The Internship

I stood in front of the bakery with its closed/ gated front, sweating from my 30 minute walk, thinking- "how the hell am I going to get in there?" I met the owner of the shop I'm interning at once last week. I have her phone number but it was 6:15 am (by far the deadest I've ever seen the streets of Florence. Even in comparison to say 4 am) and she usually isn't there with the baking crew in the morning. Luckily at that moment a guy walked in front of me, put in his key and raised the gate. I walked up and said, "Ciao! Mi chiamo Adria. I'm the new intern here for the next few weeks." He smiled silently and then said, "...here?" "..Si." "Oh... OK. Upstairs."

I walked up stairs. There were a few levels. And a few half levels kind of Being John Malkovich style. So by "upstairs" I was already confused. I just decided I'd go all the way to the top. There were a few small kitchens and I walked in the first one I saw. 3 men were bustling around and I waltzed on in and introduced myself the same way as before. Again I got some silent stares. Finally one said, "you work here?" ".. er.... I think so." By this point I wasn't so sure anymore. "OK" He introduced himself, having a very ethnic African name I couldn't say even after repeating it aprox 7 times and then promptly forgot. He introduced me to the head pastry chef (Giovanni?) and didn't even bother with the other guy who was apparently an assistant. Neither of the other two spoke a lick of English. My one English speaker (ish) friend showed me where to put my bag, explained to the other guys sort of what I was doing there (although I don't really think any of them entirely understood) and promptly left to do something else. And there I was. Standing in the way of the work these guys were trying to do, complete with a language barrier about 2 feet thick. I'd like to add here, that when I first came in to the shop and met the lovely owner Joanne, she was the only person I met and she is actually British so of course spoke English. That put me in the comfy mind set that there was at least English to fall back on. This was not the case.

Now, for those of you who have never worked in a commercial kitchen or have ever just cooked with several people around- the worst thing you can do is be in the way. Unfortunately, since these guys couldn't ask me if I'd had any experience, or how long I'd been in pastry school (I tried to explain... but I think when I speak Italian they still think I'm speaking English at them) they couldn't explain anything or ask if I knew how to make things. I'm quite sure they assumed I knew nothing. So my problem was: I was in the way. I don't have a problem watching. It was actually fascinating to watch how quickly and smoothly they worked. A well oiled machine really. But I figured if staying out of the way was the most helpful thing I could do, I was gonna show them I could do it damn well. I tried to keep my reflexes sharp and move before I needed to be asked. So far so good.

At one point, Giovanni looked at me and said, "colazione?" (breakfast) and pointed to rolling racks full of croissants, turn overs and plenty of things they couldn't describe to me. "Si?" I asked, and he made a gesture to said take any of them. Gladly I did. It was some sort of laminated croissant type dough filled with pastry cream. Quite delicious. And that became a theme of the day. If I was standing doing nothing, (believe it or not, it happened once or twice) they'd say, "mangiare, mangiare" ("eat, eat") and push croissants and danishes at me from a pile of those misshapen and unsellable. Other times the cooks would come over from the other side with sandwiches that were shoved in my face (and holy cow one was this amazing salami one on focaccia with parmesan and sort of a cabbage salad) but you better believe I was taking all that was given to me. I guess, in a small way, I was doing my part.

Eventually, I did get my hands a little dirty- and not just from washing the dishes that I gladly snatched up as something to do. I was given the job of placing fruit on a few trays worth of adorable mini assorted fruit tarts and brushing them with apricot glaze. A job I've done countless times and so as he was showing me what apricot glaze was, I excitedly exclaimed, "capisco, capisco!" In other words- I understand this! I also tried to joke with them a little, implying it would look nice to put whole kiwis on top of tiny tarts, and at least got them to smile. Although I do think they thought I was "just that dumb" for a second before they saw I was joking. I did this partly because the main chef was another one of those giant biceps, I-could-mees-you-up type looking guys, and was trying to get on his good side. He definitely told his assistant what-was-what a few times in a tone I'd like to avoid hearing aimed at me, so I certainly tried my best to listen closely, seem always interested and smile sweetly like I thought the place was just the most charming thing I'd seen. I haven't been yelled at yet, partly because I haven't done much. But. Let's keep it that way. Oh, I also got to fill cannoili shells. And learned how to use what was pretty much a mini food elevator. I say that as opposed to saying a dumbwaiter because it had buttons just like an elevator and...now that I think about it, maybe that's still what a dumbwaiter is but I always picture them with the rope pully thing. Anyway. I used one of those.

Watching these guys work really was a kick though. I often understood what was going on even if their process was different than how I'd been taught, and trying to sound informed I'd sometimes point a dough and ask "cornetto?" (Italian croissant) or "pate a choux?" (batter used for eclairs etc). I just wanted them to know I'd seen this stuff before. The sanitation in the joint was pretty awesome. Chef Harris (for those of you who don't know him is exceptionally clean and a stickler for sanitation) would have loved it here. And by loved I mean passed out. Hands weren't washed, sweat was wiped off faces (though that couldn't be helped, I could feel it dripping down my back and stomach), and best of all, Giovanni smoked a good deal of the time. He stood at the sheeter (a large machine for rolling dough extremely thin) with one hand on the lever to operate it and the other holding a cigarette and tapping it in the ash tray on top of the machine, while practically leaning against a No Smoking sign. Other times he'd just set the cigarette on the work bench with the lit part hanging off the edge. He would smoke and then pick up ready-to-eat foods (how very Food Handler's Permit of me) with his bare hands and place them on trays- something we'd probably be kicked out of school at South for doing. This being said, don't think I thought poorly of this establishment. Quite the contrary. The products were lovely and delicious. I think this speaks more of Italian culture as a whole. Not that sanitation is not important at all but they certainly aren't germaphobs. As Chef Berger, our French chef at South, says in his explanation of the Tart Tartin (basically a french upside down apple pie) "it was invented by two French sisters who dropped pie on the floor. Now, in France we have the 30 minute rule, so they had time to think about what to do and finally they just picked it up and said 'Tart Tartin.' "

At the end of my shift I managed to butcher some Italian into the basic shape of, "I'll be here for three weeks, just a few hours each morning, I get in at 6:30 and the go to class." They seemed to understandish. There is the worry that I will get there tomorrow and not just Happen to arrive with someone else to open the door and be suck outside just to throw rocks at the top floor window and yell, "buongiorno!" over and over because I don't properly know anyone's name. It's a real possibility.