1.
Between 3 and 5 years of age I watched The Princess Bride twice a day, every day. Inigo Montoya's story of revenge and sword mastery fascinated me. I could be heard at the playground incanting the name, telling playmates that they killed my father and to prepare to die. Next came the Star Wars Trilogy. After that I played through Chrono Trigger and the Final Fantasy games on the SNES.
What emerged was a childhood obsession with swords and knives. I drew pictures of them and watched any age appropriate movie where a sword prominently factored into the plot. When I was around eight my godfather brought me to a flea-market that had a dealer of show-piece cutlery. The dealer was a pudgy man with thick glasses - not anything that lined up with my romantic image of someone that dealt in swords. He had a variety of movie replicas, and many hunting knives. My godfather bought me a cheap replica of a puñal - an Argentinian goucho knife.
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| That knife was almost an exact replica of this knife. The sheath was a navy-blue fake leather, and the adornments were made out of steel. The blade had, for some reason, celtic-looking patterns tattooed on it in black. Unfortunately, I lost it in Montreal. |
To me it seemed that knives and swords had some kind of bond connecting the person that wielded it to their vocation, thus imparting them with a whole series of ethical, moral, and philosophical enchantments. By owning a knife, I felt an obligation to learn about the entire culture of right and wrong, good and evil. As a child I felt like I'd picked a warriors vocation, or at least fantasized about it day and night - ironic given that I was routinely the physically weakest child in my class, unable to run or even do one push-up. Still, the image of the warrior and their idealized codes of ethics and spirituality has stayed with me, embodied in the symbol of their weapon.
2.
Growing up it never dawned on me that the most common use of blades in real life were to cut things for practical reasons, most notably in the kitchen. The mythological world owned by a child rendered all blades as instruments of honorable combat. The reality probably didn't really set in until my first real kitchen job at a sandwich shop.
One the responsibilities that filled most of my day was to dice miscellaneous vegetables. It took me a long time. Besides having zero understanding of technique, the knives sucked. In order to dice tomatoes I may as well have been given a mortar and pestle. The Turkish owner routinely bought the cheapest knives from the restaurant supply depot. These knives held an edge for a couple of days before they were dulled by near continuous use. "I will sharpen, buddy. Do not worry." He had a high powered rotary grinding stone that he used to sharpen knives. In spite of their continuously dull state he would only sharpen his knives once every two months. "This is how you sharpen a knife. Come, watch." He would put them to his grind-stone and bits of steel would fly everywhere. Every six months our chef knives would look like filet knives. It was horrible.
It struck me, still knowing nothing, that a knife sharpened in this manner would only be sharp for a couple of days. It seemed woefully inefficient. Exactly what was happening to those knives wasn't fully explained for a few years, until I read Murray Carter's wonderful knife care series. The spine of a knife is thicker than the edge, gradually tapering. A grindstone cuts a 'V' shape out of the steel, but forces the edge to be higher and higher up the blade, making the edge wider and less efficient for cutting.
My continual frustration with the knives at that restaurant almost turned me against a future in culinary arts. I hated it. Everything took so long; the onions would squirt juice as I cut them, stinging my eyes and nostrils; whenever I did cut myself the gashes would be deep and coarse as a result of the force I had to cut with, and they would take forever to heal. One time I almost rent the tip from my thumb, resulting in a large crescent shaped scar I still have.
This restaurant in general taught me many things about what not to do in food service. I still admire the dedication and detail orientation of the man that runs it, but the problems in his lack of knowledge and technique have served as two of my best teachers.
3.
When I made my real decision to become a cook my habibi Ameen loaned me a copy of Anthony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential. The book so authentically reads true that there is no question to its popularity. A piece of advice he gives in it is to invest some money into a very good knife, preferably Japanese made.
Shortly after reading it, I went out and spent $200 on a Mac santoku. While I've acquired various knives since, that knife has remained my go-to knife. Over many years I have cut hundreds of hours of meats and vegetables with it. It feels now almost like part of my hand.
Two things happened with the purchase of that knife: my technique had to improve, and I needed to learn how to take proper care of it. Good technique is safe and efficient. Contrary to the knives at the sandwich shop, this knife cuts with little to no effort. My understanding of how to hold my hands and the correct ways to process vegetables when I started was dim. Many times I would nick my fingers and be saved by the dullness of the blade. That could no longer be the case. I went to a situation that could cut me with an improper look.
Is the knife "scary sharp"? Yes, and that's a good thing. Many times I hear people say they are afraid of sharp knives. At least once a week I watch the front-of-house girls dig around the kitchen for the dullest knife, not so they can intentionally smash chives into a fast-oxidizing paste but because they are afraid of a sharp knife. I am afraid of things that are out of my control. I am afraid of hurricanes and drunk drivers. I respect sharp knives. Respecting something means that you pay attention to it, use it correctly, and minimize chances for it to be turned against you.
As a professional cook having a devastatingly sharp knife is necessary. I've told people hundreds of times to invest in a good knife. It doesn't just make your job easier, faster, and safer, but it reduces chances of repetitive motion issues like carpal tunnel syndrome. I've known several older cooks that have developed serious CTS over the years. The sharper your knife the less likely you are to be putting uncomfortable force into your motions, slowing stress to your tendons.
The next thing I needed to learn was how to sharpen the knife with whet stones. As I've said before, the best way to destroy a knife is to use a machine sharpener on it. There's a delicate sort of art of using a stone. Its relatively simple, but like most things in a kitchen you come to gain a sense of feeling with experience. You are still just grinding and polishing the edge against a coarse surface, but unlike with a machine you are in tactile control. Anyone that works with knives should acquire one or two stones and start practicing. There are many good instructional videos on youtube, so not knowing where to begin can no longer be an excuse.
Shortly after reading it, I went out and spent $200 on a Mac santoku. While I've acquired various knives since, that knife has remained my go-to knife. Over many years I have cut hundreds of hours of meats and vegetables with it. It feels now almost like part of my hand.
Two things happened with the purchase of that knife: my technique had to improve, and I needed to learn how to take proper care of it. Good technique is safe and efficient. Contrary to the knives at the sandwich shop, this knife cuts with little to no effort. My understanding of how to hold my hands and the correct ways to process vegetables when I started was dim. Many times I would nick my fingers and be saved by the dullness of the blade. That could no longer be the case. I went to a situation that could cut me with an improper look.
Is the knife "scary sharp"? Yes, and that's a good thing. Many times I hear people say they are afraid of sharp knives. At least once a week I watch the front-of-house girls dig around the kitchen for the dullest knife, not so they can intentionally smash chives into a fast-oxidizing paste but because they are afraid of a sharp knife. I am afraid of things that are out of my control. I am afraid of hurricanes and drunk drivers. I respect sharp knives. Respecting something means that you pay attention to it, use it correctly, and minimize chances for it to be turned against you.
As a professional cook having a devastatingly sharp knife is necessary. I've told people hundreds of times to invest in a good knife. It doesn't just make your job easier, faster, and safer, but it reduces chances of repetitive motion issues like carpal tunnel syndrome. I've known several older cooks that have developed serious CTS over the years. The sharper your knife the less likely you are to be putting uncomfortable force into your motions, slowing stress to your tendons.
The next thing I needed to learn was how to sharpen the knife with whet stones. As I've said before, the best way to destroy a knife is to use a machine sharpener on it. There's a delicate sort of art of using a stone. Its relatively simple, but like most things in a kitchen you come to gain a sense of feeling with experience. You are still just grinding and polishing the edge against a coarse surface, but unlike with a machine you are in tactile control. Anyone that works with knives should acquire one or two stones and start practicing. There are many good instructional videos on youtube, so not knowing where to begin can no longer be an excuse.
4.
When I went to visit Svenja in Argentina I had knives on the mind. The knives used by gouchos resonate deeply into the cultural identity of many Argentinians. Even the cuchillas used in home kitchens are reminiscent of goucho knives, quite different from the French inspired knives I am familiar with in Canada. In San Antonio de Areco we wandered through the streets looking at the shops of artesanal silversmiths. I was looking for a knife that would show some of the silverwork Argentina is named for. Later, at a market in Buenos Aires Svenja bought a similar knife that displayed Argentina's bladesmithing.
I have found two camps in the culinary industry concerning knives; a knife is a knife, and all it needs to do is cut; or, a knife is a piece of art, the heart of the kitchen, and the soul of the cook. I have a tendency toward the second opinion, because I am painfully romantic despite all my crochety cynicism. When we were in Salta we helped a cook working at a hostel make empanadas. He had to make all of the empanadas for the week that day, which once cutting prep was factored in was an enormous task.
Happily we set to it; he told us how much of each vegetable to cut into what size, and confidently we set out to acquire our mise. Yet, all of the knives we had to work with were disorienting. They were not that sharp, all strange sizes, and weighted very strangely to me. I took the knife that most resembled a chef knife and slowly went about dicing up onions. The frustration brought me back to the sandwich shop. I started making excuses: "Normally I can do this... This knife is very awkward for me. I'm not familiar with it."
Victor was very polite: "I understand. Maybe it needs to be sharper."
"Yes, sharper would be nice." He took the high-carbon knife from me and began to hone it along the spine of another knife, then he handed it back to me. It was slightly sharper, but still felt alien to me. My cuts were imprecise and sloppy.
"Maybe you would like a different knife?" He handed me a four inch long, flimsy serrated steak knife with a wood handle, ubiquitous of Argentinian table settings. It was made in Brazil. I eyed it skeptically.
"Do you think this will work?"
"Oh, yes, definitely. I will show you." And without an ounce of struggle Victor diced an onion into so perfect a brunoise that I had never seen the cut executed with such little effort using a world-class knife. His technique was elevated! Beautiful! Quickly and accurately Victor made short work of two onions. "See? This knife is not so bad. As long as it is sharp."
I felt like an impostor, wondering if my expensive knife was just a toy I postured with just like the knife I had in my childhood. I still think about Victor's humble job as a cook for a hostel in Salta, and his obvious mastery of his art. I'm just not sure what I think of it, but I am sure there is a lesson in it somewhere.
