趙青奇

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.

我當餐廳糕點主廚那會兒，最喜歡的時刻之一就是看著上早班的那幫廚房伙計們提前到崗。這些廚師看上去一副剛一起床就爬上了火車的模樣（這是因為，嗨，你每天的工作正是如此）。早到的人都是那些珍視早晨那片刻寧靜的人。

和那些不早不晚準點上班、一天伊始（而且通常一整天都一直如此）就壓力山大的廚師不同，早到的廚師可以體會到按慣例行事的好處。他們煮好廚房的第一壺咖啡，抽出幾分鐘的寶貴時間來磨刀，而且似乎也知道得更多——比如午餐的餐具套數(shù)。

對我來說，午餐和晚餐之間的休息時間一直是一段寶貴的時光，這段時間是在準備工作完成之后，在廚房出菜打印機尚未開始嗒嗒作響，提醒我們又要開始接待顧客了之前。這段時光有時可能會持續(xù)一兩個小時，有時又轉瞬即逝。這段時光可能會在最后一個午餐訂單一出餐就立馬開始，也可能直到晚上6點才開始。一般來說，我盡量把下午4：30～5：30前后的這段時間稱作是我自己的時間，這通常是我給予自己的唯一一段較長的休息時間。要是遇上一個馬拉松式的漫長班次，到這個點可能只算是這一天才剛過一半。

在糕點部工作的好處之一便是，你能享受到一種暴風雨之前的寧靜感。廚房“另一邊的”廚師的上菜時間似乎更為緊迫。他們的演出從清晨5：15餐廳正門打開的那一刻就開始了，而我們這些糕點主廚則是在晚餐開始前完成大部分的工作。就這一點而言，當晚的首批用餐者落座后到我們正式開始為用餐者提供服務之前，我們還能有那么一會兒寶貴的時光用來放松和投入更多的努力。這一短暫的休息讓我們得以對第一道甜點以及后續(xù)所有那些甜點傾注全部的注意力。

正是在這段時間，我可以查看我的電子郵件，回回電話，甚至是搞點研究、試試菜品。我會開始整理第二天的糕點菜品或是檢查日程表和投料單。員工餐有時也會擠在這個空當進行。雖然廚房里其他的管理人員都會離開廚房前往餐廳，以一種更得體的方式坐好用餐，但我一般則會跟自己團隊的成員們泡在一起，常常一邊站著吃飯一邊干活。如果實在太忙的話，我有時干脆就不吃員工餐了，情愿等到差不多半夜回到家以后再自己做飯吃。

盡管工作中總有事情可忙——無論是在辦公室還是在廚房——但有時徹底走出大樓，去曬一會兒太陽（如果天氣好的話），還是很愜意的。當市中心曼哈頓的街頭擠滿朝九晚五的上班族和提早到場的劇迷時，我則在讓自己重振精神。不過，我從來都不羨慕這些結束一天工作的路人。相反，我知道黃昏這一“美好時分”對我而言預示著截然不同的含義。對他們來說，黃昏標志著按部就班的一天的結束；對我來說，黃昏則預示著一天的開始。

廚房糕點部的收工時間總會有點不可預測。有的時候，突然就收工了；而有的晚上，因為要等著興致未盡的幾桌客人，下班時間就遙遙無期。在我快要告別餐廳工作的那段日子，我不再待到最后才離開，但我始終不太習慣這么做。這么多年以來，我一直都是廚房最后才走的那個人（我會擺盤并送出客人點的最后一道糕點），在整個桌臺還沒有清理、擦凈之前就離開總讓我感覺不對勁。

在餐廳往往一天都很忙，讓我?guī)缀鯖]有時間吃飯（除了啃幾片面包、嘗幾小口每日甜點之外）。所以到晚上下班時我就會饑腸轆轆，通常會想吃點容易填飽肚子的咸食。對我來說，不管用餐的時間有多晚，晚餐都一直很神圣。因此，幾乎每晚離開餐廳之后，我都會盡力忍住饑餓，直到回到家給自己做頓像樣的晚餐。

雖然主廚一天之中的所有這些時刻——從剛踏進廚房的那幾分鐘，到晚上收工之后跟同事們互相講述今天都發(fā)生了什么故事的最后時分——都十分寶貴，但最美好的時光還是你一頭倒在枕頭上的那一刻，是當你閉上雙眼、蓋上被子、想到明天一切又要重新開始而露出開心的笑容的那一刻。這時，你才會意識到自己真的是個主廚。210453.png

在西餐廳享用完主食之后，再來一道美味、誘人的糕點，瞬間覺得幸福感爆棚。如果你也對糕點愛不釋“口”，你知道餐廳中的一道道精致糕點都是如何從糕點廚師的手中誕生的嗎？他們每天都需要做哪些工作，他們的一天是如何度過的呢？一起來聽聽下面這位曾經(jīng)的糕點主廚是怎么說的吧。