WHY MY NEW JOB IS AWESOME:
At 9:30am my boss and I are hovering over three open containers of sushi, a dish with soy glazed sea eel, a plate of bara sushi rice and the bag of peas that inspired all the rest of these purchases. Papers in hand, we are discussing the wording for a document I'm preparing that outlines the proper technique for dicing a bell pepper.
Three hours later, I am in a meeting, sampling $100 worth of salads and sandwiches picked up from a local market. We are debating the merits of one pasta shape over another, what makes a Waldorf appealing (or not), which cuisines qualify as "hot" and according to whom.
Six hours later I am at a meeting at Steelhead Diner, a brand new Pike Place restaurant. We order the following: all but one of the side items on the menu, three appetizers, three salads, and three entrees. Just to see if I can, here's what I believe we are eating: A Caesar salad, a house salad (served in a hollowed bowl of iceberg with a thousand island type dressing, loaded with sprouts, egg, bacon, blue cheese (let's call it a trumped up Cobb)), an organic baby green salad with your typical spiced nuts and cranberries. Beet tartare (heavy to the horseradish), a beef carpaccio, spring rolls. A pulled pork sandwich, Kasu Cod, Risotto. Hominy cakes (deep fried cream of wheat triangles), red beans and rice, smothered collard greens, french fries with cheese curds and gravy, arugula pesto fettuccine, asparagus, I feel like I'm missing one...Fear not, we won't pass on dessert. Apple pan dowdy with cinnamon ice cream, Meyer lemon cake, pecan chocolate pie, and lavender creme brulee. And then two bottles of wine because good god, why not?
This is amazing...until it gets grotesque. There are plenty of leftovers, which I have no desire to look at ever ever again.
WHY MY NEW JOB IS IRONIC:
I left San Francisco, where I had my own office with a couch, two computers, plants, and almost ALMOST a full Bay view. My salary was enough to easily get by on. I had flexible hours. My co-workers were low key and respectful of space.
As of Monday I joined the ranks of Cube monkeys everywhere. I'm not technically making any money (still have yet to see any employment paperwork although supposedly I'll be having a regular, albeit small, salary), I get to the office at 7:00am (which requires getting in the car at 6:40am) and usually leave around 6:00pm unless, like last night, we have dinner until 10:30. I work with three men who have been known to swear like sailors, hum, whistle, drum on their desks (all while taking a call on speaker phone) and generally just hover in and out of all six of the cubes which are on top of each other.
Yet yet...
I LOVE IT. I absolutely love it. And I would do it for free. I get to debate ideas, plausibility, ingredients, suppliers, write operating procedures, eat. Everything I eat is justified as "research". I think perhaps it could get old but I think I'm more likely to die of cholesterol induced heart disease before that happens.
So, I'll have to be diligent about exercising, which I've been pretty good about. I've been running around Greenlake after work before I go home. That's just dazzling right now, all the apple and cherry trees are blooming and their blossoms are littering the street and flying about in the breeze. Pink and white little snow flurries everywhere. And I'll have to learn that NOT eating everything in front of me is okay-- even required, if I am to live through this experience. It comes in fits and starts. My first two days there was no food, the second two was non-stop. I'll begin to understand the balance. But already, after only four days I get why chef's finish their shifts and want nothing more than a bag of Fritos and a cigarette. I'll either end up hating food or get fat as a whale.
Either way, it won't be for nothing.
Where our food comes from
These days it's all about farm to table, buying locally, acting sustainably. We've raised our collective consciousness about the people behind the land that provides us crisp lettuce, crunchy carrots, tender beef; Farmers Markets are everywhere. But what about the big middle monster? The animal we all love to hate: The Factory. We can bad-mouth factories all day long, thanks to the investigative journalism that revealed the likes of huge shoe and clothing retailers with poor labor practices. For most of us, the word "factory" conjures up images of roaring machines, conveyor belts, miserable working environments, poor compensation. But how often do you actually see a factory? Me personally? Only once when I was visiting my cousin's bathing suit manufacturing warehouse in New York City (before it relocated to the Dominican Republic) when I was eight years old. And I hung out in his office, I vaguely remember the industrial lighting, that's about it.
This past Wednesday I spent a shift working alongside the men and women (mostly women) that make up the labor corp responsible for Starbucks refrigerated food that gets distributed throughout the Northern California region and Reno. I was shocked to discover that all of it is made by a group of approximately 55 people. There are very few machines in the plant. Everything, from slicing bread and prepping ingredients, to affixing nutrition labels and "use by" stickers, is done by human hands; and the precision is mind blowing.
I showed up for work with the others at 6:00am. The warehouse is kept at a balmy 38 degrees. Thankfully I was warned and joined the ranks of other snowball looking folks with confidence. My first placement of the morning was helping the team of three people that are responsible for all the chicken salad sandwiches. That's right, three people assemble all of those, and this includes the person that is wrapping them in cellophane. The ingredients are carefully measured out, everything is weighed and recorded. I was doing well at the chicken salad line, those sandwiches are quick to assemble in entirety and in spite of the fact that I was given directions in Chinese (a language in which I am not fluent, or proficient, or functional in anyway) I was holding my own. Sadly, I wasn't there for long. And I'd like to say that at 6:45 my confidence was left at that table and not really regained during the remainder of my 8.5 hour shift. My next placement was at the Petite Turkey and Ham line and here's when the trouble began. The turkey and ham sandwiches are more complex, there are several moving parts that occur before their assembly is complete. This time it was a team of four that got them to their packaged state.
First off the petite rolls were split in half, one side was lightly spread with chive mayonnaise and a one ounce slice of mozzarella was affixed to the other side. Then the bread was slid to me where I placed a one ounce slice of ham, folded into rough quarters on top of the cheese. The bread was then slid onto the turkey-tomatoes-lettuce, sandwich-closer who placed the sandwich on the large sheet and moved it on to the packager. That's right...all I did was put the ham on; and it was damn hard. The ham is sliced but is just thawed. Between my numb finger tips, the glove liners and latex gloves over that, I'd be hard pressed to say I was very nimble or lithe with my hands. The ham stuck together, it seeped ham juice, it nauseated me at that hour of the day. But I bested adversity. My speed improved when I got less obsessed with quartering the ham artfully. My directions on this line were in English and consisted solely of the elderly Chinese woman on mayonnaise duty diligently yelling "Move!" every minute or so if I didn't fully utilize the space on the table. An hour passed. Eventually I moved into adding ham and turkey. Then the lady that was our sandwich "closer" got pulled off our line to something else and it was just me and the Mayo Queen who didn't appreciate my "slow and steady" attitude about separating the ham. All of the sudden I found myself doing ham, turkey, lettuce, tomato, closing the sandwich and adding it to the sandwich pyramid being built on our sheet. The pace slowed, then Mayo Queen vanished, then I was doing the sandwiches entirely on my own. You can imagine how well that went. If per chance you were privileged with eating a Petite Ham and Turkey on Thursday, you might have noticed the ratios were a little off, or you might have tasted the anxiety that those sandwiches were burdened with as I glanced around frantically hoping that some sympathetic person would jump on my line and help me out. No such luck. Eventually the foreperson, who thought I was being trained for my first day of a long career there, pulled me off the line and moved me to the parfait area.
All of the parfaits in NorCal are made by a team of ten people. The parfait is probably one of the least complicated items made, yet the saying "many hands make light work" was first stated in reference to the parfait line. My role was opening yogurt containers and emptying them into a big vat. I would estimate I opened around 700, two pound containers. At one point I got a little ahead and attempted to jump in and help the girl that was filling cups with strawberries, yogurt and granola (funny that the actual parfaits themselves are made by two people and it requires eight others to do everything else: emptying yogurt, labeling cups, putting on lids, packaging). I offered to scoop the strawberries. When done right it goes something like this: dip the three ounce ice cream scoop into the vat of strawberries and syrup, empty into the cup. Seems easy. My line companion was a Spanish speaker who didn't know I could manage in that language and attempted to help me out in English. After I filled four cups she stopped me, "My friend. Theees- okay." She picks up a cup she filled before I offered my "services" and points. "Theees- no good." She picks up a cup I just filled that is over the first line and has strawberry juice all over the cup's walls. There is a high level of precision required to get the strawberries into the cup. First, you have to ever so slightly UNDERfill the ice cream scoop, then you have to release to scoop into the cup at the slightest angle so that you don't get the splash factor. This young lady gave me the benefit of the doubt and allowed to me try again a few times before finally shaking her head and demoting me back to the yogurt station. I spent the next 4.5 hours opening vanilla yogurt.
I could obviously comment at length about the social and demographic nuances of the situation or the other food-related activities going on around me. But I'd like to leave something to the imagination. The biggest thing that surprised me was that EVERYTHING was done by hand by a relatively small group of people. My friend asked the obvious crucial question: "Given what you saw, would you be more or less likely to eat food from Starbucks?" Unequivocally, I would say more likely. They maintain a high level of care with the way they handle the food, everything is well-covered, well-chilled, the facility is incredibly clean, the people are great at what they do and everything, EVERYTHING, goes through their hands. With all the emphasis on farm to table, we forget the middle monster, who maybe isn't quite as big a monster after all. These folks took pride in their jobs and were highly proficient. Their supervisors were mindful, the workers were free to use the restroom when they needed to, there were pre-set breaks with snacks provided, lunch was provided. I do not envy them their position but by the same token, it really wasn't the "monster" I always imagined. Perhaps Flying Food's production units are anomalies. If that is the case, I am certainly thankful to have fallen in with them.
This past Wednesday I spent a shift working alongside the men and women (mostly women) that make up the labor corp responsible for Starbucks refrigerated food that gets distributed throughout the Northern California region and Reno. I was shocked to discover that all of it is made by a group of approximately 55 people. There are very few machines in the plant. Everything, from slicing bread and prepping ingredients, to affixing nutrition labels and "use by" stickers, is done by human hands; and the precision is mind blowing.
I showed up for work with the others at 6:00am. The warehouse is kept at a balmy 38 degrees. Thankfully I was warned and joined the ranks of other snowball looking folks with confidence. My first placement of the morning was helping the team of three people that are responsible for all the chicken salad sandwiches. That's right, three people assemble all of those, and this includes the person that is wrapping them in cellophane. The ingredients are carefully measured out, everything is weighed and recorded. I was doing well at the chicken salad line, those sandwiches are quick to assemble in entirety and in spite of the fact that I was given directions in Chinese (a language in which I am not fluent, or proficient, or functional in anyway) I was holding my own. Sadly, I wasn't there for long. And I'd like to say that at 6:45 my confidence was left at that table and not really regained during the remainder of my 8.5 hour shift. My next placement was at the Petite Turkey and Ham line and here's when the trouble began. The turkey and ham sandwiches are more complex, there are several moving parts that occur before their assembly is complete. This time it was a team of four that got them to their packaged state.
First off the petite rolls were split in half, one side was lightly spread with chive mayonnaise and a one ounce slice of mozzarella was affixed to the other side. Then the bread was slid to me where I placed a one ounce slice of ham, folded into rough quarters on top of the cheese. The bread was then slid onto the turkey-tomatoes-lettuce, sandwich-closer who placed the sandwich on the large sheet and moved it on to the packager. That's right...all I did was put the ham on; and it was damn hard. The ham is sliced but is just thawed. Between my numb finger tips, the glove liners and latex gloves over that, I'd be hard pressed to say I was very nimble or lithe with my hands. The ham stuck together, it seeped ham juice, it nauseated me at that hour of the day. But I bested adversity. My speed improved when I got less obsessed with quartering the ham artfully. My directions on this line were in English and consisted solely of the elderly Chinese woman on mayonnaise duty diligently yelling "Move!" every minute or so if I didn't fully utilize the space on the table. An hour passed. Eventually I moved into adding ham and turkey. Then the lady that was our sandwich "closer" got pulled off our line to something else and it was just me and the Mayo Queen who didn't appreciate my "slow and steady" attitude about separating the ham. All of the sudden I found myself doing ham, turkey, lettuce, tomato, closing the sandwich and adding it to the sandwich pyramid being built on our sheet. The pace slowed, then Mayo Queen vanished, then I was doing the sandwiches entirely on my own. You can imagine how well that went. If per chance you were privileged with eating a Petite Ham and Turkey on Thursday, you might have noticed the ratios were a little off, or you might have tasted the anxiety that those sandwiches were burdened with as I glanced around frantically hoping that some sympathetic person would jump on my line and help me out. No such luck. Eventually the foreperson, who thought I was being trained for my first day of a long career there, pulled me off the line and moved me to the parfait area.
All of the parfaits in NorCal are made by a team of ten people. The parfait is probably one of the least complicated items made, yet the saying "many hands make light work" was first stated in reference to the parfait line. My role was opening yogurt containers and emptying them into a big vat. I would estimate I opened around 700, two pound containers. At one point I got a little ahead and attempted to jump in and help the girl that was filling cups with strawberries, yogurt and granola (funny that the actual parfaits themselves are made by two people and it requires eight others to do everything else: emptying yogurt, labeling cups, putting on lids, packaging). I offered to scoop the strawberries. When done right it goes something like this: dip the three ounce ice cream scoop into the vat of strawberries and syrup, empty into the cup. Seems easy. My line companion was a Spanish speaker who didn't know I could manage in that language and attempted to help me out in English. After I filled four cups she stopped me, "My friend. Theees- okay." She picks up a cup she filled before I offered my "services" and points. "Theees- no good." She picks up a cup I just filled that is over the first line and has strawberry juice all over the cup's walls. There is a high level of precision required to get the strawberries into the cup. First, you have to ever so slightly UNDERfill the ice cream scoop, then you have to release to scoop into the cup at the slightest angle so that you don't get the splash factor. This young lady gave me the benefit of the doubt and allowed to me try again a few times before finally shaking her head and demoting me back to the yogurt station. I spent the next 4.5 hours opening vanilla yogurt.
I could obviously comment at length about the social and demographic nuances of the situation or the other food-related activities going on around me. But I'd like to leave something to the imagination. The biggest thing that surprised me was that EVERYTHING was done by hand by a relatively small group of people. My friend asked the obvious crucial question: "Given what you saw, would you be more or less likely to eat food from Starbucks?" Unequivocally, I would say more likely. They maintain a high level of care with the way they handle the food, everything is well-covered, well-chilled, the facility is incredibly clean, the people are great at what they do and everything, EVERYTHING, goes through their hands. With all the emphasis on farm to table, we forget the middle monster, who maybe isn't quite as big a monster after all. These folks took pride in their jobs and were highly proficient. Their supervisors were mindful, the workers were free to use the restroom when they needed to, there were pre-set breaks with snacks provided, lunch was provided. I do not envy them their position but by the same token, it really wasn't the "monster" I always imagined. Perhaps Flying Food's production units are anomalies. If that is the case, I am certainly thankful to have fallen in with them.
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