Sometimes we simply fall in love with the word itself, its attractive sound, its acceptance, yet ignore its content.  Politicians are notorious practitioners of this, and chefs are no different.  Point in case:  the chiffonade.  The chiffonade refers to delicate green leaves rolled like a cigar and sliced into thin, long strips.  The purpose of this cut is often mostly for aesthetics rather than any practicality.  You have to admit, the very word sounds sexy, and because of this, the chiffonade gets carte blanche.  However, the chiffonade, misused as it too often is, can be far from a sexy experience.  Once on a spoon or fork and approaching the mouth, a multitude of embarrassing turn-offs can occur.

In an Italian restaurant in San Diego last summer I struggled with a chiffonade of basil on a side of gnocchi tossed in tomato sauce.  The gnocchi were fine, even satisfying, I must say, but the chiffonade was more than my mouth could handle.  Half of it hung from the sides of my mouth.  The experience not only embarrassed me, in infuriated me. How dare this chef put this unnecessary cut of basil on my food (my food because I paid for it and am eating it) and put me in an embarrassing situation.  With extreme prejudice, I damned the chiffonade.  I damned the chef.  Thank goodness for good wine and wonderful company to calm me.  After all, I can’t really blame the chef.  This is a common, if not a normal tendency.  We convince ourselves that the chiffonade is worthier than the chop, or tear.  We live by the word, especially the sexy sounding ones.  For most, a blind date with someone named Raoul is more interesting than with someone named Myron.  We’re conditioned.  That is why a cook will never receive the attention he/she deserves and a chef too often receives more than they earned.

Tony Minichiello

Chef Instructor 

 Food, more than any other daily facet of our lives, presents us with complex challenges to find balance.  Almost every relationship we can possibly have with food has a counter-relationship.  Fine dining vs. starvation.  Convenience/mass produced/fast food vs. local/freshly cooked/slow food.  Food as business vs. food as culture.  Food as pleasure vs. food as simple necessity.  Food as elitism vs. food as sharing.  Food criticized vs. food respected.  The superstar chef vs. grandma.  Foie gras vs. liver and onions.  Food as style vs. food as content.  Appearances vs. technique.  Science vs. experience.  Foam sauces vs. pan juices.  Adjectives vs. nouns.  Adverbs vs. action verbs.  Labour cost vs. metier.  Chef vs. cook.  Foodie blogs vs. the family table.  Pork fat vs. olive oil.  Diet trends vs. common sense.  University studies vs. grandma.  Perrier vs. tap water.  Wine pairing vs. favourite beer. 

As an instructor, I am put in a position where I must talk about food every day.  I am expected to have ideology, methodology, definitions, answers and opinions on all topics to validate my expertise.  And I do have a lot to say and am quite opinionated.  But as I get older and more experienced as an instructor, I find I am saying less (to those ex-students, this may come as a shock).  I recognize that my expertise is not what moves a student from one level to another.  What matters is how I engage physically, emotionally, and intellectually with the same process as the students.  In other words, my influence as a student of food far outweighs my expertise as an instructor.  Subduing any notion of expertise and instilling the practice of perpetual learning is key to teaching students what will give them the greatest advantages when they graduate. 

We now talk about food more than ever.  I’m not sure whether we are saying too much or not enough.  I’m not certain we are using a language that frees us rather than corners us.  I’m not sure if we are listening to the right people.  I’m not sure we truly mean – let alone authentically experience – what we say.  I doubt we think of the consequences, especially the flip side, of our comments.  I am convinced we do need to find some balance in how we talk about food, somewhere between the essential and the ideal.  It might be the only way we find balance in how we eat our food. 

Tony Minichiello

Culinary Instructor

When we think of Italian cooking, we think tomato sauce, garlic, olive oil, basil, fresh ingredients, and amore.  Having been brought up in that culture, I saw Italian food as a way of life.  But as a professional mostly trained in French cooking,  I’ve had some time to stand outside of my original food culture and see it from a different perspective.  Even as an instructor – especially as an instructor – I’ve come to describe Italian cooking in different terms.

We also think of simplicity when it comes to Italian food.  But do we really understand what this means?  It is quite rare for Italian dishes to have more than 4 ingredients, including salt.  Think about it.  Italian cooking, more than any other, uses the least spices.  Even black pepper is alien to many Italian cooks.  Though it makes wise use of herbs to highlight flavour combinations, it rarely, if ever, uses spices to jazz things up.  In fact, if you have to jazz up an Italian dish, chances are you either used inferior ingredients or the technique fell short. 

When teaching the essence of Italian cooking, a challenge every semester when we introduce it to our students, the real challenge is curbing the students’ enthusiasm to add things to the pot.  True Italian cooking is about abstracting, removing unnecessary ingredients from the mix.  A risotto or polenta can be as delicious made with salted potato water as with a full-bodied chicken or vegetable stock.  Trusting the principle ingredients and their essence to come through defines the tendency of a confident Italian cook.  Reaching for the pepper, spices, and truffle oil defines one still uncertain about his/her food.  Learning about Italian food and cuisine is a lesson on learning how to get the most out of ingredients without having to do too much.  The temptation of the learning cook is to make the food an expression of you.  The hard part is letting the food be an expression of itself.

Tony Minichiello

Chef Instructor

In very few lines of work does the clock move faster than we want it too.  For cooks getting ready for dinner service, many wish they can stop time.  This would literally mean working for free, a predicament many cooks would rather be in than in the weeds (or harsher).  But it’s not really the clock one must fight.  It’s a lack of true skill. 

Most fight the clock because they are chasing their tail rather than fluidly moving the tasks at hand from one stage to another rhythmically, efficiently, in a well choreographed manner, without interruption and stutter-steps.  When you see a real pro at work, they are not rushing, their feet, hands and eyes move smoothly, with conserved energy, with the confidence and freedom of an accomplished jazz musician.  In fact, their facial expression shows no strain, no panic, and one can imagine Monk or Parker playing in their head.  These pros look like they’re taking a ride in the country.  But the tells are obvious when a cook is scrambling, flying by the seat of their pants.  They look like they’re changing lanes in rush hour traffic but not really getting anywhere fast.  The music playing in their head…well, there is no music, it’s more like scratched vinyl.

At the school, we emphasize teaching the basics of getting ready for service.  It starts with a sharp knife, a smart task list, smart choreography, a clear understanding and confident execution of the fundamentals.  Achieving jazz-like rhythm, however, will takes years of industry training. I encourage our students to witness true craftsmanship in action.  And in Vancouver, there are front-row seats where you can witness it at its best.  Spend an evening at Fuel Restaurant at the bar and watch either Ted and Robert move.  The jazz tunes you hear may not even be coming from the speakers.

Tony Minichiello

Culinary Instructor

In my experience in kitchens, when focus is lost, the f word flies all over the room.  Recently a production company solicited our school searching for “young superstar cooks with tons of personality, mega confidence, and somewhat irreverent”.  It’s obvious where they are going with this one – a show where the script will have the f-word in every line.  The other day I saw a reality cooking show of students going through their studies at a respectable cooking school, and within minutes into the show I heard the instructor and students blurt the f-word half a dozen times.   

The people that influenced me go into this field were Julia Child, Alice Waters, Jacques Pepin, and Paula Wolfert. What made me commit was enough evidence that this field has intelligent, articulate, devoted people.  Now I grew up in a tough neighbourhood, played in tough playgrounds, went to a tough high school, and I used the f-word in those days the way today’s teenagers use the word “like”.  I still use the f-word, though used more wisely (if there’s such a thing) like one would use pepper, rather than gratuitously.  But I made a commitment long ago that I would never use it and tolerate it in professional kitchens.  My record, except for perhaps a couple of times when it slipped under my breath, is in tact.  My record in everyday conversation is another story…and I’m working on that.

If the media and its chef-actors believe that the bad-boy image of irreverent, mega confident wannabe rock stars will attract the next generation of influential chefs, we’ve hit rock bottom.  All this talk of sustainability, local ingredients, and ethical practices with food requires humble, focused, articulate, respectable, professional, mature, unselfish cooks who strive to be change agents rather than rock stars or divas.  Those that market the image of the cook as an irreverent are doing an extreme injustice to our profession and relationship with food.  They do not speak the same language as the rest of us who are following our passion to make others happy, to make a difference.  The US Presidential election is proof that a higher road is worth taking. 

Tony Minichiello

Culinary Instructor      

About a year ago I came to the conclusion that quantity drives quality.  The more you do something, the better you get at it.  Simple.  Especially in the culinary arts, putting in your time and repetitions is essential. 

In networking, the old adage states that it’s all about who you know.   However, it takes time and effort to get to know the right people that will help you take to your next goal.  For the culinary student, networking starts from the foundation – it starts with your instructors and classmates.  The more time you spend with them, the more you let them enter your field of learning, the more your network expands.  My best graduates – meaning those still in the industry and achieving new, real goals every year – were and still are those that networked well as a student, stayed connected to their teachers and classmates, and continue to now network in the industry with even greater skill. 

So, what are the simple skills in networking?  1) Make yourself available so others can be available for you.  2) Talk to your people -  people who where the jacket, flip a pan, chop and dice, or roll a dough like yourself.  3) Spend time with these people.  4) Ask questions, particularly about where they are now in their career which may relate to where you are heading.  5) Take criticism – even beg for it.  6) Volunteer in professional kitchens any chance you get – even beg for the opportunity, but I assure you that won’t be necessary.  7) Believe, PLEASE!, that you are not inconveniencing anyone where you show interest –  in fact, you are confirming their own raison d’être.  8) If you are shy, STOP IT!  9) Get contacts and keep them safely somewhere.  10) Always, always thank people for their time.  

Tony Minichiello

Culinary Instructor