The Making of a Chef by Michael Ruhlman

to the consistency of heavy cream. Both roux and slurries took something thin as water and made it thick. Greg, doing more than his share (perhaps to keep from becoming bored), prepared the brown roux for Chef Pardus, since this took a long time to cook. Pardus could prepare the pale and blond roux during demo but he wanted the brown roux done at the same time. “Just like the TV shows,” he said.
    We crowded around Table Two as Chef Pardus dumped three egg whites into a large stainless-steel bowl and took a whip to them “to denature the protein mechanically,” that is, break their bonds. “Just a little bit. We’re not making lemon meringue pie.” He dumped in the mirepoix. A half pound of ground beef shank—because the clarifying process also removes flavor, you must add more flavor. Then the tomato product: “We’re using canned, remember,” he said, “so we don’t have to worry about getting robbed of our acid in the middle of winter.” He added the stock, a nice gelatinous white beef stock. And Chef Pardus once again evaluated for quality.
    â€œI’ve asked Victor to write this down,” the chef said. Victor Cardamone, from Table Three, stood by the white sheet of paper taped to the reach-in, marker in hand. “Clarity,” Pardus said. “It’s perfectly clear. You can read
the date on a dime at the bottom of a gallon.” Vic noted this on the large piece of paper. “Flaaavor,” Pardus continued. “A nice rich flaaavor, the flavor of the main ingredient. What else?”
    Greg said, “Full body?”
    Pardus concurred: “Full body, nice mouth feel, a rich, full body. Overall appearance?”
    Ben said, “Not greasy?”
    â€œNot greasy. Clean. Another?”
    â€œTemperature?”
    â€œTemperature,” Pardus said. “ Hot. This is not a jellied consommé.” Pardus paused for a moment to look around. And here was what made Pardus a good teacher in my mind. He showed you the classic method, told you why, but then would let some of his own biases show through, broaden the subject to include his own personality. He’d get a little sparkle in his eye and his lips would start their unusual convolutions for popping emphasis. “Though you could make a jellied consommé,” he said. “It’s classical. You see how gelatinous this stock is? We made this clear and poured it into bowls, floated some garnish in it, and chilled it? It gels up. That’s very classic, very European summer appetizer—chilled jellied consommé. You don’t see it much in this country because people think it’s like eating meat-flavored Jell-O . But if it’s done right, it’s very delicate. You wouldn’t want a spoon to stand up in it. You couldn’t do Jell-O shots with it. Delicate. It’s very cool, very refreshing in the summertime. Jellied quail consommé? Little bits of truffle and foie gras set into the gelatin. Nice. Rich, refreshing.”
    He stirred the consommé with a wooden spoon, released from his reverie. He had put it on a low flame and warned everyone about scorching and the need to stir frequently. “Don’t throw your pot away until after I’ve looked at your consommé.” The danger, of course, is that the egg whites will fall to the bottom before they coagulate, then stick there and burn. This gives the consommé a beautiful, deep amber color, but it doesn’t do much for the flavor. Pardus knows the color so well, he can take one look at someone’s soup and say, “Lemme see your pot .” And sure enough there will be burnt egg white on the bottom.
    Adam, who typically hovered at the back of the crowd and was tall enough to do so, asked, “I was wondering, does the clarification take out the gelatin?” Adam was always asking questions like that.
    â€œNo,” Pardus said.

    â€œSo is consommé a base for,