Friday is Day 1 of the Al Covo work week. Before arriving in the kitchen, I mentally prepare myself for a big day, visualizing large produce and seafood deliveries and a big push to complete mise en place for the midday service. I arrive at 9:45am,
pop into the kitchen to say hello to Maria, the cook in charge of cold appetizers. She is tiny, a slight five-foot-two, and wears a white floppy hat, white chef coat, checks, and euro-style white clogs.
I glance over to the stove, which already bears quite a large burden: two large, tall pots containing basket strainers await pasta; court bouillon simmers away in a small casserole; several large lidded rondeaus spit water to announce a full boil and what looks to be a big morning.
Okay, I spin around and make my way to the changing area where I meet the dark haired, bespectacled pasta cook, Rocco. Ciao, come stai? Bene. We change and head to the kitchen. Al Covo's kitchen is roughly 15 feet by 20 feet. Upon entering the from the dining room, the stove, set lengthwise, stretches almost the length of the kitchen. There are eight burners, shiny two planchas, a hotel-pan-sized steam table, and
a deep frier with two baskets. The dish station lines the wall to the left of the stove and is manned by Said, a Bengali with orange-henna-dyed hair and beard. Across from the dish station, against the far wall of the kitchen is a Rationale, combination oven, a salamander, and a quick freeze unit for cooling cooked products. Lining the wall on the right side of the stove is a stainless steel counter top below which lies a bank of three reach-in-refrigerators.
I see only one upright refrigeration unit, which is used to store fish, pastas, and finished sauces. Adjoining the kitchen is an open hallway leading to an open courtyard where produce is stored against the wall protected by an awning. Maria busies herself changing out containers of mise en place as she waits for the delayed seafood delivery. There is a twenty-four hour transportation strike and who knows if the fish will get here. We are a bit edgy. I am interested in learning the pastas and begin to work with Rocco.
He loads us a medium rondeau with scrubbed, waxy-fleshed potatoes, water and salt. Once on the fire, we turn our attention to making pasta dough. Rocco weighs out one kilo of flour, adds eight yolks, four whole eggs, a good pinch of salt, and about half a cup of extra virgin olive oil. We spin these ingredients in a Kitchen Aid with the hook attachment. The dough looks dry, so Rocco adjusts it with some water and lets it spin some more. He pulls out a cryovac bag with pureed, roasted Kabocha squash.
In a bowl, we mix the squash, parmigiana cheese, two egg yolks, almost four cups of bread crumbs, salt, and a healthy amount of grated nutmeg. Rocco adds some more water to the Kitchen Aid, then pulls the dough kneads it briefly and divides it in half. We pull out the electric roller and begin to sheet pasta.
While helping Rocco, I glance at the activity around me. The fish is in the house! Maria pours a bag of tiny shrimp, smaller than Maine Sweet Shrimp or ama ebi, legs fluttering wildly into boiling salted water. Another bag contains firm fleshed scampi that seem to glisten with freshness.
Over in the dish sink, Said removes the gills from a large bass. Once eviscerated, he makes some small incisions in the skin right before the tail begins and then hangs the fish on a hook, presumably to be drained of blood. There are so many cool products to check out but I want to help with the pastas and refocus my attention. With each pass through the pasta machine we decrease the size of the aperture, resulting in thinner sheets. Rocco folds the pasta sheets into thirds,
in a technique identical to that used in making pate feuillete, rotates the now almost square piece of dough ninety degrees and returns to sheeting. This process is repeated three times, after which the pasta is divided length-wise into two long strips, roughly four inches by four feet. We sheet these strips, at least eight more times, until we can start to see through the pasta.
We brush the pasta strips, two at a time, with egg wash and using a pastry bag, pipe balls of the squash stuffing on the lower third of the pasta sheets about two inches apart. The top half of the pasta sheet is carefully folded over, covering the squash. The last step is to punch out the ravioli using a fluted, circular mold.
Once the ravioli are neatly arranged on torchons and stowed away in the fridge we begin to sheet tagliolini, noodles about 1/4 inch by eight inches. The process is more or less identical to that used on the ravioli except that the final sheet of tagliolini is fed through an attachment resembling a paper shredder.
I weigh out eighty gram portions of tagliolini while Rocco finishes family meal: rigatoni with a sauce made with grated zucchini, sauteed mushrooms, pomodoro sauce and extra virgin olive oil. I look up after putting the tagliolini away and wiping down the station to see Paolo, the chain smoking, wise-cracking, chef de cuisine motion to the dining room.
We take family meal together sitting down in the dining room. The waitstaff bring out bread, bottled water and wine and sit with us. I grub the delicious food quickly, down a glass of white wine and bolt back to the kitchen to get down with more mise en place. Diane tells me to relax and take a break in the the dining room.
Sounds good. I take an espresso with the crew. Paolo smokes. I cannot suppress a huge smile and think, " i could live at this pace the rest of my life." While my homeboys at Per Se are sweating through a stressful push right now I am chilling.
Well, back to work, and now I'm peeling tiny shrimp. Cesare, sternly instructs me on the proper way, making absolutely sure to keep the head-flesh with the powerfully flavored coral intact. It takes four careful moves to peel these shrimp perfectly and since they are tiny and I've got large hands, it takes me about twenty tries to get the technique down.
So it goes all service. We are slow and all the cooks mise en place through the ten or so covers. Rocco makes the gnocchi. Paolo portions and pounds out veal. Maria picks the meat from spider crabs. Cesare makes a pass through the kitchen and brings a small crab, about the size of a silver dollar, over to me. He tells me these are special, female crabs, only found now in the fall. They have been poached for fifteen minutes in water containing bay leaves and black peppercorns.
Using a pair of scissors, Cesare dexterously removes the apron, legs, the outer rim of shell, and makes a shallow diagonal cut exposing the orange coral inside the she-crab. He offers me the crab and I oblige. This is gutsy stuff -- the crab is powerfully flavored of the ocean. If you have eaten roes of ocean creatures (roes other than caviar) you will understand what I mean. I know my seafood-loving-Chinese Mom would love these tiny crabs and that tells me that Al Covo is exactly where I want to be.
pop into the kitchen to say hello to Maria, the cook in charge of cold appetizers. She is tiny, a slight five-foot-two, and wears a white floppy hat, white chef coat, checks, and euro-style white clogs. 
I glance over to the stove, which already bears quite a large burden: two large, tall pots containing basket strainers await pasta; court bouillon simmers away in a small casserole; several large lidded rondeaus spit water to announce a full boil and what looks to be a big morning. 
Okay, I spin around and make my way to the changing area where I meet the dark haired, bespectacled pasta cook, Rocco. Ciao, come stai? Bene. We change and head to the kitchen. Al Covo's kitchen is roughly 15 feet by 20 feet. Upon entering the from the dining room, the stove, set lengthwise, stretches almost the length of the kitchen. There are eight burners, shiny two planchas, a hotel-pan-sized steam table, and 
a deep frier with two baskets. The dish station lines the wall to the left of the stove and is manned by Said, a Bengali with orange-henna-dyed hair and beard. Across from the dish station, against the far wall of the kitchen is a Rationale, combination oven, a salamander, and a quick freeze unit for cooling cooked products. Lining the wall on the right side of the stove is a stainless steel counter top below which lies a bank of three reach-in-refrigerators. 
I see only one upright refrigeration unit, which is used to store fish, pastas, and finished sauces. Adjoining the kitchen is an open hallway leading to an open courtyard where produce is stored against the wall protected by an awning. Maria busies herself changing out containers of mise en place as she waits for the delayed seafood delivery. There is a twenty-four hour transportation strike and who knows if the fish will get here. We are a bit edgy. I am interested in learning the pastas and begin to work with Rocco. 
He loads us a medium rondeau with scrubbed, waxy-fleshed potatoes, water and salt. Once on the fire, we turn our attention to making pasta dough. Rocco weighs out one kilo of flour, adds eight yolks, four whole eggs, a good pinch of salt, and about half a cup of extra virgin olive oil. We spin these ingredients in a Kitchen Aid with the hook attachment. The dough looks dry, so Rocco adjusts it with some water and lets it spin some more. He pulls out a cryovac bag with pureed, roasted Kabocha squash. 
In a bowl, we mix the squash, parmigiana cheese, two egg yolks, almost four cups of bread crumbs, salt, and a healthy amount of grated nutmeg. Rocco adds some more water to the Kitchen Aid, then pulls the dough kneads it briefly and divides it in half. We pull out the electric roller and begin to sheet pasta. 
While helping Rocco, I glance at the activity around me. The fish is in the house! Maria pours a bag of tiny shrimp, smaller than Maine Sweet Shrimp or ama ebi, legs fluttering wildly into boiling salted water. Another bag contains firm fleshed scampi that seem to glisten with freshness. 
Over in the dish sink, Said removes the gills from a large bass. Once eviscerated, he makes some small incisions in the skin right before the tail begins and then hangs the fish on a hook, presumably to be drained of blood. There are so many cool products to check out but I want to help with the pastas and refocus my attention. With each pass through the pasta machine we decrease the size of the aperture, resulting in thinner sheets. Rocco folds the pasta sheets into thirds, 
in a technique identical to that used in making pate feuillete, rotates the now almost square piece of dough ninety degrees and returns to sheeting. This process is repeated three times, after which the pasta is divided length-wise into two long strips, roughly four inches by four feet. We sheet these strips, at least eight more times, until we can start to see through the pasta. 
We brush the pasta strips, two at a time, with egg wash and using a pastry bag, pipe balls of the squash stuffing on the lower third of the pasta sheets about two inches apart. The top half of the pasta sheet is carefully folded over, covering the squash. The last step is to punch out the ravioli using a fluted, circular mold. 
Once the ravioli are neatly arranged on torchons and stowed away in the fridge we begin to sheet tagliolini, noodles about 1/4 inch by eight inches. The process is more or less identical to that used on the ravioli except that the final sheet of tagliolini is fed through an attachment resembling a paper shredder. 
I weigh out eighty gram portions of tagliolini while Rocco finishes family meal: rigatoni with a sauce made with grated zucchini, sauteed mushrooms, pomodoro sauce and extra virgin olive oil. I look up after putting the tagliolini away and wiping down the station to see Paolo, the chain smoking, wise-cracking, chef de cuisine motion to the dining room. 
We take family meal together sitting down in the dining room. The waitstaff bring out bread, bottled water and wine and sit with us. I grub the delicious food quickly, down a glass of white wine and bolt back to the kitchen to get down with more mise en place. Diane tells me to relax and take a break in the the dining room. 
Sounds good. I take an espresso with the crew. Paolo smokes. I cannot suppress a huge smile and think, " i could live at this pace the rest of my life." While my homeboys at Per Se are sweating through a stressful push right now I am chilling. 
Well, back to work, and now I'm peeling tiny shrimp. Cesare, sternly instructs me on the proper way, making absolutely sure to keep the head-flesh with the powerfully flavored coral intact. It takes four careful moves to peel these shrimp perfectly and since they are tiny and I've got large hands, it takes me about twenty tries to get the technique down. 
So it goes all service. We are slow and all the cooks mise en place through the ten or so covers. Rocco makes the gnocchi. Paolo portions and pounds out veal. Maria picks the meat from spider crabs. Cesare makes a pass through the kitchen and brings a small crab, about the size of a silver dollar, over to me. He tells me these are special, female crabs, only found now in the fall. They have been poached for fifteen minutes in water containing bay leaves and black peppercorns. 
Using a pair of scissors, Cesare dexterously removes the apron, legs, the outer rim of shell, and makes a shallow diagonal cut exposing the orange coral inside the she-crab. He offers me the crab and I oblige. This is gutsy stuff -- the crab is powerfully flavored of the ocean. If you have eaten roes of ocean creatures (roes other than caviar) you will understand what I mean. I know my seafood-loving-Chinese Mom would love these tiny crabs and that tells me that Al Covo is exactly where I want to be.
