Smarts
There’s a classic experiment from the Gestalt psychologists of the early 20th century: You’re in a room with a candle, a book of matches and a box of thumbtacks. Your task is to affix the candle to the cork-board wall, and light it, but in a way that it doesn’t drip wax onto the floor. Most people intuit that the tacks could somehow be useful in solving this problem, but get stuck after that. Only when the tacks are piled next to the box they came in do they figure out the solution: use the tacks to nail the box to the wall and put the candle inside it. The experiment is meant to illustrate the concept of functional fixedness, which is when people see an object only for its intended purpose and not for its myriad of other potential uses.
Hanbyul* would ace the test. Hundreds of times a day, she’s reusing tools and space in the little bakery in ways that astound me. Hanbyul, of the “Why do you need a bowl?” question from my trail, is my supervisor and possessor of all knowledge back-of-house related. She’s abrupt, brisk, and deadpan, which makes her rare compliments thrilling. I learned about negative weighing from her (when you zero out a scale with the ingredients on it and measure in negative numbers, obviating the need for a measuring bowl), and using the butane torch to clean off tools. I learned that (filled) quart containers can raise a cutting board closer to eye level so you don’t have to hunch down as much for close-range tasks. And situations like yesterday, when you have one large mold and many small molds, how to quickly bake off seven large sablés and as many small ones as possible (first use the mold to trace and cut out the large shapes, then fill the remaining dough with the small molds). Everything must be as efficient as possible. You always have a plan for what you're doing next. You never pick up a tool twice in a row.
The intelligence required to operate in the space resembles high-speed chess, with the constant plotting of moves several steps ahead, but also encompasses a level of physical awareness that I didn’t previously know I lacked. I’m thinking about the materials of things all the time. The friction of various surfaces is important; obviously the weight of things and how that weight is distributed; heat conduction is a visceral reality to me. If someone has just put a hot tray on my station, I notice. Having an accurate sense of time is necessary in case I or someone else forgets to start a timer. I know the temperature zones of all the parts of the kitchen, so that I don’t leave cheese on the hot part of the table. I’ve learned where full sheet pans can be balanced and where they can’t.
Much of this attentiveness is compelled by the fact that our workspace is incredibly cramped. People in New York complain about their apartments being too small for cooking. Well, imagine making Thanksgiving dinner in the smallest city kitchen. With two of your friends. And six roommates who barge in every few minutes to get water from the sink or stare into the refrigerator. Doing it for eight hours a day. There’s an espresso machine steaming and cashiers yelling over the noise, three people immediately behind me, who sometimes need to open the 1000°F oven beneath me or slide a baking sheet over my head, and I have some fastidious task like using tweezers to pick up a ball of sugar the size of a rice grain, dip it in white chocolate, and place it at the center of three other balls. It’s an incredible lesson in maintaining calm at the center of a maelstrom.
So I guess there’s a lot that I’m learning, even though the fun technique-based work doesn’t happen every day. I get to shape brioche buns occasionally, which is something I’ve always wanted to practice. And I’m getting much better at piping dough. But much like a programming job isn’t so much about writing code as it is triaging issues, leaving comments that prevent future confusion, and other work that makes the code-writing as easy for your team as possible, what I'm learning at the patisserie has more to do with the practices of high-scale production than the chemistry of baking. I’m filling up with lots of little skills and building stamina. I’m in the proofing stage for whatever I do next.
*Details changed
What I’m reading
In Search of Lost Smell, Annie Wu
I am sad that I am not generating new landmark moments, filled with extraordinary narrative details. But the momentary transference I get from these adjacent dishes illuminates in me the satisfaction of a life lived, a palette explored, and the hope for more food experiences, not centered on greatness but on these cosmic elements that sear a memory into my bones. I’m not cooking now to make new gold stars, but to formulate a catalogue and routine for myself founded on daily joys and to attempt to excavate once in a while the wonders of the menu already in me.
Annie Wu, who never cooked much in the past, began cooking suddenly and voraciously after losing her sense of smell to COVID back in March. She’s documented about 500 of those meals since on Instagram and just started this newsletter, which reflects on the meaning of these meals, mostly made for herself in the contextless void of quarantine. It's a different space from where I've found myself lately, but one I can still relate to.