Tomorrow, Together

It’s fair to say that in my very first kitchen job the bakers, prep cooks and dishwashers from Latin America were as instrumental in my development as my Brooklyn born pastry chef. 

Early each morning it was Sixto that greeted me with his mischievous grin. He’d turn a milk crate upside down and put me to work standing over a steamy double boiler of Crème brûlée. He taught me to whisk fast and with abandon, before the yolks curdled, instilling tenacity and endurance.

Or Jorge, who called me his “muñeca” and gently took my hand to teach me how to work the sheeter, shortcake flying back and forth, while intermittently running up to the ice cream room to check the spinning, teaching me timing, patience and precision. 

And Chepe, he instilled hard work done with a smile. He was always lighthearted, such a goof, joking with me and everyone else as he ran our dirty dishes from the hotline back to the kitchen returning with clean saute pans, back up prep and extra towels. 

Papá, who taught me reverence for our work. He stood in the dish pit all day cleaning up our dirties. Towards the end of his shift, I’d glimpse him in a moment of pause, leaning back, his pots scrubbed with Bar Keepers Friend and resting under trash bags until they emerged gleaming. I hold his smile of pride in my heart. 

Ese, the finest pasta maker, this side of Italy. He stood over his pasta machine all day long, running pieces of dough through and through until nearly translucent. Later he would lay them on the table to coax them into smaller shapes. His corn agnolotti were mere whispers on the plate. He taught me the importance of repetition to hone our craft.

José, from El Salvador. Through pantomiming and broken spanglish he understood that I had a mad love of pupusas. One evening, he ran down the back stairs to begin his dish washing shift and put out his hands. In them was a delicate, embroidered cloth napkin and wrapped inside were warm pupusas from his wife. This act of generosity fueled my understanding of hospitality. Understanding what it is to receive prompted me to want to give.

Every Friday, I sat with these gentlemen as we ate our lunch, Spanish swirling around me. I was the outsider, not them, and eventually they wrapped me up in their world but I had to earn it. At first many of them wouldn’t pay me any attention. But with persistence, showing up, kindness, my attempts to learn their language, trust formed and this “güera” was eventually folded into the kitchen crew. 

Tomorrow, Friday January 30th, in support of democracy, we as a staff decided to close the retail counter to provide space for each of us to partake in the national strike. We are donating a percentage of weekend sales to the Immigration Law Center of Minnesota. 

We are all one. We are stronger together. Let’s make a difference!

With Love,

Kim + The Bakeshop Team