At The Restaurant, my three inch paring knife is one of my best friends, along with my notebook and sharpie. With my paring knife, I peel potatoes, cut tape, trim sheets of pasta dough, halve artichokes, open tins of olive oil and occasionally nick myself. More

After an unremarkably average performance on my "pasta midterm," I was determined to do a little better on the final I'd have to face. Beyond joking about the assessment test he'd eventually administer, Jeff still didn't have much set in stone in the way of planning the actual final—until last week. More

Usually, after watching and helping Jeff make a new pasta a couple times, I show vague signs of improvement. Not so with ravioli last week. I botched everything I did to "help." More

For a while now, Jeff has been telling me that he would eventually administer an aptitude test of sorts—a pasta practical—to see how far I've come. I would be in charge the entire day, from checking inventory to determining the day's checklist and driving production. I remember laughing the first time he mentioned it: Me, in charge? Surely, you jest. More

Even though my triceps and forearms were ready to fall off after coaxing flour into eight batches of cavatelli, it's still one of my favorite things to do in the pasta station. Kneading each batch took me longer than I liked—by the time I wrapped up the last batch for resting, the first was ready to get rolled out—about two hours. More

No matter how fabulous the establishment, at the end of a day, a restaurant is a business. In order to maximize profit margins, waste has to be kept at a minimum. At The Restaurant, the sous chefs in charge of ordering take care to purchase the freshest, highest quality produce, whether that entails personal trips to the farmer's market or sourcing dried pastas from Italy. More

I practically clung to Erica's apron the first day I trailed. She was on the hot station, and was responsible for any fried sides or appetizers that went out with an order. I was sandwiched between her and Mark on garde manger. Those two stations alone commanded more surface area and lowboys than the entire kitchen at the restaurant I'd worked at previously. More

When working at a restaurant you're proud of, it's only natural that eventually you'll want to experience it as a guest. But there are a few lessons I've learned along the way. More

Every woman in my family cooks. When I think of my maternal grandmother, I think of the boiled amaranth greens she'd put on top of congee, the iron from their roots bleeding across our bowls. My paternal grandmother was famous for her shizitou, a fist-sized meatball skirted by mushrooms and baby bok choy. More

"Behind! Hot!" He set the pot down onto a stovetop at the back of the kitchen and turned to me. "Do you remember how to make this? You better—I'm serious." I couldn't see what was in the rondeau from where I was standing but he spoke with such conviction, it could have been filled with rocks and shoe leather and I wouldn't have dared to say no. More