Gastrocinephiles! So you’ve watched and rewound the opening scene of Eat Drink Man Woman multiple times? Your dreams involve recreating the timpano from Big Night? Then the NYC Food Film Festival is the place to be, celebrating the year’s accomplishments in food film, food documentary, and of course, food porn. In its fifth year of running, the Food Film Fest is attracting all sorts of attention from food media, filmmakers, and even Mayor Bloomberg, who kicked off the opening ceremony by declaring “Food Film Fest Day” in New York.
I was present for the closing gala, themed “Farm to Film to Table.” Held in the Varick Room at the Tribeca Theater, the city’s student filmmakers, publicists and chefs gathered for hors d’oeuvres and cocktails made from locally sourced ingredients. Chef and Food Network star Amanda Freitag spearheaded a menu of baked crab apples with pork belly in the core, butternut squash with curry and pepitas, and roasted sunchokes with red garlic. Most interesting was the edible dirt, a powdery concoction of mushrooms served with peppery arugula. The dirt, while tasty, would’ve been better if it were warm, so I actually ended up sprinkling some over a bowl of chili for highly satisfactory results. Read more…
An Employment Epistle
Dear R.,
It has only been six weeks since that napkin-crumpling, tear-stained breakfast with you at the Z-7 Diner, but it feels like years have passed. My job was on tenterhooks; I needed to find a new one or soon join the swelling ranks of the unemployed. Murmurs of a double dip recession were getting louder. I had so many questions and too little time. What do you do with a gastronomy degree anyway? Why is it that the sustainable, “socially responsible” organizations are the ones offering only unpaid internships? How do I land a new apartment lease in the highly competitive NYC real estate market if I can’t demonstrate an income? I am a fighter, yes, but this city is one who fights back. And I was determined to go down in a Viking pyre of glory.
So I started reaching out for help. I talked to old friends’ drinking buddies, lingered to chat with the cheesemonger, shook hands at conferences. I cyberstalked people whose jobs I wanted in ten years and wheedled them into grabbing coffee with me. I emailed you on a whim because—I don’t know—it seemed like you’d made some valuable mistakes before, and you weren’t hesitant to talk about them.
Most of all, I talked to myself. I said that I wanted to write. You asked one innocent yet oh-so-probing question that morning that stuck with me: why should anyone read what I have to say? How do I gain credibility as a writer? After all, you don’t have to bill yourself as a writer to be one. Dan Barber’s platform is his role as chef-owner of Blue Hill; Marion Nestle is a professor at NYU. I let that one marinate, as I searched for roles that would give me a soapbox.
Along the way, I made some incredibly naive mistakes. There was the time I asked a teacher if he would serve as a reference for me. He flatly turned me down. After all, I’d written a publicly critical blog post about the university that he served. There was the time I got rejected for an interview with a publicity agency. Though they were impressed by my cover letter, after Googling me, they’d stumbled across the aforementioned blog post and decided I was too risky a prospect—what if I decided to “write an angry tirade” about them? It turns out that being a writer with opinions is perceived as a threat. For the first time, people were paying attention to what I had to say, and I didn’t want them to.
Things happen in stochastic ways. Maddening weeks went by, as I sent out dozens of resumes into a void of silence. I kept rewriting my cover letter. I applied for unpaid internships and jobs that I was overqualified for. They never replied. I considered going back to economics research. Finally, I sent in an application to work as a sales representative at W&T Seafood, a second generation seafood distributor in Brooklyn. When I met the manager, we hit it off with the immediate chemistry that children born of immigrant entrepreneurs share.
She thought I was smart and would fit into the company handily. The problem was, I wasn’t all that interested in sales. I did, however, have other talents that could be harnessed. W&T was looking to expand some of its PR and marketing initiatives, projects that I was eager to tackle. Would they hire me for a position that didn’t exist yet? We gave it a few days of thought and one updated job description later, I was officially on board as the business development and communications guru.
So there you have it. Kids, the surefire way to get a job is to interview at a company, confess that you’d rather do something else, and then work with them to come up with the perfect position for you. I now have a new role as the voice of W&T, a vehicle that allows me to write with expertise on sustainable seafood. I’ve learned how to negotiate a salary and how to identify companies I wouldn’t be a good fit for. I’m 3 for 3 with jobs that allow me to bike to work and don’t require dressing up. I feel like a winner.
This euphoria won’t last. But I felt the need to capture it—right now at 6 am—to bottle it for the next time I’m in a panic. It’s a potent homebrew of optimism built on proactive perseverance.
Feel free to take a sip when you need it.
Thanks again,
C
Want to rub elbows with the nation’s brightest culinary stars? The 6th annual StarChefs conference opened yesterday at the Park Place Armory with a star-studded roster of speakers.
The event is open only to industry professionals, however for culinary students and restaurant workers, this is a dazzling opportunity to ask questions and get your hands dirty with a workshop from your favorite kitchen god (or goddess). There is also opportunity to walk away with a dash of fame; 20 rising pastry chefs are in fierce competition to win the International Pastry Competition.
This year’s theme was “The Sixth Sense: Intuition, Emotion and Experiential Evolution in Dining.” Lots of fancy words, to be sure, but there is nothing pie-in-the-sky about Grant Achatz’s determination to enter your psyche as a diner, as he spoke about the broadening role of food as entertainment.
The StarChefs conference is certainly smaller than other industry conferences (like the National Restaurant Association show), but the more intimate vibe allows you to dive in without feeling overwhelmed. There is a good smattering of equipment vendors, food suppliers and other merchandise to check out, but the real meat of the conference is not the Australian lamb, but the main stage presentations and workshops.
Want to hear about building a charcuterie empire? Daniel Boulud will enlighten you. Interested in making ethereally light macarons? Pierre Herme has traveled straight from Paris to guide you in an interactive seminar. Curious about the thought process that pushes a concept to a plate? Laurent Gras demonstrates visual storytelling through a fish eye and Picasso paintings.
More highlights and photos after the jump:
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The roach skittered towards a cardboard box, and Cheryl raised her hand to smash it before the customers could see. The kitchen was in the weeds—we were short-staffed because the fry cook had been jailed last night for a DUI. Dad would stop by later to bail him out and give him another futile lecture. Meanwhile, the insistent beep of the drive-through sensor rang out. I scurried back to my post atop an overturned milk crate and pressed the speaker button. “Welcome to Lucky Phoenix, can I help you?” Just another June afternoon working at the family restaurant.
From the million-watt smile of Racheal Ray to the rock star trappings of Anthony Bourdain, there’s no question that it is a very good time to be famous in the kitchen. Americans may not be cooking any more, but they’re certainly soaking up every TV show, cookbook and blog they can find, as food takes on an unprecedented, fetishistic spotlight in pop culture.
But let’s talk about something a little less glamorous: Chinese fast-food restaurants. You know the sort, the dingy corner take-out joint named some combination of {Golden, Lucky, Jade, Happy} {Moon, Buddha, Wok, Phoenix, Panda}. The kind that serves ambiguously Chinese dishes from a 100-item menu, located in a building converted from an old Taco Bell. The kind that relies on labor from family and friends, the unwitting members of a Chinese restaurant fraternity open automatically to FOB immigrants with no English skills and an eye for cash. You walk past this restaurant every day, in Chicago, in Tuscaloosa, in small-town Italy.
This was my playground.
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Rats
If you rub a mouse on the nose,
It will pee in your palm.
I poke the moist, fuzzy snout
Then set it on Marian’s backpack.
She hated me, deserved the dark
Droplet trickling down the monogrammed leather
Maybe her bag would discolor, orange to purple
Maybe it’d waft a sour smell, everyone thinking
Marian doesn’t shower, Marian has B.O.!
All the mice liked me
If I were the Pied Piper,
They’d prance faithfully after my panpipe
I put a satiny one in my pencil box
It was April Fool’s Day
Mrs. Chanda taught math next period
I waited until the class settled, and winked
My best friend giggled when
The mouse darted under the tables
Blurred toward Marion’s foot
She stood up and screamed
Perched atop her chair like
Dumbo balancing on a tight rope
I snickered and pointed
I hated Mrs. Chanda, too
We called her Fungus Fingers
Her nails were grimy, concrete gray
Like sticks of string cheese
Left to mold in the vegetable drawer
A chalk allergy, she claimed
Of course we knew better, whispers circled
Hooted at her daughter’s photograph
Fat and ugly, it chimed, greasy hair and glasses
Happy, I was having fun
In the grocery store, Kroger’s
My cousin Kevin, we ogled
Rainbow bins of gummi bears, bubble gum
Foil-wrapped hearts and stars
Let’s get some, he insisted,
Grandma will let us buy it
And shoveled a wad of chocolate into his pocket
Of course. nodding, the same I
Plunged my hand into the Hershey Kisses,
Tucked my reward inside my jacket and
Kept walking away, chin high.
Soon after, Grandma found out,
I don’t remember how she knew,
Just that we emptied our pockets out
Sneaky, sliding the sticky wrappers into
A trash can, before anyone could see.
My cheeks flushed red, I knew
Stealing was wrong.
Grandma dropped me home that day,
Mentioned nothing about the shopping trip
My mom hugged me, sent me inside
Maybe she thought I was too young
To tell between right and wrong,
I didn’t know the difference, really
Only knew the churning of a stomach choking vomit.
April 30, 2002
Much to my amusement, this piece went on to win a Columbia Scholastic Press award in the “humor” category.
When I left Italy in March, I’ll confess it wasn’t so much a graceful departure as a beeline to escape. I was tired of fighting bureaucracy in the Living Museum, missed the bustle of a proper city, and had eaten so much cured meat that my sweat stank with lactic fermentation. Italophiles may weep, but I’ll say it anyway—I was totally over Italy and ready to abandon la dolce vita forever.
But like a mosquito to bare arms, I couldn’t stay away for long. Soon, I’d gotten my fix of cilantro and tacos, and my kilo-block of parmesan had run out. Luckily, this is New York and you can get anything here—for a price—so I began discreetly scouting for new dealers.
They said Arthur Avenue was where I wanted to go. It seems that while the Little Italy of downtown Manhattan has long been overrun by tourists and Armenian restauranteurs masquerading as Italians, this little stretch of the Bronx still retains small town character and old men leisurely watching football.
Transportation to Arthur Avenue consists of taking the B/D train to Fordham, a solid 90-minute trek from Brooklyn. The surrounding neighborhood isn’t the greatest, but during the day, I didn’t feel uncomfortable at any point. After you leave the station, walk about seven blocks to the east along 186th St, then one block south on 3rd Ave, and another four blocks east on 187th St until you reach Arthur Ave. The Italian community is centered around this intersection, radiating 3-4 blocks in each direction.
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So you may have heard that the state of New York legalized gay marriage last Friday. Thirty days after the bill’s signing, homosexual couples will able to marry in NY, MA, VT, CT, NH, IA and DC.
The city’s annual Pride Parade was scheduled for Sunday, just two days after the historic passage. Cue thousands of signs being printed with the proclamation, “Thank you Governor Cuomo – promise kept!” A few marchers made not-so-subtle jabs at California’s repealed Proposition 8.
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Just another rental sign in NYC
Living in New York is like spoonful of Chinese medicine—intense, acerbic, unmasked. At the end of the day, you feel like you’ve gotten better, or at least tell yourself that you’re doing better, because otherwise the rent is too damn high to justify being here.
I’ve been away from Italy for about three months now, and get asked now and then on whether I miss it. The short answer is, no. The long answer is, I can get all the burrata and olives I want at the Food Coop, along with kombu, almond butter and sunflower sprouts. So no, I don’t find that I miss Italy at all.
I do miss having an apartment that’s large enough to swing a cat in. Going from a transoceanic long-distance relationship to a 200 sq ft studio apartment has required a bit of adjustment. Sometimes I can’t believe he refuses to touch asparagus; other times I never fail to act in a considerate and socially acceptable manner. Kidding. I have my flaws too, but at least I can blame those on PMS. And despite the fights and heated debates where words like Trust and Dependence and Trolling are thrown about, we’re making it work. Bedhead and morning disgruntlement have now become oddly endearing.
On the plus side, cleaning the flat involves about three minutes of sweeping the floor.
The job is still exciting, and I never get tired of telling people I work in the film industry and sustainable food advocacy. For an added ego boost, I receive emails semi-regularly about what great work we’re doing, how I’m a ray of light that is transforming the food system. I feel lucky that I get paid to do things I would do on my own time, and that I’m meeting like-minded movers and shakers. Last week, New Yorker editor John Donohue thanked me for reading and promoting his book. No John, thank you for giving me your number…can I send you some pitches?
With my director away on maternity leave, I also have a good deal of autonomy and decision-making power. It’s a funny tightrope walk, knowing that I have just enough rope with which to hang myself.
We’re hiring an intern now. Funny that just four months ago, I was that intern. And now I’m getting profiled on Good Food Jobs.
Constant Donations, 2011
In 2008, I decided that I would donate $25 every year to the Cornell Chimes Fund, in 2008 inflation-adjusted dollars.
In 2009, thanks to deflation, I actually donated only $24.68, but last year in 2010, the economy had recovered slightly, and I donated $25.18. Huzzah jobless recovery!
Anyway, it is that time of the year again, so without further ado, here is my 2011 Cornell contribution:
$25.18 in 2010 dollars * 225.964 (May ’11 CPI-U, all items) / 218.178 (May ’10 CPI-U) = $26.01 in 2011 dollars
Can’t wait to get my letter in the mail thanking me for my donation of $26.01.
Last Friday, I met Todd Bieber, a dude who found a canister of film while skiing in Brooklyn’s Prospect Park. In a male Amelie sort of twist, he developed the photos and set out to find the photographer by making a Youtube video about the contents. The video was witty, honest, poignant in its recognition that this adventure was much too fantastic to continue. Suddenly, it had racked up a million hits and Bieber was swamped with emails postulating on who the photographer could be. After a few months of fruitless leads, a breakthrough: he received an email from the photographer and immediately booked a ticket to Paris to return the film to the girl who had lost it.
This is the tale that Time magazine described as “YouTube’s greatest adventure,” crafted by the person that ABC News described as “a real life international man of mystery.” Like many others, I was forwarded the first video last winter, and left enchanted by the idea that two strangers could connect through the help of millions of good Samaritans on the internet. But was it really true? After all, Bieber is a director for UCB comedy and a writer for the Onion, and the story just seemed too perfect to be genuine. So I mulled over the ploys that people use to get attention these days, and forgot about the video entirely.
Until I stopped by the Park Slope Food Coop one evening and glanced up at a flyer. Film Night: An Evening of Personal Documentaries. Found: Lost Pictures of New York Blizzard. And there he was, sitting right next to me, wearing a red flannel shirt, dark rimmed glasses, and some scruffy facial hair. The standard hipster uniform. He gave a nervous introduction, and it was clear that he was not used to public speaking, but his face brightened as he told us the rest of his story.
So, they met in Paris. They did not fall in love and get married and live happily forever. Bieber had brought his girlfriend along anyway. The meeting was actually kind of awkward.
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