The Sixth Sense of Dining: Inside the StarChefs Conference

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IMG_1013Want 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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On Fast Food, Money and Child Labor: I Grew Up as a Restaurant Brat

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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

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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.

An Old New World: Arthur Avenue’s Little Italy

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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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Pride Parade: One Small Step for Humans, One Giant Leap for Human Rights

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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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Living in the Greatest Clusterfuck in the World

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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.