to teach one overarching technique reduces time and increases both the pupil’s competence and confidence. It is, in general, more fulfilling to derive techniques for oneself than to be taught them by one more skilled than you.

Michael Ruhlman’s experience at the Culinary Institute of America is a rare viewport into the mercurial world of culinary school and professional cooking. “To know a mountain, you don’t take a helicopter to the top and look down at it; you start at the bottom and climb up” (261), Ruhlman says in retrospection. Culinary school is not an endeavor for people lacking drive; culinary students are known for their workaholism, necessary first for an incredibly regimented schooling, then for a career without vacation. Chefs work when everyone else is off; on Christmas, Easter, Mother’s Day, and all the rest. It is a frenzied passion that drives people in this profession, a passion for food and for people. With impassioned, perhaps even visionary leaders, acolytes of cuisine ascend the mountain of culinary mastery, becoming themselves leaders to others. This journey, and the passion driving it, are what Ruhlman so truly portrays. Leaders in the food industry, as everywhere else, must push themselves to be personable, intelligent, eloquent, and masters of their skill. Without these four things a leader is not a leader, a leader is a waste of everyone’s effort.