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Tony Lo spent a good portion of his life as a hospital administrator in Scarborough; a successful portion, actually. His days consisted of sitting in a boardroom with otherwise presidential friends, politely declining tea,hearing things like, "have another biscuit, Tony." And saying things like, "Oh no, I couldn't possibly." Unfortunately, it ended abruptly after a new president for whatever company stepped in, tossed him out and brought in new friends. That's the first lesson of beauracracy: make friends who are presidents and they'll most likely give you a job; but if they get out, you better believe you won't be too far behind them. Other presidents have other friends.
I serendipitously met Tony Lo while walking a co-worker home. Turns out, he was walking to a construction job uptown. Turns out, my co-worker's brother saw him in the street and called his name, wherein he gracefully strode up the driveway to say his hellos. TURNS OUT, his full name was Anthony Lo(w). I never asked how to spell his last name. Tony Lo was enough to catch my attention; his name sounded like that of a triad from a John Woo flick. However, from Hong Kong, he was not. Nor was he Asian. In fact, he was from Yorkshire, with one of those in between cockney/refined English accents. Ironic that in the later part of his life he'd become part of the working class. However, it was his own choice. In fact, after the usual banter, insulting my coworker's brother for being an intolerable, hopeless, bottom rung of society kid/construction worker, I asked what motivated him to change careers so drastically. In other words, why give up such a good resume for a career that Tony himself admitted, was at the bottom rung of society.
He used that phrase a lot in our conversation, more than he remembered my own name.
Anyway, he wasn't a sociologist. I couldn't imagine why anyone would want to be associated with the bottom rung of society. But Tony Lo wanted something more. Some kind of drastic change. Since he wasn't Asian enough to become some kind of Hong Kong pop sensation, and too old to be strung out on cocaine and heroin for days (though that's debatable), he decided on the next best thing (also debatable), and that was doing something he was interested in. I suppose after all those fathead years of eating scones in boardrooms and taking pictures where someone says, "say cheese," and you reply, "camembert or brie- hahahaha," you'd more or less want to see if there's any Man left in you. Tony Lo had the money, he climbed mount Kiliminjaro, now he wanted to see if he could really survive in a place where there's no place to go but up. He had money to cushion his fall.
So, enrolling in trades college, he started all over again, meeting my coworker's brother in class and convincing the poor kid to stick with his schooling because when it's all done, it's all done. It'll be behind him and he'll have some kind of diploma, and you can't erect buildings without one. Good luck on my coworker's brother's part. Quite frankly, he should have been more polite to Tony, otherwise who knows where he might have been working. Or, maybe it wouldn't have mattered. Maybe I just spend too much time around old people, sans Tony Lo.
Despite all that, and regardless of what I might think of Tony's decision, there was something admirable about his cockney character. He had the identity of the anti-hero. The man who gives up something good and measurable just because he likes to mess with a worldview. Kind of like a university Graduate who drops out to become a loley cook. Romantic, no? Practical? No.
I had tried to relate to Tony as best I could, telling him I chose a similar suit. Unfortunately, I didn't have the life experience or money to back up any screw ups. However, Tony seemed sympathetic, calling me an everyman, and telling me that there's nowhere to go but up. That's why the whole experience for Tony, and myself, may be so wonderful. I could become a master chef; I could stay the course and use whatever skills I have in food to become a wonderful food critic. "What's important, Liam," Tony told me, "is that you remember."
"Remember, Nigel," Tony continued telling me, "that there's nowhere to go but up."
Words to live by, assuming you're at the bottom rung, wear beat up, ripped, bleached pants, torn hooded sweaters, kirchiefs around your neck and carry a chef's smock in a grocery bag. Regardless of that, with some good Tony Lo perspective, and a little chutzpah, even if you are at the bottom rung of society, you can always look forward to a better tomorrow.
My Grandfather was a baker. I've even been told that his bakery - situated down a hill, in an alley, behind my house - was the first in Waterloo. Either that, or his pizzaria, conveniently located in a plaza a block or two away from my house, overshadowed by the convenience stores that take its place today.
There are a lot of cooks in my family. My kung fu teacher once told me that, being an Italian, there're only two kind of things that we really do: lay bricks, or cook. She was only kidding. Still, I appreciated the sentiment.
My mother and her sisters' promised to never marry any men that cooked, growing up around them their entire lives. Ironically, my mother did, and so did her sister. The later having a successful restaurant today. When I talk to my uncle, and his brother (both restaurant owners), they advize me not to cook. It's a tough life, and it takes a lot of work (I've said it before). My uncle says go into computers, or become an architect. There's some truth behind that. Not in computers. Regardless, I appreciate the advice; but I appreciate them and their cooking even more. I think food, in the right context, not only does a good job of filling your stomach, but your spirit as well. Not everyone can visit people they love and harass them for a cappuccino and then feel all is right with the world. We are a select few. And we're very lucky.
Baking, I'm told, is like an art and a precise science. I think, in this world, we definitely need more almalgamations of the two.
So, being the grandson of a hard-working, immigrant baker, I decided to have my own go at it.
Breads are easy. Assuming you have the patience and the know how; because depending on the bread, it can take a while (days even).
For me, the process of bread making is a therapeutic one. It's pensive, it requires mindfulness, swift blows and concentration. Like Kung fu. Like making tea- without the swift blows, unless of course you're practicing your buddha palm technique while waiting for the water to boil.
I heard bakers liken bread making to sculpting. In fact, I've heard of some bakers who were sculpters turned bakers. I think there are some parallels there. Fresh yeast itself has the visage of a slab of wet clay, and at times, can feel like one. There's a mound of dough, and a slab of stone; a slab of dough, and a mound of stone. The true artwork dwells within, and only the artist can release it. And whether eaten or not, The psyche is more often than not appeased by the end.
I won't offer you a recipe for the bread I baked, because recipes are everywhere. I say this because I want you to look. I encourage you to look. However, what I will do is give you tips I feel are more valuable than a generic recipe for British Farl (that's a kind of bread).
There are three kinds of yeast available today: fresh compressed yeast, instant yeast, and dry active yeast.
Fresh compressed yeast is what bakeries often use. If you would like to do things the 'professional' way, go to a local bakery and ask if they'll sell you some. Grocery stores often sell it in the form of a small cake in the freezer section. I'm lucky enough to live infront a German bakery, so I can just walk down my creepy back alley and buy some from them whenever I need it. However, it's expensive in regard to other yeasts. Also, it has a strong flavour, which more often than not carries over to the final product of the bread. I once made a baguette for a coworker from France, who claimed it wasn't French enough, mainly due to the sour flavour, which, of course, was due to the pungence of the yeast.
Instant yeast is dry yeast you can immediately add to flour and bake with. I recommend this for anyone starting to bake.
Dry active yeast is probably what we all come across the most often. This is the kind of yeast you have to add water and sugar to and wait for until it froths before you can use it. It can take some time.
Now this is important: instant and dry active yeasts are stronger in retrospect to fresh yeast, but lack flavour because they're dried. If a recipe calls for fresh yeast, and you have one of the others, use 25% less.
Also, never mix salt with yeast. Leave them on opposite ends of any baking mixture; salt kills yeast.
All breads take flour. But, flour, although the meat of the bread itself, can be regarded as filler. You can always substitute a good portion of it for some other ingredient, like grain, or powdered milk (which adds for some amazing texture). It is always important when baking, unlike cooking, that you pay attention to ratios. But, you already knew that.
My oven is different from your oven. Ovens always vary. Know this, and if you have a light, turn it on and watch the bread from the outside in, but NEVER open the oven while bread bakes, unless you want uneven baking.
I'm sure these same techniques can be carried over to sculpting. Y'know, when you pretend you're Pygmalion and pretend your bread's like Galatea, and then she's brought to life, and you eat her. Very pagan. Very Greek. I don't know why the myth never turned out like that. All he did was end up marrying her. Poor sap.
The other day I was taking out the trash when I watched a city bus drive by, noticing the advertisement on its side. It was for Gordon Ramsay's, Hell's Kitchen. Personally, I've never watched the show. I do like Ramsay though. He makes a mean scrambled egg with creme fresh. Anyway, For a moment, as I watched Ramsay pass by with his bull-dog stare, I acknowledged myself as a cook in uniform: nice coat, apron, funny hat, black pants, black shoes. And for a moment, it seemed kind of surreal. He and I were in the same line of work. There's a kind of glamour in being a cook; unfortunately, some of the saps I work with assume their lives are going to be like Ramsey's. But, for the humble few, they know, as well as I, that as glamourous as the world of food may be, it's a hell of a lot of work. Until the day you die. For a moment, I yearned for school again.
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