Chef Apron Quotes

I’m famous for my Shepherd’s Pie. Here’s my recipe: lamb, potatoes, cheese, peas, paprika, and a wool-covered apron for the chef/shepherd/wolf-like politician to wear while serving the sheeple up.


I walked in without knocking. The screen door banged to a close behind me announcing my presence. I followed my nose to the kitchen and found Kaleb standing by the stove. He stirred something that smelled absolutely delicious a wooden spoon in one hand and a huge chef’s knife in the other. “Are you sober?” I asked from the doorway. He turned and leveled a smile at me that made me a little wobbly. “I am." “Good. Because if not I was going to take the deadly kitchen utensil away from you.” I crossed the room and pulled myself up to sit on the counter beside the stove. A cutting board full of green peppers and two uncut stalks of celery waited for attention from the knife. Melted butter and diced onions bubbled in a sauté pan on the stove. “You cook." Kaleb was so pretty I was jealous. Pretty with ripped muscles and a tattoo of a red dragon covering most of his upper body. “Yes,” he said. “I cook.” “Do you usually wear a wife beater and,” I pushed him back a little by his shoulder “an apron that says ‘Kiss the Cook’ while you’re doing it? ” He leaned so close to me my heart skipped a couple of beats. “I’ll wear it all the time if you’ll consider it.

Inside my best friend’s kitchen, blood spatters cover every surface—the kitchen table, including the pepper mill, the wall behind the table and much of the tile floor. Even their cat, Psycho, has a blood spatter across her white fur. My eyes, open wide with horror, take in each gruesome detail. Lying on the blood-spattered floor with a cleaver buried in his chest is my best friend’s dad, Mr. Taylor. He’s wearing his chef’s apron from Chez Gourmet, but the apron is more red than white. A trickle of blood leaks from the side of his mouth and drips into his beard, then onto the sticky floor.

This place, our little cloud forest, even though we missed our papi, it was the most beautiful place you've ever seen. We didn't really know that then, because it was the only place we'd ever seen, except in picture in books and magazines, but now that's I've seen other place, I know. I know how beautiful it was. And we loved it anyway even before we knew. Because the trees had these enormous dark green leaves, as a big as a bed, and they would sway in the wind. And when it rain you could hear the big, fat raindrops splatting onto those giant leaves, and you could only see the sky in bright blue patches if you were walking a long way off to a friend's house or to church or something, when you passed through a clearing and all those leaves would back away and open up and the hot sunshine would beat down all yellow and gold and sticky. And there were waterfalls everywhere with big rock pools where you could take a bath and the water was always warm and it smelled like sunlight. And at night there was the sound of the tree frogs and the music of the rushing water from the falls and all the songs of the night birds, and Mami would make the most delicious chilate, and Abuela would sing to us in the old language, and Soledad and I would gather herbs and dry them and bundle them for Papi to sell in the market when he had a day off, and that's how we passed our days.' Luca can see it. He's there, far away in the misty cloud forest, in a hut with a packed dirt floor and a cool breeze, with Rebeca and Soledad and their mami and abuela, and he can even see their father, far away down the mountain and through the streets of that clogged, enormous city, wearing a long apron and a chef's hat, and his pockets full of dried herbs. Luca can smell the wood of the fire, the cocoa and cinnamon of the chilate, and that's how he knows Rebeca is magical, because she can transport him a thousand miles away into her own mountain homestead just by the sound of her voice.

small draugr jumped forward. She wore a bloodstained chef’s apron and was grinning excitedly. “I gutted my husband with a breadknife. Then I plucked out his eyes and ate them.” The corpses turned to stare at her, mouths hanging open. “You ate his eyeballs?” said the white-haired corpse. His face had twisted into a look of disgust. “While he was still alive?” The little corpse glared. “The sound of his chewing bothered me. Especially when he ate chicken wings.” They all nodded, satisfied with this reasonable answer.

For months beforehand, I fielded calls from British media. A couple of the reporters asked me to name some British chefs who had inspired me. I mentioned the Roux brothers, Albert and Michel, and I named Marco Pierre White, not as much for his food as for how—by virtue of becoming an apron-wearing rock-star bad boy—he had broken the mold of whom a chef could be, which was something I could relate to. I got to London to find the Lanesborough dining room packed each night, a general excitement shared by everyone involved, and incredibly posh digs from which I could step out each morning into Hyde Park and take a good long run around Buckingham Palace. On my second day, I was cooking when a phone call came into the kitchen. The executive chef answered and, with a puzzled look, handed me the receiver. Trouble at Aquavit, I figured. I put the phone up to my ear, expecting to hear Håkan’s familiar “Hej, Marcus.” Instead, there was screaming. “How the fuck can you come to my fucking city and think you are going to be able to cook without even fucking referring to me?” This went on for what seemed like five minutes; I was too stunned to hang up. “I’m going to make sure you have a fucking miserable time here. This is my city, you hear? Good luck, you fucking black bastard.” And then he hung up. I had cooked with Gordon Ramsay once, a couple of years earlier, when we did a promotion with Charlie Trotter in Chicago. There were a handful of chefs there, including Daniel Boulud and Ferran Adrià, and Gordon was rude and obnoxious to all of them. As a group we were interviewed by the Chicago newspaper; Gordon interrupted everyone who tried to answer a question, craving the limelight. I was almost embarrassed for him. So when I was giving interviews in the lead-up to the Lanesborough event, and was asked who inspired me, I thought the best way to handle it was to say nothing about him at all. Nothing good, nothing bad. I guess he was offended at being left out. To be honest, though, only one phrase in his juvenile tirade unsettled me: when he called me a black bastard. Actually, I didn’t give a fuck about the bastard part. But the black part pissed me off.

I grabbed a handful of tarragon and closed my eyes, inhaling its sweet fragrance. I could almost feel my grandmother next to me, smell the aromas embedded into her poppy-print apron, taste her creamy veloutés. Thanks to her, my skills in the kitchen started developing from the age of seven. I'd learned how to chop, slice, and dice without cutting my fingers, to sauté, fry, and grill, pairing flavors and taming them into submission. Just as I'd experienced with my grandmother's meals, when people ate my creations, I wanted them to think "now this is love"- while engaging all of the five senses. For me, cooking was the way I expressed myself, each dish a balance of flavors and ingredients representing my emotions- sweet, sour, salty, smoky, spicy-hot, and even bitter. My inspiration as a chef was to give people sensorial experiences, to bring them back to times of happiness, to let them relive their youth, or to awaken their minds.

Onion Soup Gratinée YIELD: 4 SERVINGS ONE OF MY greatest treats when working in Paris was to go with my fellow chefs and commis to les Halles, the big market of Paris that spreads through many streets of the Châtelet neighborhood. The excitement in the streets and cafés started a little before 3:00 A.M. and ended around 7:00 or 8:00 A.M. Our nocturnal forays would, more often than not, finish at Le Pied de Cochon (The Pig’s Foot), the quintessential night brasserie of les Halles. There, large, vociferous butchers in bloody aprons would rub shoulders with tuxedoed and elegantly evening-gowned Parisians stopping by for late-night Champagne and a meal after the opera or the theater. The restaurant was famous for its onion-cheese gratinée; it was one of the best in Paris, and hundreds of bowls of it were served every night. For this recipe, you will need four onion soup bowls, each with a capacity of about 12 ounces and, preferably, with a lip or rim around the edge that the cheese topping will stick to as it melts to form a beautiful crust on top of the soup. 2 tablespoons unsalted butter 3 onions (about 12 ounces), cut into thin slices About 7 cups good-quality chicken stock, or a mixture of chicken and beef stock About ½ teaspoon salt, more or less, depending on the saltiness of the stock ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 16 slices of baguette, each cut about ⅜ inch thick About 3 cups grated Swiss cheese, preferably Gruyère, Comté, or Emmenthaler (about 10 ounces) Melt the butter in a saucepan, and sauté the sliced onions in the butter over medium to high heat for about 8 minutes, or until lightly browned. Add the stock, salt, and pepper, and boil gently for 15 minutes. Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Arrange the bread slices in a single layer on a tray, and bake them for 8 to 10 minutes, or until they are nicely browned. Divide the toast among the bowls, and sprinkle ¼ cup of cheese into each bowl. When the stock and onions have cooked for 15 minutes, pour the soup into the bowls, filling each to the top. Sprinkle on the remainder of the cheese, dividing it among the bowls and taking care not to push it down into the liquid. Press the cheese around the rim or lip of the bowls, so it adheres there as it cooks and the crust does not fall into the liquid. Arrange the soup bowls on a baking sheet, and bake for 35 to 45 minutes, or until a glorious brown, rich crust has developed on top. Serve hot right out of the oven.

The next day there was a sign in front of the school: “Welcome, Ms. LaGrange!” Mr. Klutz was standing at the front door next to a lady I never saw before. Her hair stuck out from under a big chef’s hat, and she was wearing an apron with the words “Make Lunch, Not War” on it. “Ms. LaGrange, this is A.J.,” Mr. Klutz said when I reached the top of the steps. “Maybe you can get him to eat some vegetables.

Anyway, when I went outside, my dad was all dressed up in his matching chef hat and apron that we got him for Father’s Day. It

Staff meal." The words are sweet relief, and I untie the apron Roberto gave me, hanging it up on the hook by the entrance. Sure, I ate here last night. But there were so many things on the menu I didn't order. The open-faced duck confit sandwich with red wine aioli, the almond-crusted salmon with zucchini puree, tempura vegetables, chipotle oil. I wonder how this works, if we get to choose whatever we want. Or maybe it's some new creation, some experimental dish that Chef tries out on the staff before adding it to the menu. To think that I might try one of her dishes before anyone else is all the reward I need for today's scrubbing, for the hot water that has splashed all over me throughout the day. What I find instead is a sheet tray of charred burger patties, most of them covered in toxic-yellow American cheese. There's another sheet tray with toasted buns and matchstick fries. Morris and Boris are leaning against the coffee station, taking huge bites in sync. I try to hide my disappointment, follow Elias's lead and grab a plate. I'm shocked that some people are eating it just like that, munching down as quickly as possible without bothering with the condiments. I'm starving too, but it's crazy to me that Chef Elise's food is at their fingertips and everyone's just letting it sit there. There's a whole line of deli containers right in front of us, and I can't even tell what's in them, but the mere thought is making my mouth water. Whispering so that no one can laugh and/or yell at me, I ask Elias if it's cool to use some of the mise to spruce up the burger. He shrugs. "Do your thing." It mellows the disappointment a little: pickled red jalapeños, cilantro aioli, Thai slaw.

The people who made things work – the ant farm of porters and cleaners and maids and prep chefs – criss-crossing the paths. Passing the staff block, she spotted a nervous-looking new recruit hovering at the door – and judging by her lack of apron and the phone in her hand, quite a senior one at that.

Mom sprinted down the driveway and hugged Myron as though he'd just been released by Hamas terrorists. She also hugged Brenda. So did everyone else. Dad was in the back at the barbecue. A gas grill now, thank goodness, so Dad could stop loading on the lighter fluid with a hose. He wore a chef's hat somewhat taller than a control tower and an apron that read REFORMED VEGETARIAN.

Professional chefs aren't the only ones who get to wear an apron to work. There are welders and farriers and fishmongers and printers and grocery clerks and artists and florists and bakers and housekeepers and lab technicians and carpenters, to name a few who call an apron their uniform, and lucky them. How nice to be able to shift gears from leisure to work and back again with the tug of an apron string.

While Nicole drove off in search of recipes for fish hash, clam fritters, and salmon quiche, Charlotte settled in the Chowder House with Dorey Jewett, who, well beyond the assortment of chowders she always brought to Bailey's Brunch, would be as important a figure in the book as any. They sat in the kitchen, though Dorey did little actual sitting. Looking her chef-self in T-shirt, shorts, and apron, if she wasn't dicing veggies, she was clarifying butter or supervising a young boy who was shucking clams dug from the flats hours before. Even this early, the kitchen smelled of chowder bubbling in huge steel pots. Much as Anna Cabot had done for the island in general, Dorey gave a history of restaurants on Quinnipeague, from the first fish stand at the pier, to a primitive burger hut on the bluff, to a short-lived diner on Main Street, to the current Grill and Cafe. Naturally, she spoke at greatest length about the evolution of the Chowder House, whose success she credited to her father, though the man had been dead for nearly twenty years. Everyone knew Dorey was the one who had brought the place into the twenty-first century, but her family loyalty was endearing.

Madame Escoffier," he said. In his white apron, he was again the man she loved. The gentle man who only spoke in whispers. "I am sorry," she said. "I am not." He leaned over and kissed her. His lips tasted of tomatoes, sharp and floral. The moment, filled with the heat of a reckless summer, brought her back to the gardens they had grown together in Paris in a private courtyard behind Le Petit Moulin Rouge. Sweet Roma tomatoes, grassy licorice tarragon, thin purple eggplants and small crisp beans thrived in a series of old wine barrels that sat in the tiny square. There were also violets and roses that the 'confiseur' would make into jellies or sugar to grace the top of the 'petit-fours glacés,' which were baked every evening while the coal of the brick ovens cooled down for the night. "No one grows vegetables in the city of Paris," she said, laughing, when Escoffier first showed her his hidden garden, "except for Escoffier." He picked a ripe tomato, bit into it and then held it to her lips. "Pomme d'amour, perhaps this was fruit of Eden." The tomato was so ripe and lush, so filled with heat it brought tears to her eyes and he kissed her. "You are becoming very good at being a chef's wife." "I love you," she said and finally meant it. 'Pommes d'amour.' The kitchen was now overflowing with them.