糕点主厨的一天

赵青奇

As a restaurant pastry chef， one of my favorite moments was watching the arrival of the kitchen staff in the morning before their shift2）. These cooks look like they rolled right out3） of bed and onto the train （because， well， that's what you do）. The early arrivers are those who treasure those few minutes of silence.

Unlike those who make it to work just in time， whose days begin—and often continue perpetually—under a lot of pressure， the early cooks appreciate ritual4）. They make that first pot of kitchen coffee. They take a few precious minutes to sharpen their knives. And they seem to know more—for example， the number of covers5） for lunch.

A treasured time for me was always the rest between lunch and dinner， the period of time after prep and set-up6） are complete， but before the printer starts to chatter， telling us service has started once again. Some days it might last an hour or two， other days it comes and goes in a few fleeting7） moments. It may start as soon as the last lunch order is out or as late as 6 pm. Typically， I tried to call the time around 4：30 to 5：30 pm my own. This was usually the only substantial break I allowed myself. If it was a marathon shift， it might merely mark the half-way point of the day.

One of the benefits of working in pastry is that you're provided with a sense of calm before the storm. The cooks on the "other" side of the kitchen seem to have a much tighter deadline. Their show starts the moment the front door opens at 5：15 am. We pastry chefs， on the other hand， put in8） most of the work prior to the dinner hour. As such9）， we are left with a few precious moments （once the first diners10） of the night are seated） to relax and refocus11） before service begins in earnest12）. This brief pause allows us to offer to the very first dessert plate—and all those that follow—our fullest attention.

It was during this period that I could check my e-mail， return calls， or even do a bit of research and recipe testing. I'd start to assemble my orders13） for the next day or review schedules and prep lists14）. Staff meal was squeezed in at some point， and although the rest of the kitchen management15） retired16） to the dining room to sit and eat in a more civilized manner， I usually hung out with my own team， often standing， eating and working at the same time. If it was really busy， I sometimes skipped eating altogether， choosing to cook dinner for myself when I got home around midnight.

Though there was always something to be done—whether in the office or the kitchen—it was nice to sometimes escape from the building altogether， to enjoy a few moments of daylight if the weather was good. When the midtown Manhattan streets were filled with 9-to-5ers17） and early bird18） theater-goers19）， I was just catching my second wind20）. But I was never envious of these passersby， their workdays finished. Instead， I knew that dusk—the "magic hour"—signaled something very different for me. For them， it marked the end of their daily routine； for me， it signaled the beginning.

The end of the night in a pastry kitchen is always a bit unpredictable. Sometimes， service finishes abruptly. Other nights， it's a slow crawl21） while waiting for a few lingering22） tables. Toward the end of my restaurant days， I no longer stayed until the very end， but I never got used to it. I had been the last in the kitchen for so many years—plating23） and sending out the very last order—that it always felt strange to leave before the entire station was cleared and scrubbed clean.

More often than not， it had been a busy day at the restaurant， leaving me little time to eat （except for a couple of pieces of bread and some small tastes of the daily dessert）. So by this point in the evening， I was hungry， generally for something salty and filling24）. To me， dinner has always been sacred， regardless of the lateness of the hour. So， almost every night after leaving the restaurant， I quelled25） my hunger long enough to return home and cook myself a proper dinner.

While all of these moments in a chef's day are precious—from those first few minutes in the kitchen to that last hour exchanging stories with coworkers at the end of the night—the best moment comes when your head hits the pillow. When you close your eyes， pull the covers over you and smile， delighting in the fact that it starts all over again tomorrow. That's when you know you're really a chef.

我当餐厅糕点主厨那会儿，最喜欢的时刻之一就是看着上早班的那帮厨房伙计们提前到岗。这些厨师看上去一副刚一起床就爬上了火车的模样（这是因为，嗨，你每天的工作正是如此）。早到的人都是那些珍视早晨那片刻宁静的人。

和那些不早不晚准点上班、一天伊始（而且通常一整天都一直如此）就压力山大的厨师不同，早到的厨师可以体会到按惯例行事的好处。他们煮好厨房的第一壶咖啡，抽出几分钟的宝贵时间来磨刀，而且似乎也知道得更多——比如午餐的餐具套数。

对我来说，午餐和晚餐之间的休息时间一直是一段宝贵的时光，这段时间是在准备工作完成之后，在厨房出菜打印机尚未开始嗒嗒作响，提醒我们又要开始接待顾客了之前。这段时光有时可能会持续一两个小时，有时又转瞬即逝。这段时光可能会在最后一个午餐订单一出餐就立马开始，也可能直到晚上6点才开始。一般来说，我尽量把下午4：30～5：30前后的这段时间称作是我自己的时间，这通常是我给予自己的唯一一段较长的休息时间。要是遇上一个马拉松式的漫长班次，到这个点可能只算是这一天才刚过一半。

在糕点部工作的好处之一便是，你能享受到一种暴风雨之前的宁静感。厨房“另一边的”厨师的上菜时间似乎更为紧迫。他们的演出从清晨5：15餐厅正门打开的那一刻就开始了，而我们这些糕点主厨则是在晚餐开始前完成大部分的工作。就这一点而言，当晚的首批用餐者落座后到我们正式开始为用餐者提供服务之前，我们还能有那么一会儿宝贵的时光用来放松和投入更多的努力。这一短暂的休息让我们得以对第一道甜点以及后续所有那些甜点倾注全部的注意力。

正是在这段时间，我可以查看我的电子邮件，回回电话，甚至是搞点研究、试试菜品。我会开始整理第二天的糕点菜品或是检查日程表和投料单。员工餐有时也会挤在这个空当进行。虽然厨房里其他的管理人员都会离开厨房前往餐厅，以一种更得体的方式坐好用餐，但我一般则会跟自己团队的成员们泡在一起，常常一边站着吃饭一边干活。如果实在太忙的话，我有时干脆就不吃员工餐了，情愿等到差不多半夜回到家以后再自己做饭吃。

尽管工作中总有事情可忙——无论是在办公室还是在厨房——但有时彻底走出大楼，去晒一会儿太阳（如果天气好的话），还是很惬意的。当市中心曼哈顿的街头挤满朝九晚五的上班族和提早到场的剧迷时，我则在让自己重振精神。不过，我从来都不羡慕这些结束一天工作的路人。相反，我知道黄昏这一“美好时分”对我而言预示着截然不同的含义。对他们来说，黄昏标志着按部就班的一天的结束；对我来说，黄昏则预示着一天的开始。

厨房糕点部的收工时间总会有点不可预测。有的时候，突然就收工了；而有的晚上，因为要等着兴致未尽的几桌客人，下班时间就遥遥无期。在我快要告别餐厅工作的那段日子，我不再待到最后才离开，但我始终不太习惯这么做。这么多年以来，我一直都是厨房最后才走的那个人（我会摆盘并送出客人点的最后一道糕点），在整个桌台还没有清理、擦净之前就离开总让我感觉不对劲。

在餐厅往往一天都很忙，让我几乎没有时间吃饭（除了啃几片面包、尝几小口每日甜点之外）。所以到晚上下班时我就会饥肠辘辘，通常会想吃点容易填饱肚子的咸食。对我来说，不管用餐的时间有多晚，晚餐都一直很神圣。因此，几乎每晚离开餐厅之后，我都会尽力忍住饥饿，直到回到家给自己做顿像样的晚餐。

雖然主厨一天之中的所有这些时刻——从刚踏进厨房的那几分钟，到晚上收工之后跟同事们互相讲述今天都发生了什么故事的最后时分——都十分宝贵，但最美好的时光还是你一头倒在枕头上的那一刻，是当你闭上双眼、盖上被子、想到明天一切又要重新开始而露出开心的笑容的那一刻。这时，你才会意识到自己真的是个主厨。210453.png

在西餐厅享用完主食之后，再来一道美味、诱人的糕点，瞬间觉得幸福感爆棚。如果你也对糕点爱不释“口”，你知道餐厅中的一道道精致糕点都是如何从糕点厨师的手中诞生的吗？他们每天都需要做哪些工作，他们的一天是如何度过的呢？一起来听听下面这位曾经的糕点主厨是怎么说的吧。