1 post tagged “cake slingers”
I blink. My eyes refocus on a hunk of lemon chiffon that has just hit the floor with a resounding "smack!" I grip the knife harder and decide whether to let in seep into the doughy holes of the perforated rubber flooring, or snag a nearby dish towel and make the janitor's job a little easier. The chatter, and clank of the bakery in the back is barely audible under the cloud of conversation, laughter and orders being hailed by tired wait-staff and the elite, lined up for their tables for two.
My position is called "Pastry-Technician" a laughable title, mighty difficult to convey without smiling or feeling the need to tap dance an excuse... Pastry Tech or as I like to call it, Cake Slinger, is the position allotted to those whose job it is to decorate or "plate" an enormous piece of cake (or made to disguise a less desireable piece for consumption) with an array of sauces and "edible tchotckies" such as chocolate curls, chocolate dipped espresso beans, lemon wedges etc etc etc. A job most commonly sought after by aspiring graphic designers, wayward studio artists, or the nascent retail/food associate who is roped into it from previous experiences as a young diner. But waste NO TIME in plating, or trying effectively recreate a Wassily masterpiece with chocolate sauce, because expedience is key when you have a Saturday night shift (prom nights in May were a personal hell of mine). There's two of you, and hardly room for both (think of the width of a bowling lane, sans gutters). Knives fly as you dose them with scalding hot water before attempting a mousse torte or the new york cheesecake. Some people watch in horror as the plates flip upside down while I defy gravity and let the plate come to the cake, and not the other way around (for easy placement). Frostings flop, insides crumble, decorations wilt with a glance.. and you are there at the mercy of time and space to make it all work. Make it all work fast. I think I could get into the restaurant business. The rush and intensity-- the versatility and movement you must possess is addictive. At the end of the night we all flop around the cushy booths in the lounge, clumsily clutching a cocktail and dribbling out the main events of the night through tired eyes, and lazy smiles. It's an amazing bond you have with servers, dishwashers, cooks, management alike as you all brave the clientele of the evening. A wealthy buffoon, an anxious wife, a bevy of bubbling blonds...All of them
The summer after completing my first year of college, my mother pushed me from the moment I stepped off the plane from NC to get a job. And I worked tirelessly on perfecting a resume and cover letter for several under-whelming positions. I cannot recall how exactly I came upon this strangely titled position, but the notable restaurant on the West side was asking for a new baker and pastry technician. I remember I had visited my friend Brian the night I received the call for an interview and raced back into town to prepare a suitable "suit". The kind gentleman who interviewed me was only there for a few more weeks before he and his wife moved away to finish her grad school degree. I was left in the hands of a few embittered, veteran techs, and a hilarious, male comedian duo of bakers in the back.
I had never learned anything about baking save for a few lessons at Safeway and was totally unprepared for the finesse and grace necessary to frost an entire gateau. It was trial by fire, and several desserts made their way to the same holey (holy?) floor before they ever made an appearance under the gleaming deli-case glass. I remember the Crisco grease oozing onto my fingers as I practiced row after row after row of shells, rosettes and cursive lettering. The heat from the summer was intensified by the close proximity of 450 degree ovens, baking sheet after sheet of meringues, tart shells and shortbreads. Sweat ceremoniously trickled down my neck and collected in the collar of my chef's coat-- an oversized, thick white shirt that hid any inappropriate attire (tank top, colored T) from view. Perhaps they should instate this as a punishment for girls at NS with tanks at under 3 finger width..
By the end of the summer, and after months of 40 hour weeks I became confident in my skills, memorized hundreds of recipes and could make a killer panna cotta in under 10 minutes flat. I knew all the tricks and I felt emboldened as I left for my second year of college.
So here I am. Two years of private school teaching in my past (a small detail that drops the jaws of several of my coworkers.. why?) I am slinging cakes once again, this time--exclusively in the front and with the help of a whole new feeling--whole new staff of people who are far kinder, cooler and harder working than I remember. My anxieties have vanished and now I am clean, efficient and feeling affable. Tickets may line our entire 16 foot counter, and customers may glare and demand more creme anglaise! But I am at ease, wielding my knife--in a space no larger than a modest walk in closet... and though a few more pieces of chiffon may hit the floor I don't care. It's not the end of the world, and most importantly it's nothing as intense as a room full of tweens.
